The Children's Train

by Viola Ardone

She goes out and then comes back in again.

  “And give one of your marbles to our new friend here. That way you can play together.”

  When we are left on our own, Luzio hides the marble in his pocket and goes off. I look all over for him, but I can’t find him. Either he’s hiding or he’s made himself invisible, even though there’s no fog inside the house. The rooms are big, and there are sausages and whole sides of ham hanging from the beams on the kitchen ceiling, like at the grocer’s in Via Foria. It’s the warmest room in the house because there’s a fire lit in the fireplace. That’s why Rosa left the baby here in its crib. From a faraway place in the house, I hear the sound of a marble rolling on the floor. One, two, three . . . I start counting on my fingers, so that when I get to ten times ten something nice will happen, like the other brother, the one who talks a lot, will come back and show me the animals. Time goes by, the fire is burning low and then it goes out altogether. And I can’t even hear the sound of a marble rolling. I look out the window to see whether anyone is coming, but the fog is still thick.

  “Luzio,” I call out feebly, but he either can’t hear or doesn’t want to answer. In the corner of the kitchen, half-hidden behind the dresser, there’s a ladder. I pull it out and lean it against the wall. I’ve never been up a ladder. Pachiochia says it brings bad luck if you walk under one. I put one foot on the first rung to see if it holds my weight, then the next, and the next, and before I know it, I’m up high, feeling big and strong, and I forget they’ve left me on my own again. I climb up to the top, because I want to touch the ceiling. Stretching out my fingers, I feel the warm rough-hewn beams. The hanging salamis rub against my face, their smell going up my nose and making my mouth water. I’ve never seen such an array of goods: there’s even the big mortadella sausage with white spots they gave us in Bologna. I scratch away at its skin with my nail until I get down to the tender pink flesh. I bore in farther with my finger, and then pull it out and suck on it. I go back to the hole and do it again. When the hole is too deep, I start drilling another, and then another.

  “Thief!” I hear from somewhere below me. “You’ve come here to steal all our stuff.”

  I turn on my heels and lose my balance, falling off the ladder. It’s not very far but I fall on my back painfully. The baby in the crib wakes up and starts crying. Luzio glares at me and then gazes up at the ceiling and sees the holes in the mortadella sausage. He pokes me with the toe of his shoe as he would an insect to see whether it’s dead or alive. I don’t move. I don’t even say “ouch.” He runs off. Nario is still crying. I’m scared Rosa will come in right now and think I’ve done something wrong.

  “Luzio,” I call out, still lying on the floor. “I didn’t even want to come here. It was my mother who sent me. It was for my own good and I pretended to be a stuttering, dribbling idiot, but they still took me . . .”

  He doesn’t answer. I can hear the marble rolling. It’s near; maybe in the next room.

  “I just wanted a taste, and anyway, what do you care? You have everything: animals in their pens, salamis hanging from the ceiling, a father with a mustache, woolen sweaters in your wardrobes. You even have photographs on the wall.”

  He still doesn’t answer. I pull myself into a sitting position on the floor. My back is hurting but it’s bearable. I crawl over to the crib and rock it like I saw a neighbor of Zandragliona’s do with her little baby, and Nario slowly stops crying and falls asleep again. The sound of the marble is getting closer and closer, and finally I see it rolling through the door, followed by Luzio.

  “Who’s that bald man inside the frame over there? Is he your godfather?”

  “That’s Comrade Lenin,” he says, without looking at me.

  “Is he a friend of your father’s?” I ask.

  “He’s everyone’s friend. Babbo says he taught us about communism.”

  “Nobody is born knowing everything,” I conclude. Then we sit in silence again. The fire is almost all embers, and it’s getting a little cold. Luzio gets up, picks a log from the woodpile, and puts it in the fireplace. The fire soon starts burning again, stronger than before, and the flames are moving again. I’d like to know how to get a fire going, I think.

  “There’s a friend of mine, her name’s Pachiochia,” I say, acting indifferent. “She has a portrait in her house, too, but it’s not a picture of her dead fiancé, bless his soul. It’s the king with a mustache. She brought it with her when she came with a procession to try and stop us leaving: maybe she was right, after all.”

  Luzio doesn’t say a word and makes as if to leave again.

  “I’m not staying here forever, you know. They said it was just to get through the winter. So, when I leave, you can go and be your father’s assistant, and I’ll be going back where I came from. That way, everything will go back to how it was before, thank God.”

  I stick my hand out like I’ve seen adults do when they’ve just made a business deal. Luzio doesn’t shake it, but with a kick he rolls the marble toward me. Then he puts the ladder back where it was, behind the dresser, and walks out of the kitchen. The marble is still on the floor. I’m not sure whether he’s left it there on purpose or whether he’s just forgotten it. I pick it up, stick it into my pocket, and carry on staring at the fire flickering in the grate.

  17

  SINCE NOBODY COMES BACK, I DECIDE TO GO out into the field. Rivo sees me and runs to greet me, grabbing my hand. I think about the holes in the mortadella and feel hot with shame, but I follow him into the cow pen.

  “The cow is easy to deal with, but when the bull has his funny five minutes, it’s best to keep out of his way,” Rivo tells me. I look the bull in the face and I can see he has a nasty temper, a bit like Mamma Antonietta, who is sweet and nice, but when you get in her way, she literally sees red.

  I’d never seen animals that big before. Well, I’d never really seen any animals for that matter. Except for Ciccio Cheese, as we used to call him. So I ended up telling the two brothers about the alley cat that used to hang around outside Zandragliona’s; she would always give a crust of bread and a bowl of milk to him. When Mamma Antonietta saw him, she would call him “Magnapane” behind his back, and she would always send him running with a kick in the backside. Cats are not her strong point. Tommasino and I always used to say he was ours, and that we were training him, because we’d seen an old man on the Corso with a trained monkey. The old man said “sit,” and the monkey sat. The old man said “stand up,” and the monkey stood up. The old man said “dance,” and the monkey danced. People stopped to stare and dropped coins in his hat. The old man and the monkey made a lot of money, especially in front of the wealthy apartment buildings. When the show was over, the old man would pick up the monkey, and they would go on their way. The next day, he was there again in another spot. Tommasino and I went around town looking for him. First, because we had never seen a live monkey in our lives. Second, because we wanted to find out how to make the monkey do the things he did.

  One day, the old man vanished, and we never saw him again. That’s how we had the idea of training Ciccio Cheese, the alley cat. Except that Ciccio Cheese had no intention whatsoever of being trained. He only wanted to do what he wanted to do. Mamma Antonietta was not that wrong, in the end. But he was still our cat. We stroked him, and he would rub himself up against our legs. When he saw us come up the alley, he would run toward us, his tail swishing.

  But then Ciccio Cheese vanished, too. We looked high and low for him, but we couldn’t find him. I told Tommasino that maybe he’d gone off with the old man to be trained and live the good life with lots of money. Pachiochia said people were so hungry that they would eat cats. I didn’t believe her. But the truth is that Ciccio Cheese had gotten nice and fat thanks to Zandragliona’s bread and milk, so somebody might have decided to eat him after all.

  Rivo doesn’t let me finish my story. He says the cat will come back. That’s the way animals are. Every now and again, they disappear, but then they always find th
eir way home.

  “I like dogs. Do you?”

  I like cats. Because, sooner or later, I’ll find my way home too.

  Rivo goes up to the cow.

  “Come,” he says. “She won’t hurt you.”

  He starts stroking the cow’s forehead, right between her two horns. The cow doesn’t even swish her tail. I think she’d be impossible to train. Then Rivo calls me over.

  “Pet her!” he says.

  I reach out my arm and touch her with the tips of my fingers. Her fur isn’t as soft as Ciccio Cheese’s, and, as I get close, she smells of old feet. I come even closer and pat her with my whole hand. Her eyes are watery and her muzzle is turned down like Mamma Antonietta’s mouth that day when we left the Communist headquarters and she offered to buy me a slice of fried pizza.

  18

  I DON’T WANT TO WEAR THE SCHOOL SMOCK THAT looks like a girl’s dress, nor the white bow that goes on the collar. It’s embarrassing. But Derna looks happy, so I don’t say anything. She acts like she’s getting me ready for a party, but what I’m going to be getting are whacks around the ears, the smell of sweat, and rows of straight lines to copy into my schoolbook.

  “I know my numbers already,” I tell her. “I can count to ten times ten on my fingers!”

  “Well, you need to learn your letters, too. And long division. And geography.”

  “I hate letters. Mamma never knew them, so why should I? What’s the point?”

  “Not to get cheated by people who know them. That’s the point. Come on, let’s go.”

  She takes me by the hand and we go out. There’s no fog this morning, and I can see Rivo and Luzio with their black smocks sticking out under their jackets and a bag across their shoulders like mine. Rivo runs up to me and tells me the cow is expecting. There’s a baby calf on the way. Luzio lags behind and kicks a stone along the road with the toes of his shoes.

  “Is there room for me in this new school?” I ask.

  “There aren’t any desks free in my class,” Luzio says, looking down at the road.

  “I spoke to the principal yesterday,” Derna says. “You’ll be in the same class as Luzio. You may be a year older, but you’re a little behind. You should be happy because you’ll be with the family even when you’re at school.”

  Luzio kicks the stone again and runs ahead to catch up with it. Derna says goodbye, because she has to go to a union meeting.

  “Be sure to do a good job today, son.”

  She starts walking away, but then turns heel.

  “Amerigo, wait! What an idiot I am! I forgot your snack.”

  It makes me think of Mamma’s apple sitting on the desk. Derna runs back to me and pulls out of her bag a bundled-up tea cloth that releases a smell of lemon cake. I put it in my satchel and walk off with Rivo.

  “We need to give the new calf a name,” Rivo says. “What would you like to call it?”

  I think Luigi would be nice, like my brother with bronchial asthma, but I don’t get around to saying it, because Luzio is running to catch up with us, shouting, “It’s my turn. I’m choosing the calf’s name this time. One each, we said. This is my calf.”

  Rivo gives Luzio a shove, steals his stone, and gives it a big kick right up to the school door. I try running alongside him, but my smock is so long, my legs get twisted up in it, so I get there last.

  In this school the teacher is a man and his name is Mr. Ferrari. He’s young, has no mustache, and can’t pronounce his r’s. He tells everyone I’m one of the train children, and that they should welcome me and make me feel at home. Which makes me think that I had nothing back home. Which means it would be better if they made me feel at their home, not mine.

  Luzio sits at the front of the class, next to a tubby little blond boy with wavy hair. The only free place is right at the back. I sit there and wait for time to go by, but time goes by very slowly. Mr. Ferrari says, “Take your squared notebook,” and everybody takes their squared notebook. Then he says, “Take your lined notebook,” and everyone takes their lined notebook. Nobody needs any whacks in this class. They’re all trained already, like the old man’s monkey on Via Foria. At one point, the bell rings and I think, Thank God it’s over. I put my jacket on and go toward the door. Everyone bursts out laughing. I don’t get it, but I go back to my place. The teacher says it’s recess, and we can eat our snack. The kids get up and talk. I remember my tea-cloth bundle and take the lemon cake out. Sitting in the back row on my own, I eat it slowly to pass the time. At the school I went to before, with the whacks around the ears, there was no recess and no lemon cake, and when the bell rang it meant one thing and one thing only: the beatings were over for the day.

  Mr. Ferrari tells us recess is over and the kids all sit down.

  “Let’s repeat the two times table. Benvenuti, come to the blackboard.”

  Luzio stands up, gets a piece of chalk, writes the numbers, and then stands there like a stockfish staring at the board.

  “Benvenuti, back to your place,” the teacher says, a little annoyed but without lashing out at him.

  “Who knows what two times seven is?”

  Silence. Then Luzio says, “Ask Speranza.”

  “Speranza is new,” the teacher says. “He’s just arrived. He’s still getting used to us.”

  “It’ll make him feel at home,” Luzio says. Some of the kids chuckle, and some of the kids turn around and look at me.

  The teacher is a little uncertain. He smiles at me. You can see he’s never given anyone a whack in his life.

  “Speranza, do you know what two times seven makes?”

  I can feel all the eyes in the class on me, and my voice is echoing around the room.

  “It makes fourteen, sir.”

  Luzio glares at me with the same expression he had when he caught me boring holes into the mortadella, as if I had stolen something. Mr. Ferrari looks amazed but happy.

  “Good boy, Speranza. Had you already studied the two times table back in your city?”

  “No, sir,” I answered. “Back in my city I counted shoes, which always come in pairs.”

  When the end-of-school bell rings and it’s time to go home, the teacher tells us to hold hands until we get out. I stay on my own at the back of the class. Then one of the boys who was sitting at the front comes and takes my hand.

  “Am chièm Uliano,” he says. I nod, but I don’t say anything, because I’m fine with the two times table, but foreign languages are not my strong point.

  19

  THE SALAMIS ARE STILL HANGING IN THE kitchen, but the mortadella with my finger holes in it has gone. Nobody has said anything about it. If Mamma Antonietta had been here, she would have chased me down the street with a carpet beater. They don’t give punishments here, but it’s much worse because you never know how things will turn out. Last night I dreamed that someone was knocking at the door, and it was the police coming to get me. They threw me in jail with Capa ’e Fierro, who said, “They arrested me for the coffee and you for the mortadella. There’s no difference, see?” In my dream I kept saying, “No, no, I’m not the same as you!” But when I woke up, I wasn’t so sure anymore.

  I get back from school, and I hear Don Alcide singing at the top of his voice, “Nessun dorma! Nessun dormaaa . . .” Let no one sleep. He often sings famous opera arias, but this time I think he has it in for me. I try to hide but he sees me anyway.

  “Where are you going, young man? Do you have nothing to report?”

  I stick my hands in my pockets and find Luzio’s marble. I twizzle it around in my fingers and don’t answer.

  “I’ve heard something about you, but I’d like to hear it from you.”

  “Don Alcide, if I confess, do you promise you won’t do anything?”

  “Me? What am I supposed to do, son?”

  “And you won’t call the police?”

  “Police? Nobody’s ever been arrested for a good mark at school.”

  I take my hands out of my pockets.

 
; “Ah, so you spoke to Mr. Ferrari?”

  “He told me you’re good with numbers and that you’re trying hard with your letters.”

  “I like numbers more, because they never end.”

  “That must be why you love music, then. To play an instrument you need to be good at counting.”

  When I talk to Alcide, I never know whether he’s joking or not. He goes up to the sideboard, takes a slice of mortadella, and cuts it in two.

  “So, you’re not angry with me?”

  “A little, yes. Because you keep calling me Don Alcide and you haven’t started calling me Babbo.”

  He cuts two slices of bread, puts the mortadella in the middle, and wraps the sandwiches in a tea cloth.

  “One for me and one for you. Let’s go!”

  The workshop smells of wood and glue. There are instruments everywhere, some whole, some in pieces waiting to be put together again.

  “What am I supposed to do?” I ask.

  “Sit and watch,” he says, and starts working. He cuts, hammers and files, explaining his every move to me. I listen and observe, and time flies. Not like at school. Alcide doesn’t talk much while he’s working. He says he needs to concentrate. “Listen!” he’ll say, every now and again, plucking a string or touching a key. Then he pulls a metal fork out of his waistcoat pocket, taps it on the piano, and then rests it on the sounding board. The sound is like a ship blowing its horn as it leaves the port, from far away.

  “I can play that instrument,” I say. “It’s easy.”

  “It’s called a tuning fork. It only makes one note, but you use it to tune every single instrument. Try it!”

  As soon as I put the tuning fork on the piano, I feel a tremor run through my body from my fingers to the back of my neck, like once when I wanted to take a lightbulb out of Mamma’s bedside table lamp and got an electric shock. She said, “It serves you right. If you’d broken it, I would’ve smashed the whole lamp over your head.” But this is a nice shock; of happiness.