Читать книгу The Errant Child - Ozzie Logozzo - Страница 23

Spormaggiore, northern Italy

Emilio is driving up Strada Statale between the ancient church of Saint Vigilio with its Romanesque bell tower on his right and the Municipio building on his left. He stops his car in front of the driveway that separates the church from its parkette and takes in the view with deep breaths of the cool mountain air. He is glad to be home. In this town, time slows to a standstill. He longs to become a humble man surrounded by a loving family and faithful friends.

There are several small cars parked in the vicinity along with vans and lightweight trucks but there are no pedestrians in sight. It is very early Sunday morning and the city streets are abandoned.

Townsfolk are interned, preparing grandiose meals and getting dressed for church.

His brother, Father Giancarlo who serves as the town’s clergyman, appears through the main church door. He busies himself updating the bulletin board to the right of the doorway with this week’s community news. He does not even notice his brother. Only the sound of the departing vehicle attracts his attention. There is an expression of surprise but not recognition on his face.

Emilio turns left just before the Allegro Pizzeria Bar onto Piazza di Flera and heads for home. He passes the Macelleria Bruno, its storefront shielded by a rolling steel garage door. There is some activity inside at the supermarket, more of an extra-large convenience store, but the doors remain shut. Numerous wooden window shutters are open. Laundry and carpets hang astride numerous balcony railings keeping company the many pots of flowers and satellite dishes. The vista is a medley of colors: green blue, white, brown and even gray.

At Via Coalof, Emilio ascends right and parks the car in front of the wooden garage door. The garage, built into the side of the hill, is the undercarriage for the front porch and entrance to his house.

The sounds of the car rumbling to a halt in the silence outside beckon the residents to peek through their windows. Screams suddenly echo throughout the dwelling onto the stone pavement of the narrow road.

“Daddy is home! Daddy is home!”

Four kids, one male and three females burst

outside like caged animals going back to the wild. The children welcome their father with capricious jumping and hugging. In unison, these Geppetto puppets screech.

“Daddy what did you get us? What did you

buy?”

“Good to see you too, Andrea, Paola, Luisa,

and you too, my little man, Angelo. Just try not to stampede each other but all your gifts are in the trunk of the car. Here are the keys Angelo. See if you can control your sisters.”

“Of course, papa.”

Turning to his siblings, Angelo holds the keys in the air above his head. “

“Okay, who is going to bake some biscotti for

me this afternoon?”

Emilio laughs and walks away from the trifling tempest. He looks at his wife, Grazia, waiting for her man. A smeared apron is covering her Sunday best clothes, but her smile spices up the homecoming.

Emilio hastens his steps wrapping his arms around Grazia’s solid frame. While she grips his face to plant a sensuous kiss, he grabs her ass and tugs at her, signaling his desires for later that night.

“Did you have a productive trip? Did you visit your brother Pio? What about our dear friend, the Pontiff? Did you close the art deal for the professore? Was he there?”

“Stop. Stop.”

Emilio cannot contain his amusement. “Let’s just say that everything is well and all

is done. At least, for now.”

Looking back at his kids rummaging through gift boxes by the side of the car, Emilio thirsts for a proper espresso.

“Signora, I report to the professore tomorrow. Right now, I need a double espresso with a double shot of grappa.”

Grazia, knowing her place, understands that additional questions are not appreciated and will be ruled out-of-order. Emilio has his limits and “You break them at your peril.”