Читать книгу The Errant Child - Ozzie Logozzo - Страница 9

Via Roma, Tarquinia, central Italy

We missed Sunday mass. Mamma said I was too weak and that I needed to eat my Stracciatella (egg-drop soup), and rest to shake the fever. Mamma is not religious. I think she brings me to church because she wants us to fit in. She stares more at people’s clothing and conduct than praying. According to mamma, many hypocrites attend mass. She participates little in the proceedings. I dare not call mamma a hypocrite.

I did go back to school on Monday.

I love my kindergarten teacher, Sister LaRosa. She always calls me her little Prince (mio piccolo Principe). She has the prettiest face and the sweetest voice. Her talking is more like singing. I

smell honey whenever she leans over to look me in my eyes. The scent makes me hungry for more of her encouraging words.

At the end of every class, she questions me with kindness as we walk to the front door of the school.

Do you know what to do this afternoon for homework? You are going to help your mamma and tell her she is special, right? You are not going to run and fly down the street like an eagle, are you? You are going to be very careful. Understand my Little Prince?

I love my school, attached to the church. It is right across the piazza from city hall, a magnificent building with an exterior two-story diagonal stone staircase across its front leading to the second- floor balcony. There is a tunnel archway under the building leading to the western part of town. There are much bigger homes there, with gardens. My friend Sebastiano lives there. Often I scramble to the summit to get an aerial view of my school, my church, my fountain, and my part of town.

Tarquinia has its own obelisk, topped with a crucifixion, and circular fountain. After school, noontime, I walk very slowly to the fountain and take a lingering drink of water. Once I think Sister LaRosa has gone inside, I wrap my uniform cape around me, knot it into a necktie around my collar, grab my bag of books and take off down the boulevard around the first bend and down the hill along Via Felice Cavallotti headed for home. Once, I glimpsed Sister

LaRosa smiling down at me from atop the square, but I could not stop racing. I was a superman before I learned that such heroes existed in comic books.

I run, and run down the narrow streets ducking overhanging laundry, dodging meandering pedestrians and parked Vespas barely slowing down at intersections. As a creature of habit, I turn at the first juncture and head back along Via Garibaldi with its throng of folks frequenting numerous shops and cafés. Often, I see my grownup friend, Giuseppe, having his regular espresso with his companions yelling out, “What was that, the wind?” His friends, laughing, urge me to touch the ground and not fly so high.

I am possessed. I want to see mamma and eat my daily surprise treat.

With reckless abandon, I sprint back to Via Lunga that flanks the old wall of Tarquinia. I imagine wicked angels with swords swishing the air chasing me. I am not scared. My guardian angel is soaring above me, smiling; brandishing gigantic fired shining steel in both hands. Besides, evil is no match for the wings at my feet. Finally, I arrive at Via Roma with my mamma at the doorstep ready to scoop me inside should my brakes fail me.

I love my Tarquinia. I love my mamma. I hate the beating she gave me, but I understand. I hope the thought of it will not stay locked in my mind.

One day, the carabinieri escort my mamma and I to our church. I want to be an officer in the carabinieri when I grow up.

Giuseppe, Esterina, and their daughter, Silvana, my babysitter, come along. Silvana is still

afraid of me. I did not want to hurt her with the hammer. I just wanted to walk like a man and not always hold her hand.

Esterina loves to bake cookies and pastries for me. She lets me listen to a large seashell she has on her dresser in her bedroom. I swear I can hear the waves of the sea. Giuseppe loves to play Briscola with me or stack those playing cards into replicas of buildings. Once, we managed to erect a seven-story structure.

Giuseppe still likes me even after I crashed his truck. He had gone home for lunch one afternoon, after his usual espresso, and while he napped, I climbed into the vehicle and pretended to be driving. I moved the gear stick and the mini truck started to move down the incline in the road. I was ecstatic until I crashed into a light post across the street. Giuseppe was very mad at the post and openly worried about me. He said he would teach me how to avoid such hazards when I was older.

Once I cut my hand on a broken milk bottle. Sebastiano tripped me while I was carrying home some groceries. Giuseppe wrapped a washcloth around it, put me on his shoulders and ran me to the hospital blocks away. He sang Volare terribly off- key but I laughed hysterically. I didn’t laugh when the doctor sewed six stitches in the palm of my right hand.

Another time I had eaten so much bread drenched in olive oil that my stomach swelled. Giuseppe had the doctor pump my stomach. The doctor and I became buddy-buddy.

The Sisters at the hospital like me too,

especially the very young Sister Fiorella. She tells me that I am cute. Once she ran her fingers through the curly blonde locks in my hair. It tickled and made me laugh.

I am a regular visitor at the hospital. Mamma brings me there weekly for needles. I have a touch of polio and rickets.

We all enter the church together. The priest and Sister LaRosa are waiting. She begins to cry. I don’t understand why? I wonder if I disappointed her somehow.

Mamma tells me to sit in a pew half way down the aisle. I watch them talking: sometimes they glance my way. I look about at the various statues. Jesus, high on the crucifixion, looks away from me. I count the Stations of the Cross. The emptiness of the church is new to me. I prefer the overcrowding of Sunday service and the singing of hymns. The sight and smell of burning candles are soothing.

Mamma and Giuseppe sign papers. Then mamma comes down and sits beside me. She gives me a necklace with a small gold medallion imprinted with two winged-horses.

Mamma assures me, “I cavalli ti porteranno fortuna e salute. (The horses will bring you luck and good health).”

I sit politely while she places it around my neck. I do not ask mamma what ‘adopted’ means. Is it another type of pasta? I tell her I do not like ‘adopted’. Mamma and I cry. I see Sister LaRosa, teary eyed, rush out the side entrance of the church. On board the ship to America, my adopted family is seasick and vomiting. The smell is sickening

but I do not puke. Feelings within me have numbed. I simply explore the ship and spend most of my time playing with the kitchen staff and eating tomato salads.

In Toronto, Canada, months later, I freeze from the cold and snow. There is no golden sunshine. There are no piazzas. There is no time to wander and play. People keep to themselves. There is work but little of life, even for the children.

I miss Tarquinia, Sister LaRosa and my best friend Sebastiano. I especially miss my mamma. I squeeze my winged-horses medallion. Will I ever see Tarquinia and mamma again?