“Thank you, sir, thank you, ma’am,” she says. “But why did you get me a present? It’s not my name day.”
The couple look at each other again, a question mark written in their eyebrows. Luckily, Maddalena is there and she tells them that back home, Mariuccia would receive little gifts only on her feast day.
Mariuccia is flushed with embarrassment and she grabs the young wife’s hand just in case the couple changes their mind. But the young wife hasn’t changed her mind. The opposite: her heart has melted.
“I’ll give you lots of presents, my lovely daughter, you’ll see! You’ll get so many, you won’t even remember when your saint’s day is!”
Mariuccia grips the kind lady’s hand and won’t let go. Either because she’s worried that she won’t remember her name day anymore, or because the blond lady reminds her of her mamma, bless her soul. Who knows? Anyway, she opens and closes her fingers to wave ciao and goes off with the young couple. Me and Tommasino are the last kids in the room.
The man with the salt-and-pepper mustache comes up to Tommasino and holds out his hand.
“I’m Libero, it’s a pleasure to meet you!” he says, as if he were kidding.
“I’m free, too,” Tommasino says, unsure what he is supposed to do. Then he sticks his hand out and the two shake hands. The man with the mustache doesn’t understand the joke, but goes along anyway.
“Would this nice tanned young man like to come with me?”
“Is there a lot of work involved?” Tommasino asked.
“No, the automobile is just outside. It’ll take no longer than half an hour.”
“Automobile? Are you a cab driver?”
“Come, now . . . I could see from the start that this boy likes a good joke. He has a sense of humor, this one! Come along now, Gina is waiting for us with hot food on the table . . .”
As soon as Tommasino hears the words hot, food, and table he makes up his mind on the spot and slips away like an eel.
“Bye, Amerì. Arrivederci! Good Luck!”
“See you soon, Tommasino. Take care . . .”
12
TOMMASINO HAS GONE, TOO, AND I’M LEFT alone on the wooden bench, my tight shoes pinching my feet and sadness filling my belly. My eyes are pricking. It’s like there’s a needle behind my eyes holding my tears one by one, and if one drops, they will all unthread like a beaded necklace. When we were all together in the train, with all the kids laughing, blubbering, or running around, I felt as strong as my American father. As long as Mariuccia and Tommasino were there, scared to death, I could act strong, joshing with them and talking. I was still Nobèl. But now I feel like that day when I was biting into a pork-fat-and-pepper tarallo cracker and I felt a terrible pain in my mouth. I fished out my tooth, all covered in blood, and ran to Mamma Antonietta, but she was locked in with Capa ’e Fierro and couldn’t talk to me. So I went to Zandragliona’s house, and she sat me down in my usual chair and rinsed my mouth out with water mixed with a sachet of Idrolitina, bicarbonate of soda and lemon, to disinfect everything and explained how I would lose all my milk teeth one after another, just as they had grown one after another when I was a baby, and that my big teeth would soon grow in to replace them.
Well, that’s how I feel now. Like a tooth that has fallen out. Where the tooth used to be, there is a big gap, but the new tooth isn’t there yet.
I look around to see whether the lady in the red flowery dress has changed her mind and is coming to get me. Maybe she wanted to look at all the kids before choosing. As Zandragliona always says when we go shopping, “Never stop at the first stall!” In fact, we would always go around all the vegetable stalls to see who had the freshest produce. Zandragliona would stop in front of a basket of melons, touch them, smell them, prod the skin with her thumb to see if it was ripe or not. Maybe you can do the same thing with kids? Prod them to see if they’re good or bad inside.
The lady with the red flowery dress and her husband have done one round of the whole hall, accompanied by the signorina with the black ledger, as if they were looking for someone in particular. I sit up straight on the bench, practically holding my breath. She doesn’t look like Mamma after all. I thought she did because she wasn’t smiling either. It looks like they’re heading for the exit. They must have changed their mind: none of the fruit was fresh enough. But then the signorina with the black ledger leads them to a corner where there is the gap-toothed blond boy. I didn’t realize he was still here; I thought I was the only one left. From a distance, I can see the signorina reading the number pinned to his sleeve. The boy isn’t even looking at them. He stares down at his nails, which are now as black as they were before they made us have a shower. The husband says something to the boy, but he doesn’t answer. He moves his head up and down as if he were doing them a favor, not the other way around. As he gets up and follows them out of the hall he turns and grins at me with a mean face as if to say, “They took me even though I didn’t tell them my name, and nobody’s taking you.”
The couple have made quite a bargain! If Zandragliona had been here, she would have discarded that melon for sure . . . but the truth is that he’s right. I’m the only one nobody wants.
Maddalena looks at me from the other side of the room as she talks to a lady in a gray skirt, a white blouse, and a coat. She must be the one who takes the discarded kids back home, because she’s wearing a badge with the Communist flag on it, and she looks strict and serious. Her hair is blond, but not like Zandragliona’s; it’s a more delicate, pale yellow. The lady is listening to her, but she doesn’t move. She doesn’t even turn around to look when Maddalena points at me. Then she nods her head a few times as if to say, “Yes, yes, I’ll take care of this one.” Then they both walk to me. I force my feet back into my shoes, straighten my jacket, and stand up.
“My name is Derna,” the lady says.
“Amerigo Speranza,” I answer, holding out my hand like Tommasino did with the salt-and-pepper-mustached man. She holds it, but doesn’t squeeze it.
I can see talking is not her strong point. She just wants to get on with it and go home. Maddalena gives me a kiss on the forehead and says goodbye.
“Be good, Amerì. I’m leaving you in good hands.”
“Let’s go, son. It’s getting late,” the lady says, grabbing my arm and pulling me. “We’ll miss the bus if we don’t hurry.”
We hurry away, me and the lady, like thieves running away from the police. We walk close together, at the same pace, not too fast and not too slow, and soon find ourselves outside the train station. There’s an enormous square in front of us, with red brick buildings and lots of trees.
“Where are we?” I ask, a little dazed.
“This city is called Bologna. It’s a nice city, but we need to go home now.
“Are you taking me home with you, signorina?”
“Of course I am, son.”
“Don’t we need to go on a train?”
“It’s quicker on the bus.”
AT THE BUS STOP I START SHAKING.
“Are you cold?”
I feel shivers running up and down my spine, but I don’t know whether it’s the cold or my fear. The lady opens her coat wide and lets me come inside.