The Unfinished Angel: Swishing in the Night–Meatballs

You can see into everyone’s yards and windows; you see them walking down the paths and lanes; you see the dogs chasing the cats chasing the mices; you see the birdies nesting and squabbling and flittering.

“Do something, Angel, please, I beseech you!”

I mentioned this to Zola one day and she said, “Of course the mountains are rock,” and then she gave me the scowl that tells me I am stupido.

The childrens are surprised by what they see, and at first they are suspicious.

When Mr. Pomodoro goes into the pharmacy hoping to find some nasal spray and asks for puzzo di naso, the Italian-speaking clerk does not fall in the aisle laughing because Mr. Pomodoro has asked for “nose stinky.”

Rosetta is so quiet, always glancing down shyly, her hand clutching a torn piece of cloth which she occasionally rubs against her cheek.

Terese is impressified with Zola and imitates the way Zola stands, the way she holds her head and moves her arms.

Peoples, why are they so compelsive, no, what is the word, propulsive, no, obsessive, yes obsessive! Why they are so obsessive about time, and why they think it is like a cake you can divide into pieces, why?

“Well, there aren’t actually confirmed enrollments for everyone yet.”

Her lips curl up at the sides in a friendly way and her wee mouth is puckered as if to give a kiss or make a bubble.

Sometimes she is an impish child, too, sneaking chocolates and bringing worms into the house.

They hear a humming sound, the drone of a small plane, and they turn as the plane enters the valley between the mountains.

The plane soars to the end of the valley, rises and turns elegantly, heading back toward the local airport to the west.

Such a day! Such blue sky and purple mountains so sturdy and silver lake so calm and still. Such a day!

And then bip-bip, an odd noise, a stuttering bip-a-bip-bip and a narrow plume of white smoke and a loud banging and the jerking of the plane and Signor and Signora Divino and their friends shouting, “No, no, no!” and little Vinny clapping his hands.

The plane regains its course and dips over the mountain as everyone strains to see and listen.

Not just “watching,” but flishing and flailing and swirling the air currents!

When she hears the drone of a plane outside, she covers her ears and crouches.

If I pinch her and Vinny or throw pine cones, it is only because I do not want them to become crooked and bitter.

So, we have the childrens from the chicken shad in the tower, clinging to Mr. Pomodoro’s knees, and he sees their big black soft puppyful eyes, and little Josef is saying, “Papa! Papa!” and outside is the pocketa-pocketa-pocketa and the arf, arf, arf, arf, arf.

Mr. Pomodoro’s long, wibbly arm nudges Terese forward.

When Franz reluctantly returns a leather pouch to Signor Rubini, Signor Rubini says, “Bad! Bad! Bad!”

Sometimes, hokay, I admit, sometimes I also sprinkle soft sounds, like the childrens saying very softly, “Papa, Papa,” and “Mama, Mama,” and “Nonna” and “Nonno.” But that is all. I do not want to intrude too much.

Little Nicola whispers “ravioli” with reverence.

And then, because the childrens are a little greedy, it is true, Paolo says, “Is there anything else your dead husband doesn’t need?”

Then, boops, she laughs, a modest laugh that gets bigger and bigger and soon everyone is laughing.

The young families, they are urgent to go to big cities or to other countries.

On the table is a mishmasheroni: hats, scarves, gloves, socks, meatballs, chocolate cake, a lightflash, crocheted slippers, a fishing rod, bars of chocolate, cuddle animals, dolls, a music box, necklaces, a figurine, soccer balls, a drawing tablet, coal pencils, an easel, yarn, and rice pudding.

Franz grabs the soccer ball and hugs it possessively.

Even those who don’t speak Italian take up the chant: “Oggi! Oggi! Oggi! Today! Today! Today!”