We Are Family

by Fabio Bartolomei

  The other thing I like about Sunday is going to visit Uncle Armando, who was Mamma’s brother when he was young, because it means we can have lunch with the whole Santamaria family, all in one place. Papà and Uncle Armando compete to see who can eat the most, because Mamma makes special meatballs with lots of bread crumbs so that there’s more of them and we don’t have to spend a lot of money on meat. Because for some reason, spending a lot of money on meat is wrong. Uncle Armando says that Vittoria and I are both going to become scientists, that he’s never seen two children as sharp as us, and that Agnese and Mario Elvis ought to find a way to make use of our talent.

  “Al, concentrate . . . this one’s hard. Understood? You need to gather all your intelligence and concentrate on this answer,” Uncle Armando says to me.

  “Understood. Go ahead.”

  “Milan-Juventus?”

  “Two,” I reply.

  “No overtime?”

  “If Bettega and Anastasi are playing . . . ”

  After lunch, we all pile onto the couch. While Mamma and Grandma finish clearing the table, me, Vittoria, Mario Elvis, and Uncle Armando play with the tape recorder. The tape recorder was a gift from Mamma for Papà, it’s the size of a brick, it has a nice black leather case and a microphone with a long cord. On it is written “Grundig,” which looks like the snarl of a ferocious animal but actually means that it’s German and therefore that it’s good. Mamma bought it because Mario Elvis is studying to get his accounting degree, which is necessary if he wants to get his space pilot’s license. Having the tape recorder means he can listen to the lessons again while he drives the bus. It’s a very important exam, and Mamma really cares about it. Right now, though, Mario Elvis is using it to sing songs into it. Me, Vittoria, and Uncle Armando go: “Dum dum dum dum dum dum dum,” while he sings: “This crazy heart that chases after you, and day and night thinks of nothing but youuuu!” But this is only the beginning of the game, because then he rewinds the tape and the tape recorder, which must have learned it all by heart, repeats it word for word. Hearing Papà’s voice come out of the Grundig drives us crazy, we laugh and laugh until our tummies hurt.

  “Now c-c-can I sing?”

  “No, me first!” Vittoria shouts.

  “It’s not a toy! Papà needs it to study!” Mamma says. But she’s not being serious, it’s obvious that it’s really a toy. And in fact when Mario Elvis pushes down the button with the little black triangle and turns the volume all the way up, she breaks out laughing too.

  “What could be better than this?” Mario Elvis asks me and Vittoria.

  “Nothing!” we reply.

  Papà always says: when you have a family like the Santamaria family, you have everything. He also says that nothing is impossible for the Santamaria family. And that as long as we remain united, we’re as strong as Spartan warriors. My father says lots and lots of happy things.

  Outside the sun shines, Vittoria strokes my hair, Mario Elvis and Uncle Armando sing “La spada nel cuore,” and from the kitchen comes the aroma of a chocolate ciambellone, an Italian variant on the bundt cake. I’m the luckiest little boy in the world.

  4.

  They swore to me that this doctor lady doesn’t give shots. “Cross my heart and hope to die: she doesn’t even have syringes.” But I only feel calm now that I’ve entered her office and I immediately saw that there’s neither the glass cabinet with the needles in it nor the horrible little bed, the one that looks like a padded stretcher. The doctor is a very calm lady, she smiles a lot and talks as if her batteries had run down. Very, very slowly she tells me that I’m certainly a nice-looking little boy. Since Mamma told me that I’m not allowed to answer: “I know,” all I do is smile and she asks me whether the cat’s got my tongue which is a dumb joke that they always ask us kids but that only makes old people laugh. Mamma smiles, I reply: “No.” The calm doctor lady is trying to make friends, she keeps talking, she tells me that she has a grandson my age, that she likes my T-shirt, and that I’m certainly tall. Of course, I’d have to be, the world is full of tall things, first of all, doorknobs and the handles on wardrobes and refrigerators, and then there are tables, bicycle seats, cookie cabinets, the shelf where they keep matches, this chair I’m sitting in . . . It’s all about stretching. The day they decide to keep putting the handles higher and higher, people will keep growing until they’re ninety. But I don’t want to make friends with her so all I say is: “Yes.”

  “Do you want to play a nice game?” the doctor lady asks me.

  When an old person says something like that, it’s usually because they want to trap you into some kind of ambush game like statues or the silence game. I reply that “I can hardly wait,” that “I’d be delighted to play,” that she’s “making my dream come true.”

  “Don’t pay any attention to him . . . ” Mamma says. “He’s such a joker . . . ” and she jerks my arm.

  The lady doctor smiles and with her batteries increasingly drained, she lays three squares of cardboard with strange markings on them in front of me. Then she puts three more into my hands and asks me to lay the right square on the table, the one that I think completes the family. I complete the family of squares, the family of triangles, and then the family of circles. After every game, she tells me: “Good job, Al,” and looks down at her watch, so I understand that this must be a timed test and I make a special effort to work faster and faster. I construct figures, I guess which alarm clock is half an hour slow compared to alarm clock A and how many triangles make up the pyramid drawn on the sheet of paper. I try to make families of objects work by inserting the missing piece, which is an easy game because all I need to do is think about the Santamaria family which has all the right pieces, and so I fill in the empty spaces with an airplane, a dog, a screwdriver, and a lightbulb, and every time: “Good job, Al.”

  “This is the last game,” the lady doctor tells me.

  “Twenty-one cats,” I reply.

  “Are you just trying to guess? You barely looked at it . . . ”

  “Come on, Al, it’s the last one, try to do a good job,” Mamma tells me.

  “I did a very good job, the number of cats increases by two, four, six, eight cats in each square. So the number th-th-that’s lacking to make the family of cats grow is twenty-one, and the lady doctor can stop the timer.”

  “My, we did that one quickly . . . ” she says.

  “Can we do some more?” I ask.

  “Now your Mamma and I need to talk alone for a little bit. Can you wait for us outside, Al?”

  I knew it. All grown-up games are the same, they never last long enough.

  “Can I have the lollipop, now?” I ask.

  “Certainly. What color do you want?”

  “Yellow. And can I have an orange one for my sister? Do you want one too, Mamma?”

  “No, thanks, Al.”

  Too bad, if I could only have had three, Vittoria might even have had a chance of getting one for herself.

  I’m standing in the metal bucket that Grandma uses to wash clothing. I wound up there because I hate taking my afternoon nap. Agnese said: “There’s just nothing I can do today, he’s too agitated,” and Grandma replied: “Give him to me and I’ll take care of it.” It seems to me that I’ve been there other times before, but I don’t really know, my memories are all mixed up. There’s red wine on the bottom of the bucket, Grandma is dipping the sponge into it and massaging my legs. Then my belly and my arms. There’s that good smell that comes from Papà’s glass when we’re eating dinner. The old woman really focuses on the arms, the chest, and the neck. I like it, the smell gets strong. Who knows why they feel so certain that after this little bath I’m going to take a nap, massage me all you want, I’m not sleepy in the slightest, Huey, Dewey, and Louie have come to see me, we’re going to play with the Play-Doh that smells just like wine, what did Grandma just say? No, I’m not starting to
feel sleepy one bit, I want to play with my fast cars, put my toy soldiers on top of them, have some crazy crashes, and then I want to try that wine . . . I mean try flying . . . off the table . . . down . . . black cape . . . like the Bat Man . . .

  “Mamma-a-a . . . ”

  “It’s the middle of the night, Al! Go back to sleep!”

  Still? They already got me to take a nap in the afternoon, who knows how they did it. How much sleep do these people think I need? I have a lot of things to do.

  “It’s turned sour!”

  I’m talking about my thumb. I personally don’t agree, but Mamma says I’m too big now to use a pacifier so she makes me suck my thumb with sugar on it. But the sugar is gone almost immediately.

  “Would you just go to sleep!” the radio communications officer repeats.

  “Did you say your prayers?” Mamma asks.

  “I did, Al didn’t.”

  “Oh yes I did! I said them with C-c-casimiro!”

  For some reason I don’t understand, when I say: “Casimiro,” everyone pretends they didn’t hear. Even the radio communications officer. Casimiro is my imaginary friend, in the sense that I play with him and I talk to him while the others, unable to see him, can only imagine him.

  My bed is a secret bed. By day the whole world thinks that there’s only one bed in the room, Vittoria’s bed, but then, when it gets dark, Mario Elvis comes in, lowers the blinds so no one can see in, and pulls it out from under my sister’s bed, nice and ready. As soon as the lights go out I slip a foot under Vittoria’s covers and push it against her butt because, for a few seconds, the darkness is really black, there’s nothing left, and I feel all alone. She must feel the same way because, though she isn’t one of those cuddly sisters, when it comes to keeping company with my foot, she doesn’t have anything negative to say.

  My bed is surrounded by an enchanted forest. I can only manage to glimpse it when the darkness turns less black and they leave the lights on in the other room. The path from my bed to the enemy encampment is the most dangerous route on the planet, riddled with ambushes and sentinels with very itchy trigger fingers. But we knights are fearless and so, the minute Vittoria starts to snore, I set out with my trusty page Casimiro, and we slither down off the mattress to begin our nighttime attack. We advance silently through the stand of carnivorous plants, we bravely make our way down the quicksand hallway. The encampment is illuminated by a large bonfire upon which appears the image of Dracula, who in reality is actually called Christopher Lee and is an actor with pointy teeth so whenever they need someone to play Dracula, they call him. These are the most daunting last few yards. We need to hold our breath and wait for the moment when the sentinels are distracted. They’re talking in low voices.

  “He’s an extraordinary child, the lady doctor said that she’s never seen anything like it,” says the female sentinel in a happy voice.

  “If we don’t treat him like a normal child, we could do him some real harm,” replies the sentinel with the Elvis quiff.

  “Gifted as he is, he’s destined to achieve great things.”

  The sentinel with the quiff turns around to look at the female sentinel.

  “He might discover the cure for cancer or became a great statesman, what do you know . . . ” she says.

  Cancer? Statesman? I’d need the book of words to understand the language of the sentinels, but knights are men of action and they can only move forward. Now! Under the sofa bed!

  “We’ll see, he can decide for himself when he grows up.”

  “Of course, we just need to help him find his way.”

  On top of the mattress something’s happening. The metal springs start to move, and I hear some strange noises, it might have been a kiss. A whole family of kisses.

  “Someone like him could save the world,” whispers the female sentinel.

  “Really?” asks Casimiro.

  “Al!”

  5.

  Since last night I haven’t done a thing to save the world. While Sister Taddea tells us one of her stories with an unhappy ending, I think back to my expedition into the enemy encampment and to one phrase in particular that I overheard: “He needs to find his own way.” The meaning is clear, I have to figure out what particular route will allow me to save the world, but the word “way” for some reason makes my thoughts turn strange and I imagine the way as a street, paved with asphalt, with white lines painted on it. Perhaps my way is just like the promised home of the Santamaria family, maybe it’s hidden somewhere and I ought to go out every Sunday to look for it. Mario Elvis said that we’ll recognize the promised home the minute we see it, as soon as we set foot in it, we’ll know if it’s the right place or not. It probably works more or less the same when it comes to my way. Then there’s another thing I don’t understand: Why does the world need to be saved? What is it that isn’t working? Evidently things aren’t working out there the way they are at my house, maybe not all the Papàs start the day by singing Elvis songs, not all the Mammas make chocolate ciambelloni, not all the families play with a fine German tape recorder. I need to learn more, I need to study.

  “She looks like Snow White,” Roberta whispers behind me.

  Sister Taddea has projected onto the wall the picture of a woman dressed in white and light blue.

  “It’s Saint Lucy,” I reply.

  The saint has a handful of greenery and a little plate in the other hand. She must have been a cooking saint. Like all the religious superheroes she is looking upward, because she knows that all trouble will come to her from that direction.

  “Why are they dressed the same?”

  “Bec-c-cause Saint Lucy wants to get engaged to the prince but Snow White finds out and scratches her eyes out.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Wait and see.”

  “Almerico and Roberta! Aren’t you interested in the story of Saint Lucy?” Sister Taddea asks us.

  “Yes, we are,” we reply.

  “Knowing about the lives of the saints will be a big help when you grow up. You, Roberta, what do want to be when you grow up?”

  “A saint.”

  Sister Taddea smiles and nods. Here’s the first lesson that will come in handy when we grow up: it’s not important to tell the truth, what counts is to always say what will make other people happy.

  “What about you, Almerico?”

  “I’m a genius, I’ll probably save the world, but I still need to find my way.”

  From the look on Sister Taddea’s face it occurs to me that I haven’t been as good at answering as Roberta was. The nuns aren’t bad people, they’re just obsessed with this matter of good and bad. Goodish and baddish don’t exist, on any given question there’s always the risk of getting it wrong and winding up in hell. To say you want to have the same job as your Papà or be a soccer player or a doctor is good, to say that you’re a genius and you want to save the world is bad. Normal is good, genius is bad.

  “Oh no, sorry, I want to be a fireman,” I correct myself.

  Right answer, the nun smiles.

  “Good boy, firemen do a very useful job, they save people.”

  I didn’t tell a lie, being a fireman really is the job that I wanted to do before finding out I’m a genius. So it’s not really a lie, it’s more like a postdated truth. I can’t disappoint Agnese and Mario Elvis, I can’t disappoint the world. I’ll become a genius and a savior, and a fireman if I have any spare time.

  I’m not happy with my body. The brain transmits commands and my body never seems capable of responding properly. The order is: “Run!” and the legs start spinning out of control, skidding, reaching a decent speed only once they start following the head as it falls forward. Stopping is always a problem. Asphalt, cobblestones, and marble are all hard materials that I learned to recognize early, the ones I scrape my elbows and knees on every day on account o
f Ezio, a mean kid that even the fifth graders steer clear of. The fifth graders, though, have no reason to run when they see him, because his favorite target is me. Ezio has lazy, troublesome speech, when he talks you can’t understand a thing, so he’s gotten used to saying the things he thinks with gestures. But since his thoughts are always nasty, the way he gestures is to slap, shove, and trip you. Outdoor recess is never a happy thing. We leave the classroom in double file, we walk down the stairs, we join the other classes, we cross the courtyard stamping our feet hard on the ground the way the nun tells us to, and if you ask me she’s an outstanding general. As soon as the nun tells us to go play, my brain orders my body to vanish as fast as a missile. After losing my balance on the wet grass, after running straight into a tree that jumped out in front of me, and after falling to my knees in an effort to catch up with my head—and at least my head has the right idea and moves fast—I take refuge in the furthest corner of the garden, next to a high metal gate that leads out onto the street. I’ve inhaled so much cold air all at once that now I feel as if I have a saliva-flavored popsicle stuck in my throat. Luckily, Ezio is nowhere in sight. Right now there must be another little boy in the courtyard trying to understand the meaning of: “Your sandwich mine now I’ll smack your face.” But I make the grave error of failing to vanish behind the bush, Roberta spots me and comes running in my direction. She has very long black hair, green eyes, and a very obedient body. She doesn’t slip on the grass, she avoids trees, she stops in front of the gate with a nice graceful leap. Her cheeks seem to be colored with that stuff they put in candy to make it clear that it’s strawberry flavored, a lock of hair is stuck to her lips. She smiles at me, I don’t respond otherwise she might get the idea that she can stay here with me. She taps my shoulder with a finger, I don’t turn around otherwise she might get the idea that she can talk to me.