were, he talked about taboos, the bourgeoisie, flower children, and rock groups I'd never heard of. One morning the teacher called on him to recite a poem we'd had to memorize.
Standing beside the lectern, Lorenzo began. At first his eyes were on the teacher. “We buried on this battlefield our youngest and our strongest. His only badge of valor the wounds upon his chest.” Then, as he became more impassioned, he turned toward the class as if moved by a current: “Machine-gun fire has mowed him down like wheat before a scythe … “At last, his eyes filled with tears, he clenched his fists and held them out toward me—straight toward me. I was thrilled, trembling, captivated as he recited the last prayerful stanza: “And now the farmboy soldier's soul is in Thy hands, O Lord. Grant his comrades’ prayer for him—a hero's paradise!”
From that moment I felt an awakening inmy heart, which fluttered like a caught bird. I would run breathlessly up the stairs at school to catch a glimpse of him in the main room standing in line for class. When he arrived late, I agonized. When he was absent, I felt abandoned by the world.
Then, one evening, I found out that he loved me too.
At eight the phone rings. My mother answers. “It's for you,” she says. “It's Lorenzo.” I take the phone. My hand is trembling. I say, “Hello?”
“Hi, it's Lorenzo. I wanted to ask you— tomorrow, for the arithmetic work in class, should I bring graph paper or lined?”
Afterward it dawns on me. What sort of question is that? It's an excuse. I shout, “It's just an excuse!” and run into my room. It's one of the May evenings in Paris when the day doesn't really want to die and the twilight is glowing and still. I'm sitting on my bed, near the window. I look outside, and in my ecstasy, which I am holding the way the day is holding the light, I see nothing, I hear nothing, I don't exist anymore, I'm not these arms, these legs, this head—all of me is in the frantic beating of my tiny chest.
Some Sunday mornings Clara and I would get up before our parents. As quiet as mice, we'd go to the kitchen to make orange juice for them (the squeezer, unfortunately, made an infernal racket) and get the coffee machine ready. Then we'd run back to our room—still quietly, because waking them up would spoil everything. Remembering to take the key, fly down the stairs and gallop all the way to the bakery on Rue de Laos to buy chocolate rolls for Papa and croissants for Mama. The last stop was at the florist to get red carnations for Mama. That was her favorite flower—she said it had that faint faint odor of a newborn baby—and luckily they cost the least, one franc each, so we could give her a bunch of five and sometimes ten. Once we were back at thehouse we made as much noise as we could— everything was ready and we couldn't wait to see their look of surprise and pleasure. (After a few times, of course, they weren't so surprised, but I still delighted in the role of the perfect daughter.)
Some Sunday mornings my father was the last one up. About eleven.
In his baggy boxers and undershirt he makes his way to the living room and turns on the record player. He gives a huge yawn and starts leafing through records, humming a tune. Suddenly he stops, raises his eyebrows (his eyes are a little bit red, a little bit white, like a monster's), and then turns toward me and produces an angelic smile. At last he chooses a record—Fred Buscaglione—which he adores because it makes him remember I don't know what kind of good times. He puts it on and turns up the volume. He starts to dance, with spins and hops that are exaggerated and awkward. One of us always says, “Papa, you look like a gorilla.” He expects this, and it does nothing but make him wilder. And then there he is taking my hand so I'll dance with him, and I'm blushing and laughing. I go along for a few steps. At the same time I take in the words of the song—”I saw you, I followed
Standing beside the lectern, Lorenzo began. At first his eyes were on the teacher. “We buried on this battlefield our youngest and our strongest. His only badge of valor the wounds upon his chest.” Then, as he became more impassioned, he turned toward the class as if moved by a current: “Machine-gun fire has mowed him down like wheat before a scythe … “At last, his eyes filled with tears, he clenched his fists and held them out toward me—straight toward me. I was thrilled, trembling, captivated as he recited the last prayerful stanza: “And now the farmboy soldier's soul is in Thy hands, O Lord. Grant his comrades’ prayer for him—a hero's paradise!”
From that moment I felt an awakening inmy heart, which fluttered like a caught bird. I would run breathlessly up the stairs at school to catch a glimpse of him in the main room standing in line for class. When he arrived late, I agonized. When he was absent, I felt abandoned by the world.
Then, one evening, I found out that he loved me too.
At eight the phone rings. My mother answers. “It's for you,” she says. “It's Lorenzo.” I take the phone. My hand is trembling. I say, “Hello?”
“Hi, it's Lorenzo. I wanted to ask you— tomorrow, for the arithmetic work in class, should I bring graph paper or lined?”
Afterward it dawns on me. What sort of question is that? It's an excuse. I shout, “It's just an excuse!” and run into my room. It's one of the May evenings in Paris when the day doesn't really want to die and the twilight is glowing and still. I'm sitting on my bed, near the window. I look outside, and in my ecstasy, which I am holding the way the day is holding the light, I see nothing, I hear nothing, I don't exist anymore, I'm not these arms, these legs, this head—all of me is in the frantic beating of my tiny chest.
Some Sunday mornings Clara and I would get up before our parents. As quiet as mice, we'd go to the kitchen to make orange juice for them (the squeezer, unfortunately, made an infernal racket) and get the coffee machine ready. Then we'd run back to our room—still quietly, because waking them up would spoil everything. Remembering to take the key, fly down the stairs and gallop all the way to the bakery on Rue de Laos to buy chocolate rolls for Papa and croissants for Mama. The last stop was at the florist to get red carnations for Mama. That was her favorite flower—she said it had that faint faint odor of a newborn baby—and luckily they cost the least, one franc each, so we could give her a bunch of five and sometimes ten. Once we were back at thehouse we made as much noise as we could— everything was ready and we couldn't wait to see their look of surprise and pleasure. (After a few times, of course, they weren't so surprised, but I still delighted in the role of the perfect daughter.)
Some Sunday mornings my father was the last one up. About eleven.
In his baggy boxers and undershirt he makes his way to the living room and turns on the record player. He gives a huge yawn and starts leafing through records, humming a tune. Suddenly he stops, raises his eyebrows (his eyes are a little bit red, a little bit white, like a monster's), and then turns toward me and produces an angelic smile. At last he chooses a record—Fred Buscaglione—which he adores because it makes him remember I don't know what kind of good times. He puts it on and turns up the volume. He starts to dance, with spins and hops that are exaggerated and awkward. One of us always says, “Papa, you look like a gorilla.” He expects this, and it does nothing but make him wilder. And then there he is taking my hand so I'll dance with him, and I'm blushing and laughing. I go along for a few steps. At the same time I take in the words of the song—”I saw you, I followed
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