the Nunziatella Military Academy pass us in their gold-buttoned uniforms, with white-handled dress swords hanging from their belts. Their clothing glares next to the shabby clothing of the crowds around them. They’re kids, a few years older than me, walking with their chests out and not looking anyone in the face. It must be awful to set yourself apart from other people that way, shunning them. At home Mama didn’t say a thing about the trousers or the musso, no scolding and no thanks. So we’re even.
R AFANIELLO ’ S FACE is all crumpled. He didn’t sleep. The wings broke through the shell of his hump. It cracked like an egg, without bleeding. His jacket’s gotten fuller. He says he’s managed to open the wings. They’re bigger than a stork’s. He’s decided to wait for the night of fireworks. In the meantime he’s practicing in his room at night. The fireworks in Naples used to scare him, reminding him of the turmoil of war. “This time they’ll be bidding me farewell.” I tell him that I’ve made my decision, too. I’m going to throw the boomerang the same night. The boomerang’s wings are ready, too. “How much time do we have left?” he asks. Two weeks. From my pocket I take one of the brimstones. It’s the same color as your eyes, I say. He holds it up against the light. “Fire and brimstone. It rained fire and brimstone on Sodom and Gomorrah. Green eyes, red hair. The Heavenly Father made me look like anember.” I wonder if his eyes are really green. What’s more, I say, they’re lit like teardrops, not brimstone. Rafaniello is getting to the bottom of his shoe pile. People have been coming by to pick them up. He’s not accepting broken ones anymore. Now everyone’s wearing shoes in Naples.
I HELP Master Errico plane some larch boards. They give off a scent of resin, a smell that clears your sinuses. Master Errico looks at the first planing and shakes his head. “We can’t use the machine,” he says. “We have to finish it by hand.” He shows me the drops of resin and says that they’re hard and would break the blade of the planing machine. Larch resin dries as hard as a rock. So I learn to move the hand planer, following Master Errico. The larch shavings are blond and notvery curly. It’s like giving the wood a crew cut. At noon I realize that a feather has fallen under Rafaniello’s bench. I pick it up. It’s so light I can’t feel it in my palm. Don Rafaniè, I’m going to hold on to this to remember you by. “You’re right to say ‘hold on to’ instead of ‘keep.’ To keep is presumptuous. To hold means you realize that today it’s yours and tomorrow who knows. Hold on to the feather as a keepsake.” I think of the boomerang. I hold it tight, then I have to let it go. I take it out of my smock. Look at it, Don Rafaniè, it’s so well made that it can fly, too. We chew our bread and friarelli and stare at the boomerang. He stops eating and asks me very seriously what kind of wood it’s made from. Acacia, Don Rafaniè, a hardwood. His breath catches in his throat. He coughs loud and spits up some friarello, then he calms down and rocks back and forth in his chair, repeating, “Acacia, acacia,” with tears in his eyes, his face as red as his hair, a crunching of bones behind his back.
A T THE washbasins in December the wind gets all blustery, sweeping up the dirt on the ground, polishing the nighttime sky, drawing off the heat from the houses. The boomerang is going wild. It burns the air that will carry it on its flight. My arms can’t control it. It’s like a wing with feathers. I wind myself up to toss it two hundred times with one arm, two hundred with the other, and I don’t get tired. I’m a thrower and have to force myself to wait. There’s the dark side of the moon. Maria stares at the giant lid over Montedidio, spellbound. I’m obsessed with the sea and think all the shiny points on its surface are a school of anchovies. With my broken
R AFANIELLO ’ S FACE is all crumpled. He didn’t sleep. The wings broke through the shell of his hump. It cracked like an egg, without bleeding. His jacket’s gotten fuller. He says he’s managed to open the wings. They’re bigger than a stork’s. He’s decided to wait for the night of fireworks. In the meantime he’s practicing in his room at night. The fireworks in Naples used to scare him, reminding him of the turmoil of war. “This time they’ll be bidding me farewell.” I tell him that I’ve made my decision, too. I’m going to throw the boomerang the same night. The boomerang’s wings are ready, too. “How much time do we have left?” he asks. Two weeks. From my pocket I take one of the brimstones. It’s the same color as your eyes, I say. He holds it up against the light. “Fire and brimstone. It rained fire and brimstone on Sodom and Gomorrah. Green eyes, red hair. The Heavenly Father made me look like anember.” I wonder if his eyes are really green. What’s more, I say, they’re lit like teardrops, not brimstone. Rafaniello is getting to the bottom of his shoe pile. People have been coming by to pick them up. He’s not accepting broken ones anymore. Now everyone’s wearing shoes in Naples.
I HELP Master Errico plane some larch boards. They give off a scent of resin, a smell that clears your sinuses. Master Errico looks at the first planing and shakes his head. “We can’t use the machine,” he says. “We have to finish it by hand.” He shows me the drops of resin and says that they’re hard and would break the blade of the planing machine. Larch resin dries as hard as a rock. So I learn to move the hand planer, following Master Errico. The larch shavings are blond and notvery curly. It’s like giving the wood a crew cut. At noon I realize that a feather has fallen under Rafaniello’s bench. I pick it up. It’s so light I can’t feel it in my palm. Don Rafaniè, I’m going to hold on to this to remember you by. “You’re right to say ‘hold on to’ instead of ‘keep.’ To keep is presumptuous. To hold means you realize that today it’s yours and tomorrow who knows. Hold on to the feather as a keepsake.” I think of the boomerang. I hold it tight, then I have to let it go. I take it out of my smock. Look at it, Don Rafaniè, it’s so well made that it can fly, too. We chew our bread and friarelli and stare at the boomerang. He stops eating and asks me very seriously what kind of wood it’s made from. Acacia, Don Rafaniè, a hardwood. His breath catches in his throat. He coughs loud and spits up some friarello, then he calms down and rocks back and forth in his chair, repeating, “Acacia, acacia,” with tears in his eyes, his face as red as his hair, a crunching of bones behind his back.
A T THE washbasins in December the wind gets all blustery, sweeping up the dirt on the ground, polishing the nighttime sky, drawing off the heat from the houses. The boomerang is going wild. It burns the air that will carry it on its flight. My arms can’t control it. It’s like a wing with feathers. I wind myself up to toss it two hundred times with one arm, two hundred with the other, and I don’t get tired. I’m a thrower and have to force myself to wait. There’s the dark side of the moon. Maria stares at the giant lid over Montedidio, spellbound. I’m obsessed with the sea and think all the shiny points on its surface are a school of anchovies. With my broken
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