On Earth as It Is in Heaven by Davide Enia Page B

I’ll lose and never get back.”
    â€œWhat do you know about loss?”
    â€œI’m nine years old, I know things, believe me.”
    I knew that you lose the things you possess. You lose your string, your patience, your finger bone, the time you waste, the afternoons you spend sitting in traffic, the coins you drop into a pay phone, your pencil sharpener, the buttons off your shirt, the words on the tip of your tongue.
    â€œDavidù, look at how handsome this hand is, look at how big and strong it is. You know what keeps it on the steering wheel? Patience. That’s what. And if I lose my patience, you know where this hand will wind up? You understand, angel face? Wait a minute, let’s stop here for a minute, this coffee shop makes great espresso.”
    He double-parked the dark blue Fiat 126, walked into the café, and stepped up to the counter.
    â€œHey, I’d like a nice hot espresso the way you know how to make ’em, and a glass of sparkling water for my nephew.”
    A trio of well-dressed gentlemen came into the bar. They were loudly discussing the killing that had taken place three hours earlier in the Sperone district: an ex-convict found dead with a third eye in his forehead. They talked about symbols: if the murdered man has his testicles in his mouth it means he started up some trouble with the wrong woman; feet encased in a block of cement and then a plunge into the sea is the fate reserved for those who pocket the mob’s money; a dead man with a fish in his mouth is someone who talked too much. They were about to explore the significance of the corpse dissolved in acid, when the tallest of the three turned to the barman and, in a jocular tone, gave his order.
    â€œ Buon giorno , could you make us three manly espressos, black, no sugar?”
    Umbertino immediately swiveled his head around, staring intently at the trio of new arrivals. Once the discomfort had ripened fully, he deigned to address them.
    â€œYou know, maybe I misunderstood, but did you just call me a woman?”
    The three citizens were more surprised than baffled.
    â€œIs something bothering you?”
    â€œAh, so now you decide to pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about?”
    â€œWhat are you talking about?”
    Everyone in the café stopped to watch the scene unfold. No one was good-hearted enough to meddle.
    My uncle turned to confront the trio, turning his back to the barman. He spoke in a low voice, forcing everyone to turn their ears in his direction.
    â€œSo let me get this straight. I’m here in the café, minding my own business with my nephew, drinking an espresso in goddamned peace, when you three come in and accuse me in front of everyone of being a total woman.”
    â€œWhat on earth?”
    â€œNow you’re taking back what you just said a minute ago?”
    The barman, the cashier, the customers, me: we were all wondering just what Umbertino was driving at. My uncle sensed that the eyes of everyone in the café were on him. There’s always a ring, there’s always an audience.
    The three men were uneasy. Their feet were shuffling and wouldn’t stay still.
    â€œBelieve me, nobody here would have dared to say . . .”
    Umbertino rose up on tiptoes. Maybe it was an involuntary reflex, or perhaps an intentional pose to heighten the drama.
    â€œOh, no? But when you walk into a café and order ‘three manly espressos, black, no sugar,’ what are you trying to say, eh?”
    â€œBut . . .”
    Umbertino luxuriated in that growing doubt, the rising anxiety, the sense of danger that was ripening.
    â€œAh, now you’re acting as if you don’t know what I’m talking about. Then let me spell it out for you. For people like you, anyone who drinks their coffee with sugar is a total woman because you three, real macho men, you’re citizens who take your coffee bitter, look how strong you are, the flavor