an appointment with the farm manager.
Gonda's hooves echo in the main street. People look at us. They're curious and admiring, but they keep clear. A mother, misinterpreting Gonda's whinny, grabs the hand of her child— it's actually the horse's greeting—but the mareis too black, too alarming a creature. I can't help feeling a shiver of pride.
My father knows everybody, and people come up to him to say hello and compliment Gonda. Some of them pat her neck, which is shiny with sweat. There's also a brother of Papa's, Alfio, but they don't get along, they're still arguing over Grandfather's estate, even though he died years ago. Papa always pokes fun at Alfio, says that he's spiteful, greedy, and stingy, that he's not as handsome as Papa is, not as nice, and that's why no woman wanted to marry him.
And today too, after they greet each other, Papa starts poking at him: Is it true that Alfio's farm equipment was wrecked when the roof of the Montesca shed fell in because Alfio cut corners on repairs? Is it true that the farm at San Biagio will yield only a few tons because it rained too much? Strange—because on his own fields it rained just enough and now the wheat is waist high, shining, soft and golden. Is it true that at the club no one wants Alfio at the poker table because he always spoils the game, peeking at everyone's hand, whereas they've asked Papa to be president? Would Alfio like to see, here and now, which of the two of them can attract more people around him?
My father proposes that they each go to a corner of the square, and I'm to count how many people come up to talk with him and how many with Alfio.
“That's not fair,” Alfio says. “You have the horse, of course you'll win.”
“Fine. Then we'll have the girl and Gonda wait in the middle.”
So there I am in the middle of the square halfway between Papa and my uncle with Gonda's bridle tight in my hands. I'm very anxious, partly because Gonda is restless and is making the wheels of the buggy clatter back and forth, and partly because I really want Papa to win, but I don't want Alfio's losing to be a total defeat. I see Alfio's thin little body, his nervous tic. On the other side of the square I see Papa's imposing figure. I see the gleam of Alfio's bald spot. On the other side I see Papa's full head of hair. And at that moment, even though I know I should be on Papa's side, I suffer for Alfio, so much that I want to shout, “Stop! That's enough—no game!” Gonda is becoming more impatient and starts pawing the pavement with her hoof. Meanwhile people are gathering around Papa, more and more of them, while a few nod to Alfio and walk on by.
By now it's useless for me to pay attention, useless for me to keep score. The only thing I can do is hang on to Gonda's bridle as she rears, lifting me into the air to celebrate Papa's triumph.
Before the September storms, there always came a Sunday afternoon when our vacation seemed too long, when Clara and I would be sitting in the cool front hall of the villa to escape the heavy air outside, paying attention to the relentless buzzing of a fly against the window-pane, an unmistakable sign of our boredom. One of us would lazily ask, “What'll we do now?” a bit irritated at seeing the other one in the same state of listlessness. We'd pretend to think about it for an instant. And then we'd give up with a sigh and end up sitting there, doing nothing for hours.
On afternoons like that, back home after a month at Versilia on the Tuscan coast, it would sometimes happen that some of my father's cousins would come for a visit. Mariapia was awidow, and she came with her old-maid sister, Elisabetta, and almost always with her eighteen-year-old daughter, Grazia. They came in their tiny sky blue car, the daughter at the wheel beside her enormous mother, who took up most of the space in front, and in the back, surprisingly skinny and swaying like a pendulum, was Elisabetta.
When we were all sitting around in
Gonda's hooves echo in the main street. People look at us. They're curious and admiring, but they keep clear. A mother, misinterpreting Gonda's whinny, grabs the hand of her child— it's actually the horse's greeting—but the mareis too black, too alarming a creature. I can't help feeling a shiver of pride.
My father knows everybody, and people come up to him to say hello and compliment Gonda. Some of them pat her neck, which is shiny with sweat. There's also a brother of Papa's, Alfio, but they don't get along, they're still arguing over Grandfather's estate, even though he died years ago. Papa always pokes fun at Alfio, says that he's spiteful, greedy, and stingy, that he's not as handsome as Papa is, not as nice, and that's why no woman wanted to marry him.
And today too, after they greet each other, Papa starts poking at him: Is it true that Alfio's farm equipment was wrecked when the roof of the Montesca shed fell in because Alfio cut corners on repairs? Is it true that the farm at San Biagio will yield only a few tons because it rained too much? Strange—because on his own fields it rained just enough and now the wheat is waist high, shining, soft and golden. Is it true that at the club no one wants Alfio at the poker table because he always spoils the game, peeking at everyone's hand, whereas they've asked Papa to be president? Would Alfio like to see, here and now, which of the two of them can attract more people around him?
My father proposes that they each go to a corner of the square, and I'm to count how many people come up to talk with him and how many with Alfio.
“That's not fair,” Alfio says. “You have the horse, of course you'll win.”
“Fine. Then we'll have the girl and Gonda wait in the middle.”
So there I am in the middle of the square halfway between Papa and my uncle with Gonda's bridle tight in my hands. I'm very anxious, partly because Gonda is restless and is making the wheels of the buggy clatter back and forth, and partly because I really want Papa to win, but I don't want Alfio's losing to be a total defeat. I see Alfio's thin little body, his nervous tic. On the other side of the square I see Papa's imposing figure. I see the gleam of Alfio's bald spot. On the other side I see Papa's full head of hair. And at that moment, even though I know I should be on Papa's side, I suffer for Alfio, so much that I want to shout, “Stop! That's enough—no game!” Gonda is becoming more impatient and starts pawing the pavement with her hoof. Meanwhile people are gathering around Papa, more and more of them, while a few nod to Alfio and walk on by.
By now it's useless for me to pay attention, useless for me to keep score. The only thing I can do is hang on to Gonda's bridle as she rears, lifting me into the air to celebrate Papa's triumph.
Before the September storms, there always came a Sunday afternoon when our vacation seemed too long, when Clara and I would be sitting in the cool front hall of the villa to escape the heavy air outside, paying attention to the relentless buzzing of a fly against the window-pane, an unmistakable sign of our boredom. One of us would lazily ask, “What'll we do now?” a bit irritated at seeing the other one in the same state of listlessness. We'd pretend to think about it for an instant. And then we'd give up with a sigh and end up sitting there, doing nothing for hours.
On afternoons like that, back home after a month at Versilia on the Tuscan coast, it would sometimes happen that some of my father's cousins would come for a visit. Mariapia was awidow, and she came with her old-maid sister, Elisabetta, and almost always with her eighteen-year-old daughter, Grazia. They came in their tiny sky blue car, the daughter at the wheel beside her enormous mother, who took up most of the space in front, and in the back, surprisingly skinny and swaying like a pendulum, was Elisabetta.
When we were all sitting around in
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