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Authors: Elle Newmark
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vigorous rendition of “Cielo Luna” while they helped Camilla stack dishes on atray. I heard the chef’s solid tenor join in for the chorus, and then I heard Signora Ferrero’s soprano. Even old Camilla chimed in with her wheezy voice. Whenever someone went flat, they laughed, and soon the song became ragged with laughter and friendly jibes and the happy clatter of plates and cutlery.
They never sang when I was there.
When I was there they were sedate and polite. When I was there, they behaved in a manner appropriate for Sunday visitors—outsiders. But that night, without me to inhibit them, they were a real family, stuffed with lamb stew, tripping over each other’s voices, laughing and singing. …
I listened in the dark, alone and hungry, and I understood. I wasn’t a member of the family at all. They had never accepted me; they had tolerated me. The ache of exclusion made me resentful, and slowly, I worked up enough anger to seal off the soft spot. My guilt slipped away unnoticed.
When the singing died down, Signora Ferrero whisked the girls upstairs, and I chanced another peek in the window. The chef sat alone at the table, fiddling with the stem of a half-full wineglass. His high spirits had vanished with his family, and he stared morosely into his wine until his wife called him up to bed.
At the edge of my vision, I saw the dining room lights wink out as the chef doused the candles, and then I heard his shoes scuffing the stairs. I craned my neck and leaned back over the stone banister to look up at the bedroom windows. At first I saw nothing, but after a moment, I caught a scant glimpse of the chef and his wife silhouetted in candlelight behind the muslin curtains of their balcony door. I straddled the banister, held on tight, and leaned out at a precarious angle to get a better view.
The chef ran his fingers through his hair, and then he made agitated chopping gestures with the edge of one hand into the palm of the other. Signora Ferrero stilled him; she laid her palms on his shoulders and began a slow massage. She whispered in his ear untilhis posture relaxed, and he wrapped her in his arms and buried his face in her hair. They talked, but I couldn’t hear them. I needed to get up there.
The long stone balcony of the píano nobíle was lined with clay pots and urns of different sizes, all filled with cheerful red geraniums. The largest of them was about three feet high, and I thought that if I stood on it and stretched my arms overhead, the extra three feet might be just enough for me to reach the floor of their small bedroom balcony. I stepped onto the rim of the clay pot and steadied myself before reaching up for the slate floor. I lengthened my spine and extended my fingers. The pot rocked underfoot, and my heart speeded up as I swayed to catch my balance. After I righted myself, I managed to get my hands on the bottom of two wrought iron spindles above me.
As I pulled myself up, the flowerpot again wobbled under my toes, tipped, rolled, clattered over the floor, and crashed down the stairs to the cobbled street below. A few pot shards splashed into the canal. I held my breath and hung there, dangling between the two balconies. The muscles in my arms burned as I tightened my fingers around the iron spindles.
The chef rushed to his balcony doors. I heard the creak of a rusty hinge, and he called out, “Who’s there?”
Marrone .
Signora Ferrero sounded unconcerned. “A cat probably knocked over some geraniums.”
“ Dio . Cats.”
“I’ll send Camilla to the flower stalls tomorrow.”
My wrists ached, my hands had begun to slip, and I felt the weight of my body pulling away from my shoulders. But dropping back down would make too much noise, and I might be seen running away. I hung there.
The chef stood at the open door and huffed. “Venice. Nothing but cats and sinners.” I imagined him shaking his fist at the night.“But there’s a nice breeze tonight.” He left the door open,
They never sang when I was there.
When I was there they were sedate and polite. When I was there, they behaved in a manner appropriate for Sunday visitors—outsiders. But that night, without me to inhibit them, they were a real family, stuffed with lamb stew, tripping over each other’s voices, laughing and singing. …
I listened in the dark, alone and hungry, and I understood. I wasn’t a member of the family at all. They had never accepted me; they had tolerated me. The ache of exclusion made me resentful, and slowly, I worked up enough anger to seal off the soft spot. My guilt slipped away unnoticed.
When the singing died down, Signora Ferrero whisked the girls upstairs, and I chanced another peek in the window. The chef sat alone at the table, fiddling with the stem of a half-full wineglass. His high spirits had vanished with his family, and he stared morosely into his wine until his wife called him up to bed.
At the edge of my vision, I saw the dining room lights wink out as the chef doused the candles, and then I heard his shoes scuffing the stairs. I craned my neck and leaned back over the stone banister to look up at the bedroom windows. At first I saw nothing, but after a moment, I caught a scant glimpse of the chef and his wife silhouetted in candlelight behind the muslin curtains of their balcony door. I straddled the banister, held on tight, and leaned out at a precarious angle to get a better view.
The chef ran his fingers through his hair, and then he made agitated chopping gestures with the edge of one hand into the palm of the other. Signora Ferrero stilled him; she laid her palms on his shoulders and began a slow massage. She whispered in his ear untilhis posture relaxed, and he wrapped her in his arms and buried his face in her hair. They talked, but I couldn’t hear them. I needed to get up there.
The long stone balcony of the píano nobíle was lined with clay pots and urns of different sizes, all filled with cheerful red geraniums. The largest of them was about three feet high, and I thought that if I stood on it and stretched my arms overhead, the extra three feet might be just enough for me to reach the floor of their small bedroom balcony. I stepped onto the rim of the clay pot and steadied myself before reaching up for the slate floor. I lengthened my spine and extended my fingers. The pot rocked underfoot, and my heart speeded up as I swayed to catch my balance. After I righted myself, I managed to get my hands on the bottom of two wrought iron spindles above me.
As I pulled myself up, the flowerpot again wobbled under my toes, tipped, rolled, clattered over the floor, and crashed down the stairs to the cobbled street below. A few pot shards splashed into the canal. I held my breath and hung there, dangling between the two balconies. The muscles in my arms burned as I tightened my fingers around the iron spindles.
The chef rushed to his balcony doors. I heard the creak of a rusty hinge, and he called out, “Who’s there?”
Marrone .
Signora Ferrero sounded unconcerned. “A cat probably knocked over some geraniums.”
“ Dio . Cats.”
“I’ll send Camilla to the flower stalls tomorrow.”
My wrists ached, my hands had begun to slip, and I felt the weight of my body pulling away from my shoulders. But dropping back down would make too much noise, and I might be seen running away. I hung there.
The chef stood at the open door and huffed. “Venice. Nothing but cats and sinners.” I imagined him shaking his fist at the night.“But there’s a nice breeze tonight.” He left the door open,
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