a bottle of wine. One night, as often happened, Uncle Matteo and Aunt Brigida were with them. Giuliano greeted them, asking, “No children with youtonight?” To which they replied at the same time, “A date,” and “A study crisis,” meaning Anna Maria and Francesco respectively. It was easy to tell which was which, since Anna Maria had left school to become a model.
I was helping make ravioli. I am completely useless in the kitchen, but this did not stop Nonna, who ignored my pleas (I think she knew they were really protests in disguise). I never liked to help cook at home, but I was starting to enjoy filling the little pasta squares and running the cutter along the edges of the ravioli molds. Nonna hovered over a sauce on the stove, then darted away to shred endive for a salad.
Uncle Matteo opened a bottle he had brought with him, and poured out for all of us, tucking a glass in by my elbow with a smile.
“You’re doing a good job,” he said, patting my shoulder before thumping into a seat at the table beside his wife.
I could follow some of the conversation now; there were still lots of words that just flowed by as a river of sound, but even those were starting to puddle into the shapes of sentences. At least everybody here had the same accent. Sandro, a neighbor who sometimes stopped in at the shop, had moved up from Sicily, and I couldn’t make sense of even the simplest things he said.
While they talked, Uncle Matteo pulled out a slim, battered, black case from his jacket pocket and opened it on the table, idly picking over its contents. I knew I had seen something like this before, but so much had happened, I couldn’t rememberwhere. I was pretty sure that Giuliano had one of these, and Emilio, too.
The case was bound in leather, with lines of gilded writing running down the lid. I couldn’t read the words from where I was standing. The interior was made of light-colored wood, carefully varnished. Various objects were held in place between slats of wood or under leather straps, among them two candle stubs of different colors of wax, a book of matches, a tiny hand mirror, a small copper bell, a thin, leather-bound notebook, and a pen. I thought I saw nails lined up in a row, too, and some other things I didn’t recognize.
“Brigida, help me remember that I have to get this strap repaired,” he said, pulling on a bit of broken leather. I didn’t need to understand all the words to see what he meant. Brigida nodded and turned to Giuliano.
“No Emilio tonight, either?”
Giuliano shook his head. “Alba.”
“Ah,” said Aunt Brigida, adding something else in a caustic tone that I wish I could have translated. I say I learned a language in order to ask for breakfast; I think I learned it in order to understand the gossip, too.
Well, really, I suppose I learned it for all kinds of reasons. I do remember that dinner, and Uncle Matteo’s case, and I remember that the next day the history books started to make sense, although the history itself did not.
My teachers back in Center Plains were apologetic about teaching us history, but bravely tried to make it interesting byhaving us make dioramas, reenact important moments like the creation of the Magna Carta, or pretend to live in a feudal society in the Middle Ages. Sadly, the poor, brave history teachers, bravest among them Ms. Sadler, who once lectured dressed as Genghis Khan, never succeeded in making the subject relevant—just boring.
I could tell the people who had written the Italian history books would not be able to do any better. I gave up on the first one and tried another.
After an hour or so, I started getting really annoyed. The problem was that none of the books agreed with one another. I felt as if the historians were fighting in my head.
“The origins of Milan are lost in the mists of time,” said one.
“No, they aren’t,” said another. “It originated with the Etruscans in the sixth century BC . But nobody knows what
I was helping make ravioli. I am completely useless in the kitchen, but this did not stop Nonna, who ignored my pleas (I think she knew they were really protests in disguise). I never liked to help cook at home, but I was starting to enjoy filling the little pasta squares and running the cutter along the edges of the ravioli molds. Nonna hovered over a sauce on the stove, then darted away to shred endive for a salad.
Uncle Matteo opened a bottle he had brought with him, and poured out for all of us, tucking a glass in by my elbow with a smile.
“You’re doing a good job,” he said, patting my shoulder before thumping into a seat at the table beside his wife.
I could follow some of the conversation now; there were still lots of words that just flowed by as a river of sound, but even those were starting to puddle into the shapes of sentences. At least everybody here had the same accent. Sandro, a neighbor who sometimes stopped in at the shop, had moved up from Sicily, and I couldn’t make sense of even the simplest things he said.
While they talked, Uncle Matteo pulled out a slim, battered, black case from his jacket pocket and opened it on the table, idly picking over its contents. I knew I had seen something like this before, but so much had happened, I couldn’t rememberwhere. I was pretty sure that Giuliano had one of these, and Emilio, too.
The case was bound in leather, with lines of gilded writing running down the lid. I couldn’t read the words from where I was standing. The interior was made of light-colored wood, carefully varnished. Various objects were held in place between slats of wood or under leather straps, among them two candle stubs of different colors of wax, a book of matches, a tiny hand mirror, a small copper bell, a thin, leather-bound notebook, and a pen. I thought I saw nails lined up in a row, too, and some other things I didn’t recognize.
“Brigida, help me remember that I have to get this strap repaired,” he said, pulling on a bit of broken leather. I didn’t need to understand all the words to see what he meant. Brigida nodded and turned to Giuliano.
“No Emilio tonight, either?”
Giuliano shook his head. “Alba.”
“Ah,” said Aunt Brigida, adding something else in a caustic tone that I wish I could have translated. I say I learned a language in order to ask for breakfast; I think I learned it in order to understand the gossip, too.
Well, really, I suppose I learned it for all kinds of reasons. I do remember that dinner, and Uncle Matteo’s case, and I remember that the next day the history books started to make sense, although the history itself did not.
My teachers back in Center Plains were apologetic about teaching us history, but bravely tried to make it interesting byhaving us make dioramas, reenact important moments like the creation of the Magna Carta, or pretend to live in a feudal society in the Middle Ages. Sadly, the poor, brave history teachers, bravest among them Ms. Sadler, who once lectured dressed as Genghis Khan, never succeeded in making the subject relevant—just boring.
I could tell the people who had written the Italian history books would not be able to do any better. I gave up on the first one and tried another.
After an hour or so, I started getting really annoyed. The problem was that none of the books agreed with one another. I felt as if the historians were fighting in my head.
“The origins of Milan are lost in the mists of time,” said one.
“No, they aren’t,” said another. “It originated with the Etruscans in the sixth century BC . But nobody knows what
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