the name Milan means.”
“Yes, we do,” said another. “It’s a shortened form of Mediolanum , which means ‘middle of the plain,’ as anybody can tell, and which makes sense because Milan is in the middle of a plain.”
“No, it means ‘land of the May’ in Celtic, and in fact the Celts did conquer the Etruscans in May.”
“You’re all idiots! It’s obviously a reference to lana , ‘wool,’ and to the sheep that were raised here.”
Together, like some weird animal with too many legs and no brain, we lurched forward, the papery historians and I.
“None of that matters, anyway, because pretty soon the Romans decided that what northern Italy really needed was anaqueduct or two, and they were just the people to build it. The Romans were one of those peoples that just couldn’t leave anybody alone. They were always invading you without asking. They would come in with their eagles and their big ideas and ruin everything.”
Of course none of the historians was actually saying things this way. I wrote down “eagles and big ideas” and for a fleeting second thought about another country that had both. Oh . Wait a minute. These people I was reading about, with their total inability to sensibly name a city, had been alive —getting up in the morning and feeling disgusted about stupid politicians making stupid decisions, or eating their mother’s horrible oatmeal and hating algebra, if they had algebra back then. They had hung out with their friends, had crushes on the cute Etruscan boy next door, had wondered whether the Romans would leave them alive. It looked like a lot of times the Romans didn’t. The Romans weren’t the only ones with issues about violence, either. When those early Milanese weren’t rushing off to war, they spent their spare time poisoning one another or arranging for grisly executions or dying of disgusting plagues. There was so much blood, blood on every page.
Someone knocked on my door.
“Come in,” I said.
“Ciao,” said Emilio, and I remembered that another way the old name for Milan had been translated was “honeyed land.” I felt like I was looking at it.
“Working hard, I see—that’s good, good. What is it today?”he asked, approaching my desk, then answering himself, “History. Yes, excellent. But don’t neglect the language.”
“How can I, when all of these books are in Italian?” I retorted, glad I could come up with the words fast enough. I wanted to tell him how sick I was of opening my dictionary for every other paragraph—and then finding every paragraph full of blood. I wanted to beg and plead to be allowed to do something else. I opened my mouth to start, then shut it again. More than anything, I didn’t want to be embarrassed in front of him.
“It’s coming fast,” he said confidently. “May I sit?”
“What? Oh, sure.”
He picked the one other chair in the room, the old leather armchair that sat by the window. When he sat, I saw the light on his hair and realized with a shock that it was reflected from the lamps in the courtyard outside. It was later than I’d thought. My stomach growled, loudly enough for both of us to hear, and he laughed and said, “Nonna won’t be cooking for another hour, at least. Let’s go down to the shop. I’ll get an aperitif for us from the café. You can practice speaking with anyone who comes in. Let’s go see if Nonna needs anything.”
He stood up quickly, but I was the one who felt a rush of vertigo. I held on tight to the back of my chair. Suddenly and unreasonably I didn’t want to leave my cocoon of language CDs and history books. But after I’d made my way downstairs to find myself standing in the shop, surrounded by the smell of old wood and warm wax, I knew I would be all right, at least for now.
“So what would you like? Prosecco?”
I must have looked blank, because he smiled. “I’ll just bring back some different things, and some little bits to eat, and you can decide what you
“Yes, we do,” said another. “It’s a shortened form of Mediolanum , which means ‘middle of the plain,’ as anybody can tell, and which makes sense because Milan is in the middle of a plain.”
“No, it means ‘land of the May’ in Celtic, and in fact the Celts did conquer the Etruscans in May.”
“You’re all idiots! It’s obviously a reference to lana , ‘wool,’ and to the sheep that were raised here.”
Together, like some weird animal with too many legs and no brain, we lurched forward, the papery historians and I.
“None of that matters, anyway, because pretty soon the Romans decided that what northern Italy really needed was anaqueduct or two, and they were just the people to build it. The Romans were one of those peoples that just couldn’t leave anybody alone. They were always invading you without asking. They would come in with their eagles and their big ideas and ruin everything.”
Of course none of the historians was actually saying things this way. I wrote down “eagles and big ideas” and for a fleeting second thought about another country that had both. Oh . Wait a minute. These people I was reading about, with their total inability to sensibly name a city, had been alive —getting up in the morning and feeling disgusted about stupid politicians making stupid decisions, or eating their mother’s horrible oatmeal and hating algebra, if they had algebra back then. They had hung out with their friends, had crushes on the cute Etruscan boy next door, had wondered whether the Romans would leave them alive. It looked like a lot of times the Romans didn’t. The Romans weren’t the only ones with issues about violence, either. When those early Milanese weren’t rushing off to war, they spent their spare time poisoning one another or arranging for grisly executions or dying of disgusting plagues. There was so much blood, blood on every page.
Someone knocked on my door.
“Come in,” I said.
“Ciao,” said Emilio, and I remembered that another way the old name for Milan had been translated was “honeyed land.” I felt like I was looking at it.
“Working hard, I see—that’s good, good. What is it today?”he asked, approaching my desk, then answering himself, “History. Yes, excellent. But don’t neglect the language.”
“How can I, when all of these books are in Italian?” I retorted, glad I could come up with the words fast enough. I wanted to tell him how sick I was of opening my dictionary for every other paragraph—and then finding every paragraph full of blood. I wanted to beg and plead to be allowed to do something else. I opened my mouth to start, then shut it again. More than anything, I didn’t want to be embarrassed in front of him.
“It’s coming fast,” he said confidently. “May I sit?”
“What? Oh, sure.”
He picked the one other chair in the room, the old leather armchair that sat by the window. When he sat, I saw the light on his hair and realized with a shock that it was reflected from the lamps in the courtyard outside. It was later than I’d thought. My stomach growled, loudly enough for both of us to hear, and he laughed and said, “Nonna won’t be cooking for another hour, at least. Let’s go down to the shop. I’ll get an aperitif for us from the café. You can practice speaking with anyone who comes in. Let’s go see if Nonna needs anything.”
He stood up quickly, but I was the one who felt a rush of vertigo. I held on tight to the back of my chair. Suddenly and unreasonably I didn’t want to leave my cocoon of language CDs and history books. But after I’d made my way downstairs to find myself standing in the shop, surrounded by the smell of old wood and warm wax, I knew I would be all right, at least for now.
“So what would you like? Prosecco?”
I must have looked blank, because he smiled. “I’ll just bring back some different things, and some little bits to eat, and you can decide what you
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