December 31, 1974

San Silvestro

            Just when did grapes get so expensive? November? Well, when you wanted them in the dead of winter, they had to be imported from Northern Africa and that cost money. An exotic explanation of their costliness was gratifying but really not necessary as long as Maria Rosa had her grapes for New Year’s Eve.

Maria Rosa liked spending money. She bought a new item of clothing just about every week and threw her old clothes in the trash (where the maid usually retrieved them and used them for herself or her friends and family or her parish). Maria Rosa tossed out food that was a day old before purchasing new food so the refrigerator looked empty when she returned to fill it. If she didn’t like the taste of something, she just left it on her plate. Her wines all had one main characteristic: they were the best that money could buy. That divine little soupçon of financial dearness is what conferred heady bouquet and pleasing body on her Tuscan Reds as far as she was concerned.

Maria Rosa’s house was a showpiece in comfort and prestige coupled with a complete lack of personality. Everyone felt at ease when they walked in; there were fashionable kilim carpets on her seasoned hardwood floors and great big cushy armchairs and sofas. The televisions were always placed to maximum advantage in each room, and the house was overheated in the winter. 
      But her home had no character at all, and despite Maria Rosa’s easy and welcoming smile, no one could ever remember exactly what she had been talking about because she was as vapid as a dragonfly. Yes, a dragonfly: pretty to look at but if you wanted to eat it, well, there just wasn’t enough meat there for a sick grasshopper.

Her husband worshiped her, her children adored her and anyone she selected for a friend was devoted to her. To everyone else: servants, shop assistants and undesired relatives she had all the manners and refinement of a fire hydrant: not bad manners, just no manners. She really didn’t care what other people thought as long as she could continue living in her own, perfectly constructed little world with her perfect home and her perfect wardrobe and her perfect children.

All the same no one hated her. There was really nothing to hate since there wasn’t much there to begin with. When the people she didn’t like, realized how sterile Maria Rosa’s heart and soul were, they simply steered away from her. This is not to say Maria Rosa was a bad person: she was not purposefully cruel or hateful, she was simply spoiled rotten and had learned she really did not need to be nice to people she did not care for. Quickly, a tacit compromise was reached with the unwanted masses and for the most part, they simply avoided her. There is no friction if there is no contact.

    Tonight however promised to be different. She was having thirty people over for her New Year’s Eve Party, and among them her brother- and sister-in-law. Maria Rosa’s husband Raffaele didn’t particularly care for his brother-in-law so Maria Rosa made sure Raffaele were dreading Marta and Franco’s arrival that evening. Maybe he would learn not to invite them in the future.

But family is family and they did occasionally have to come together socially, even if Maria Rosa did not even pretend to be nice. She would just scuttle Marta and her brother Franco into a little room off the kitchen where there was a television set and hope that her in-laws wouldn’t embarrass her in front of her really well-to-do, truly chic friends. Indeed, that little room off the kitchen is exactly where Marta and Franco were hoping to find refuge; Maria Rosa would have been wounded to the core if she had known and what a low opinion Marta had of Maria Rosa, but only because Marta was family and Maria Rosa occasionally needed Franco’s services as a dermatologist. Maria Rosa would never find out anyway, because nobody would bother to gossip about it. 
     Marta had learned to avoid the mere subject of her sister-in-law even in conversation with friends and family members. There was very little Marta could say that was pleasant about Maria Rosa, and an unpleasant comment would only hurt Raffaele and his children.

Maria Rosa had everything planned the entire party to a “t.” The champagne – six bottles of Berlucchi to drink at midnight and then plenty of good Prosecco to follow it with, had been chilling in the garden all day. She had corralled the children into making her elaborate hors d’oeuvres, crusted wonders bejewelled with chunks of mortadella, a rainbow of chutneyed fruits and vegetables, adorable pink shrimp, glistening pickles, nice fat salmon, and gleaming white and yellow and cheeses from the Veneto, platters that took an hour to fashion and twenty minutes to polish off. She had a new dress for the occasion and she would wear the drop pearl earrings Raffaele had given her for Christmas.  
     Maria Rosa had also decided to revive the old custom of lighting a bonfire at midnight, and told all of her guests to bring something from the past year that they wanted to throw into the flames as an augury for the year to come. She had made her son set up an awning in the garden in case it rained. Everything was perfect at half past five, so she proceeded to henna her hair and give herself a facial. Disaster struck.

     The maid slipped and broke her ankle. Maria Rosa came running out of the bathroom when she heard the thud, her hair wrapped in African mud and aluminium foil, her face covered in a dark grey cleansing masque. She pulled her terrycloth robe around her as she knelt over the poor woman and called for her husband.

“Raffaele! Call an ambulance! No no, we are not going to accompany her; call her daughter. We have thirty people arriving in two hours and we will never be ready if we go. Just call Milena and tell her we have sent her mother to the emergency room and she should meet her there!”

“But Maria Rosa, . . .”

“NOW!” came a fierce scream from all that dirt and metal and grey gunk. Maria Rosa looked pretty frightening and Raffaele followed her dictates to the letter. Maria Rosa went to the back garden with a towel, scooped some of the ice out of the wine coolers and made a bundle to put on the maid’s ankle. Then she swooped back to the bathroom lest her hair come out bright orange.

Her hair color was slightly more russet than she had intended, but there was nothing to do about it now. As she made up her face, she barked orders at the children who scrambled around the house, picking things up, moving furniture, taking the doors off hinges. The ambulance arrived at a quarter past seven. Raffaele wasn't even showered and the guests would be arriving in forty-five minutes. 
        As Maria Rosa yanked on her pantyhose, she listed the items her husband was to wear, and as she put on her jewels she hissed at the children to disappear upstairs. As she was pulling her dress over her head, the doorbell rang, at ten minutes to eight.

     “Good God, doesn’t anybody know you’re not supposed to arrive early at a party?” she fumed as she strapped on her shoes and marched to the front door. Maria Rosa plastered a big welcoming smile on her face and swept the door open with grand aplomb, lest anyone think she did not have the situation under control.

“Happy New Year Maria Rosa!”

It was her sister-in-law and brother-in-law. The smile dropped out of Maria Rosa’s face like an anvil and she motioned hurriedly for them to come in.

“I have to finish dressing, why don’t you take your coats off and have a glass of wine?” was what Marta and Franco heard. What they saw, was the back of Maria Rosa’s head retreating to the back of the house with its bedrooms.

Franco looked at Marta and smiled. “There’s that little room off the kitchen; why don’t we put our coats back there? I don’t think this is a good time to take them to the bedroom where she usually puts them.”

Franco was anxious to keep Marta from dwelling on how blatantly unkind her sister-in-law was. This evening wasn't going to be pleasant for him either, but at least Marta didn’t have a Maria Rosa married to her brother.

By the time they had got their coats off and Franco had poured both of them a glass of white wine, Raffaele came into the kitchen. He was dressed in a handsome Missoni cardigan that was the height of fashion and he smelled like a forest scrubbed with citron and bergamot. Raffaele took one look at Franco’s blazer and sneered.

     “What’s this?” He fingered Franco’s coat pocket-handkerchief. “Don’t you know nobody wears these anymore?”

Raffaele now remembered just how much he disliked his brother-in-law.

“Oh, it’s just a touch of colour. Plus I never know when a lady might need it to cry into.”

Raffaele now greeted his sister and they exchanged best wishes. The doorbell rang and the first “real” guests arrived.

“Raffaele, where’s the maid? I can’t believe Maria Rosa is doing this all on her own.”

Maria Rosa heard this as she walked into the kitchen. “The stupid bumpkin fell and broke her ankle. But we shall make do, shan’t we? What is family for, if not to help out in a situation like this? Do be a darling Franco, and open up some bottles of wine for me, won’t you?” Maria Rosa smiled genuinely for the first time that evening. “And Marta, could you turn the oven on for me? I have puff pastry that needs to come out in about, oh twenty minutes.”

“Oh Maria Rosa, we’ll be glad to help. Come on Raffaele, what is family for?” They both metaphorically rolled up their sleeves and popped wine bottles and filled trays with food. 
     The guests, a predictable mix of middle-aged women with necklines that plunged to their wobbling bellybuttons and their greying husbands wearing big gold Rolex or Baume and Mercier watches, trickled in. Soon the living room and dining room were filled with smoke and chatter and the occasional chortle from Maria Rosa sounding above everything. Raffaele and Marta smiled at these old acquaintances and conversed amiably. Some of the women offered to help Maria Rosa clear and the men would take the bottles Raffaele had opened, and go around the room pouring wine for the ladies. It was a lovely party, and everyone was mixing quite delightfully.

     “Did you make this bread, this piadina?” an older woman with a high neckline and very little jewellery, asked Marta in the kitchen. She was helping Marta prepare a new tray of food.

“Oh no, I really am not very good at making it.”

“Such a pity, I was so looking forward to finding out how it is done.” 
        The woman smiled at Marta, with that openness in the eyes that surfaces, when you meet someone for the first time and you just really like each other immediately. Click! Marta started to explain the recipe and the rolling pin and terracotta “pan,” while the woman took out a cigarette case and lit up. She offered Marta a cigarette as well, and for the first time in two days, Marta lit up, too. The ladies became so engrossed in their conversation that they ended up moving to the little room off the kitchen, where they opened the window for some fresh air and sat and chatted.

Maria Rosa appeared in the doorway. “Marta, you know what I said about smoking in this room,” she intoned with icy sweetness. As Maria Rosa advanced into the room and saw her Countess guest smoking, she quickly added: “Don’t tell the children!” laughing as she glided back into the kitchen and put together a tray of food that she personally took out to the dining room.

“Raffaele!” Maria Rosa whispered with her eyes at her husband across the room. “Raffaele, come here now!” read the darts she shot into his pupils. Raffaele made his way across the room and asked if there was something she needed.

          “Yes. Guess who your sister is talking to?”

“Her husband?”

“No, the Countess Gamba Guiccioli. In the maid's room. Go see if you can free the poor countess. I am sure she’s just being polite and must be bored to tears.”

When Raffaele arrived, he found Franco in there as well, smoking his pipe and listening to the two ladies chatting.

“Oh, Adriana, I see you’ve met my sister and brother-in-law. Here, let me freshen up your drink.”

“Oh no, I’m fine thank you. This is such a lovely party: there are so many nice people here.”

“Oh, have you met Egisto Morigia? He is one of my closest friends and I believe he shares your interest in horses. Really, you must come and let me introduce you. Here Franco, why don’t I turn the television on for you? They’re showing one of those old black and white movies you’re so crazy about.”

The Countess Adriana Gamba Guiccioli turned to Marta and winced as she rose and said: “It was such a delight to meet you. If you’re ever out driving around Northern Tuscany, do drop by the vineyard; I’m almost always there someplace, up to my patootie in mud.”

Raffaele could hardly believe his ears. Well, there was no accounting for people’s taste. The Countess was probably just being kind.

      “Franco, do you think we could leave right after midnight? I’d like to get an early start, driving back to Verona tomorrow.”

Franco turned the television off and nodded his assent. “Let’s eat.”

The rest of the guests were certainly polite, a little flashy but civil. Adriana winked once at Marta from across the room and rolled her eyes ever so slightly. Marta realized Adriana was in need and sidled her way across the room to the rescue, only to be headed off by her sister-in-law.

“Marta, I’ve hardly had the chance to talk with you.”

“Oh Maria Rosa, I understand. You have a party and should talk to everyone. Please don’t worry about me. I am family. Is there anything . . .”

Marta had no time to finish her offer to help when Maria Rosa gave Marta a list of things to do, the last of which was to turn the lights on outside and open the doors so the guests could go into the garden at ten minutes to twelve.

        “Okay everybody, it’s time to light the bonfire.” Maria Rosa appeared in the smoky living room in a silver fox bolero and gloves, a silk scarf tied around her head with a chic knot. The guests eventually made it to the backyard after the gay confusion of getting their coats from Franco, who was bringing the cloaks from the bedroom. Some of the guests were holding small shopping bags from the better boutiques in town.

TEN, NINE, EIGHT, SEVEN, SIX, FIVE, FOUR THREE, TWO, ONE!

       Bells and horns went off in the distance behind the sound of champagne bottles being popped to the New Year. General kissing ensued and the people who were eating twelve, grapes, one for each month of the year to come, wished for what they wanted each month in the New Year.

December 31, 1974

	Franco	Maria Rosa	Raffaele	Marta
January	A long weekend skiing	Two weeks in Cortina skiing	A new client	Finish knitting  her new cashmere sweater
February	A successful union contract negotiation	That Pomellato carnelian pendant for Valentine’s day	A discount on the new orders	No snow in town. Mild weather
March	A new motor for his boat	Three weeks in Cortina	Two new clients	The crocus bulbs to come up before her neighbours’.
April	A long weekend sailing	An invitation from the Countess to visit her in Tuscany over the Easter holidays	Enough money to pay off the line of credit	The azaleas in bloom
May	Two long weekends sailing	Enough sun to get a good base tan	A new line of credit	A long weekend in Capri with Franco
June	A week in Sardinia sailing	A week in Sardinia without her husband	Maria Rosa in Sardinia for a week	High marks for Dario’s high school board exams
July	Dario pass his high school boards	Mario pass his school boards	Mario pass his high school boards	Dario pass his high school boards
August	Three weeks sailing in the Aegean	A month in Sardinia, at a really good hotel	Enough money to pay for the month in Sardinia	Three weeks sailing in the Aegean with her husband, alone
September	A new client or two	A long weekend in Milan to shop for her new wardrobe	Rental of a little apartment at Lido Adriano	Dario moves out to go to the University
October	A long weekend hunting	A rubber and gold bracelet for her birthday	The Hungarian  girl to arrive	Sunny days while getting the garden ready for winter
November	Three long weekends hunting	A long weekend in Milan - alone	Maria Rosa and the children leave for the long weekend of the Dead.	A case of Beaujolais nouveau
December	Not to have to come back to another party like this.	Sables	A Cartier Tank watch	Christmas at home in Verona without her brother

          Raffaele bent over to light the bottom of the bonfire. Maria Rosa got her guests’ attention.

          “I’d like to revive an old custom tonight. As you all know, the farmers used to build bonfires to ward off the evil spirits from the previous year, and to dispel those evil spirits absolutely, they would throw something from the past year into the fire to make it burn all the brighter. The greater the value, the better an omen it was for the year to come.”
     With a dramatic flourish, Maria Rosa gracefully slipped the scarf from her head and flung it into the flames, her earrings dangling brightly before the fire. Marta quickly turned to Franco and whispered:

“That’s the Hermes scarf she asked us to give her for Christmas.”

The gossamer silken veil was born skyward by the fire and ignited brilliantly across the nighttime sky.

“Well honey, we know what to give her next year. Don’t worry.”

Raffaele made his way over to Franco.

“And what are you going to get rid of?”

“Oh Raffaele, I completely forgot, and anyway, I have no real regrets over 1975. So . . . “

“Oh come on Franco don’t, you have to throw something in? How about this ratty old handkerchief in your coat pocket?”

With a boyishly quick flip of his hand, Raffaele snatched the handkerchief from Franco’s pocket and flung it into the flames. Once again the silk was buoyed high into the air and burned like a saint being consumed by fire as he was lifted from martyrdom to heaven.

“Raffaele, you really shouldn’t have done that. That was a present . . .”

“Oh Franco, where’s your party spirit? Come Marta, you must throw something in as well.”

Marta reached into her pocketbook before Raffaele could get near her, grabbed a bundle, and threw it into the flames.

“There, are you happy? Now I have gotten rid of something that I really didn’t like and don’t want anymore. Now it’s your turn.”

        But Raffaele had disappeared into the crowd. Adriana came up to Marta: “I’m getting a terrible headache. Do you have any aspirin?”

“No, but follow me. I know where to find some. Come on.”

They made their way back into the house into the master bedroom, which was equipped with two bathrooms, one for Maria Rosa and one for Raffaele. The door to Maria Rosa’s was open and Marta opened the cabinets to get an aspirin.

“Here you are Adriana, that should . . .”

Suddenly Maria Rosa appeared. “What are you doing in my bathroom?”

“I was just getting Adriana ....”

“I don’t care. Who do you think you are? The Mistress of the House?” Maria Rosa exclaimed with an acid sneer.

At this point, Franco appeared. He had heard everything.

“Now Maria Rosa, everything is under control, I’m sure Marta wouldn’t . . .”

“Wouldn’t what?”

“Wouldn’t want to create an unpleasant scene in front of your guests. Adriana, it was such a pleasure to meet you. Maria Rosa, thank you for the lovely party. Do tell Raffaele we had to leave and didn’t want to disturb him and your other guests. Marta, shall we go?”

Marta handed Adriana the blister pack of aspirin and they left quietly. They got in the car and drove back to Marta’s mother’s home. They were too hurt and upset even to speak about their New Year’s Eve. They went to bed, got up the next morning, breakfasted with Marta’s mother and left for Verona by nine o’clock.

       After they had passed the Castel Bolognese tollbooth, Marta turned to look at the countryside iced around its yellow farm buildings.

“Well Franco, what do you suggest we give Maria Rosa the next time a present is expected? I’m certainly not spending fifty thousand lire for a silk scarf she wears one night and throws into the fire. I’ll never have that much money.”

“Marta, now, we must be perfect ladies and gentlemen. We shall write Maria Rosa a note explaining that we have decided not to give material gifts anymore, but we will be delighted to make an anonymous donation to her favourite charity.”

“She never answers our letters, you know that.”

“In that case, we shall make no donation. Anyway, what was it you threw into the bonfire? I was so irked Raffaele snatched that handkerchief Aunt Susanna gave me out of my pocket. I certainly didn’t want to burn it as a bad omen or a good one.”

“Oh, there’s something that we shall be rid of forever, I hope.”

“Well, what was it?”

“The keys to Raffaele’s house. After they got married I used to water their plants when they travelled and they just told me to hold on to the keys. It was more convenient for them.”

“You mean we’re free?”

“Oh, yes. I know Raffaele is my brother, but after last night, well, what the eye does not see the heart doesn't grieve over. If we see them at weddings and funerals that should certainly be more than enough.”

And they all lived happily ever after.

December 26, 1998

Saint Stephen's Day

     If Amerigo had known how to play cards, he might not be drinking quite so heavily, but his short-term memory had never been strong enough to remember every card that each person been played in every hand. Razor sharp recall was the key to enjoying snipe: hearts with a forty-card deck. Everybody who played snipe well not only silently registered what each person had played in the first two hands, they also consequentially knew which cards each person was holding from the third hand on. Each player at the table was just waiting for the opposing couple to make a mistake so they could take advantage of the luck of their draw. Amerigo had never managed to store that much calculated malice in his heart.

     After a big midday dinner at his sister’s house in Faenza, he had driven across the greige landscape back to Boncellino. Gnarled peach trees clung to rusted wires in hieratic dance against the backdrop of the flat plain. It was so cold and foggy he drove straight to the osteria and didn’t bother to park his car at home and get on his bike. He wanted another glass of wine. It was Saint Stephen’s Day, after all.

     On the other side of the steamy panes on the doors, a small knot of friends always sat at the 12-foot table near the entrance. Today they greeted him with the ironically cheerful Romagnolo man’s greeting of “May you get a tumor!” and wishes for a Happy Saint Stephen’s. Amerigo smiled gently and lifted to his lips one of the glasses of wine offered him, before taking off his coat to sit down.      There was Vittorio from Trieste. A certain air of the Ottoman Empire clung to him with his white hair slicked back and three gold rings, he was always the best-groomed man in the osteria. Vittorio’s friend Giannino had offered Amerigo the wine. Giannino used to work at the market selling vegetables and his wife was only too glad to have him out from under her feet for the three or four hours a day he spent at the osteria. Finally, there was Nedo who was starting to lose his mind. Indeed, the only thing that kept Nedo lucid at all was a round of snipe, at which he was infallible. Thirty years of winning at cards after his first twenty years spent losing money to cards, had taught Nedo something about gaming. A newcomer called Gennaro was playing with them, a long-haired young man from Naples in a baggy sweater who was waiting for friends to arrive at the osteria d’la Gramadora.

     The Gramadora was the least expensive place (and only place) you could get wine in the tiny village. Good wine, too. Not something refined that needed to breathe: just hearty Sangiovese which was never around long enough to accumulate sediment, tangy Trebbiano that smelled like the farmyard when it was really genuine, and the occasional soft glass of sweet Albana, just right for a piece of ciambella, the homemade cake which the Florentines turned into cantuccini. The men never left the osteria in the evening without a rubber corked, two-liter bottle of wine to put on the kitchen table and have with dinner. The wine was like them, nothing fancy and no pretences, neither divine nor devilish, but good enough for government work. 

     After the welcomes died down Amerigo sat and stared at his glass of Sangiovese while the four men at his table flung their cards on the table, dragged them to the center of the game, and rapped the rough, wine stained wooden table with their knuckles. What was the use of cards anyway? You just lost and lost or won and lost.   What was the use of any of it, anyway? It was all just luck. Luck!   What a stupid word!

     It had been three years since Amerigo’s Sinhalese wife Violy had passed away; they’d been married for just six months. At sixty-two, Amerigo had finally found a woman he wanted and he just as promptly lost her. Everyone said it was just bad luck, and although Amerigo couldn’t reconcile himself to luck, he couldn’t imagine what could have been the possible cause. He couldn’t wrap his brain around what had happened to them.

     In the decades previous, Amerigo had never found a wife because he had never really looked very hard. He’d started cooking during his military service and when he was discharged, he kept cooking and worked his way up from one restaurant to another and thence to the grand seaside hotels where the real money was to be made and women swarmed like bees around wisteria. In the last thirty years Amerigo had presided over the kitchens at every major event held in the better seaside hotels, grilling meat, adjusting sauces, preparing fish. His healthy red cheeks were the result of the kitchen flames, and though he had never been a real looker, Amerigo was a handsomely soft-spoken man who wouldn’t be rude to a chicken. He had given up chasing after the waitresses about twenty years ago, when he hit forty. He used to catch them and when he was finished with them, he didn’t know what to do with them. He certainly didn’t want to get married back then.

     A last-minute, reduced fare trip to Sri Lanka changed his destiny.

     Vittorio had just won the hand and was beaming.

     “Amerigo! When are we going to get together and cook us all up a big meal? How about New Year’s Eve? We can invite our wives and have a big fish grill, what do you say?”

     Amerigo drained his glass and smiled. “Well, if someone else’ll do all the marketing, I think I could do that.” He really wasn’t interested. All he wanted was Violy back. Violy, poor thin dark-skinned Violy whom he had watched waste away down to 39 pounds in the hospital. Her Singhalese brothers came and bore her body away from him to a sepulcher by the sea in Colombo. He didn’t even have a tomb to visit. Amerigo could still see Violy’s eyes looking at him, imploring him for compassion while he was giving her all the devotion and assistance possible. For months he slept on a cot beside her bed at the hospital. He spent hours talking with the doctors and nurses, and then hurried minutes on expensive phone calls with her brothers. Their lives had been a vale of tears. Now, what was he left with?

     Nothing. A monthly pension check, a house of his own, a car, and a bicycle. They weren’t enough. All Amerigo could think about was Violy.

     A group of twenty-somethings suddenly opened the door and piled into the room, taking off their coats and ordering wine. They were brash and loud and there were girls with them: Gennaro’s friends. In most other situations with old men, they would not have been welcome, but not here. Osterias were one of the few places in Romagna where social interaction was free and uninhibited: this ongoing community of people (almost exclusively men,) was founded on respect for your fellow citizens, and it was one of the few places in Italy where such a system worked. Everything was above board. You could see people take money; you could see people put money in. You could see who paid the utility bill and who bought the wine. When you came in the door, you were welcome on just one condition: you spoke with consideration for other people’s opinions and acted with courtesy for other people’s presence. The whitewashed wall of the room had but one sign painted in blocky black letters: “Courtesy and respect are the pilasters of civility.”

     The old men sitting around playing cards looked up at the knot of people and smiled. They liked having a little bit of life in the osteria, and looking at the pretty girls didn’t hurt their eyes, either. Two young men were observing Vittorio and Nedo and Giannino and Gennaro’s current card game and Amerigo poured them two glasses of wine from his carafe. In no time, everyone was talking and drinking, people were asking for food (and there was none because no one had bought any and the kitchen was not kept stocked). It was only five pm however, and really a little early for dinner especially after eating all those leftovers from Christmas. A piadina with some ham on it would have done everyone fine, but there was none to be had.

     “Why don’t we play a round of Saint Stephen’s bingo?” asked Gennaro.

     “Bingo? There’s a set of boards and numbers back between the kitchen and the bathroom if you want to get it out and organize it.”

The two girls giggled. They’d take care of everything with the help of another old man sitting there with his half liter of wine in front of him and his hat on his head; the girls came back into the room with the numbered boards and pebbles in a big jar with a ballpoint picture of skull and crossbones taped across it. Valeria grabbed the cash box and then went around the whole osteria asking people how many bingo cards they wanted. Each person took one to five of the numbered cards and threw some coins into the cashbox. Then, based on the number of cards they had taken, Flavia scooped out a handful of pebbles and laid it on the table in front of them.

Valeria came to Amerigo: “Well, how many cards do you want?”

     “Oh, thank you, poor girl, but I don’t play cards.

     “Well, it’s not exactly cards. It’s just a game of Bingo.”

     Vittorio turned to him and said: “Oh Amerigo, come on. You can play this game, we’ll all play it. It’s St. Stephen’s Day, and who knows, you might lose! The winner pays for everyone to drink: you know how we do things here. Come on!”

     Valeria looked down at Amerigo. His eyes were watery but he had a good head of hair and a healthy, florid complexion. Melancholy wandered around his blank stare over the wine glass he was drinking from. She sat down beside him and put her hand on his shoulder. He looked clean enough, and a little sad.

     “Oh, come on, you can play one card, can’t you?” She smiled at him, winked at him, and squeezed his shoulder. “What’s your name?”

     Amerigo looked slowly at the girl. She really wasn’t very pretty, big at the hips and with frizzy red hair and freckles. However, when she smiled and winked at him, he answered: “Amerigo.”

     “Vespucci? Well, I can’t imagine someone who named the New World isn’t adventuresome enough to play bingo. Now, how many cards?” Valeria fanned out the remaining twenty cards and Amerigo reached up and pulled out two. He dropped some money in her box and when Flavia placed the pebbles on the table in front of him, Valeria squeezed his hand.

     “Well, let’s just hope you have to buy us all a round of Sangiovese!”

     “Well that might not be the case; after all I’m not lucky at cards: that’s why I don’t play.”

     Vittorio turned to Amerigo and said: “Well, you got someone’s attention! There’s some life left in the old dog, yet.”

     Amerigo turned and smiled weakly. “Not much.”

     Gennaro took up a space at the end of the table started to shout:

     “Now, let’s begin.”

     The guys and girls and men sat at the long tables with their wine glasses and cards laid out in front of them. Flavia was the prettiest girl, with long blond hair and a good figure; she spun the little cage of numbered marbles around and extracted them one by one. Her boyfriend Gennaro read out the numbers and illustrated them verbally according to the Neapolitan Book of Dream Interpretation: an image or a concept was associated with every number from 1 to 90 and Gennaro knew them all by heart. Valeria nudged her way between Amerigo and Vittorio and laid her five cards out in front of her.

     “This is going to be fun!”

     “Eighteen! Blood! The Blood of Saint Giovese, poured out for all who drink red wine.”

     “Forty-Three. The Lady at the Balcony looking for … we know what!”

     Amerigo thought of the first time he had seen Violy standing on the rooftop terrace of his hotel, looking down at him as he walked into the lobby. He didn’t see the 43.

     “Amerigo, aren’t you going to block off your 43? Fourth line down.”

     Valeria reached her hand over to put a pebble on the 43 for Amerigo.

     “Sixty-seven. The Squid in the Guitar. That’s one I have never figured out”

     “Nineteen – Laughter. Time for a joke. There are three ways men learn. Some learn by reading. Some learn by listening. But most of us learn by pissing into the electrical outlet.”

The whole osteria burst into laughter, number nineteen on the board. Even Amerigo forgot about Violy for a minute, and downed his glass of red wine.

     “Sixty-three: The bride.”

     It all came back to Amerigo. Violy standing there in the outdoor chapel in Colombo, her petite body in a lovely white linen dress with a matching jacket she had embroidered herself. It was the same dress she wore in the coffin he closed at the mortuary chapel two years ago.

     “Eleven: Rats, Big Black Mother fuckin’ rats, with titties this big! There ain’t no swear word or dirty word that begins with “R,” so I just have to do my best to keep things lively.

     “Twenty-five Christmas – just 364 days to go”

     “Ninety.” Gennaro was hushed for a moment. Then he slowly bent down to the floor and suddenly jumped up screaming at the top of his lung: “Fear! FEAR! FEAR! That’s the last of the numbers: Fear! But what are we afraid of? What will the oracle of the numbers tell us tonight?”

     At this, Gennaro reached into the cage with the numbered marbles in it himself, closing his eyes. When he opened them, he laughed and announced:

     “Thirty-eight: a drubbing! Yeah, well that’s a good reason to be scared shitless! So, everyone be careful when you leave the osteria together this evening ’cause we don’t want no one getting beat up on Saint Stephen’s day, now do we? Or even worse, we could get stoned, with real stones! That would be a piece of work.”

Gennaro read out each number and the players scoured their cards and placed pebbles on the numbers they had. People were soon looking at each other’s cards and mumbling about what they needed. It was one of the rare times when Romagnols would actually converse with people they did not know.

     “Three in a row! We’ve got three in a row!” yelled Valeria. She smoothed down the front of her cashmere sweater so that her shapely plump breasts popped up as she read out the numbers Amerigo had:

     “Twenty-five, forty-three, thirty-eight!”

     “That’s it. Okay Valeria. You have to pay for a liter of sparkling wine.”

     “Not me, Amerigo does. Shall I do you the honors?”

     Amerigo stared out of his depression and said yes.

     Valeria walked up to the box, took some money out, and went over to the man who tapped the wine from casks into the carafes. She took the bottle from the man and gave him the money, which he promptly put back into the box she had taken it from and handed the bottle back to her. She walked over to Amerigo and Vittorio, filled their glasses, and then placed the carafe on the table and went back to her seat and continued the game.

     “29 – The Father of the Family: Pappy, Babbo, whatever you want to call him.”

     Amerigo teared up. Violy, Violy had wanted children, children by him. Amerigo had wanted a son too and despite his somewhat advanced age, his own fertility had not been a problem. Violy stopped menstruating soon after reaching Boncellino and when she was into her second month, she claimed she felt something deep within her womb. Amerigo had gone out and bought her a beautiful delicate gold bracelet, and they went to the doctor together. But Violy was not pregnant. The hormones indicated that she was still ovulating. What was the matter?

     “62 – The Murdered Corpse”

     Amerigo completely lost track of the game of Bingo. He saw     Violy’s corpse, a wizened scarecrow lost in the folds of white linen she had worn on their wedding day. Amerigo could not stop looking at her, he could not blink, and he couldn’t even think that she was dead. But she was.

     57 – The hunchback

     The weight of the grief bowed him over that day.

     81 – Flowers

     The white lilies she had asked for, the white lilies she had carried on their wedding day. The white lilies he had given her with the bracelet the day he thought she was pregnant. Life, life was so awful.

     “Five in a row!” Valeria screamed again. “Amerigo, you’re lucky I’m here to keep an eye on your cards. Here are the numbers: thirty-eight, forty-three, sixty-two, eighty-one, ninety. It looks like you’re going to pay for us to drink again Amerigo. What will it be this time?”

     Amerigo smiled wanly and said: “You go ahead and pick whatever you want. I’m sure that’ll do me fine.”

Valeria went to the cash box, withdrew a sum, and gave it to the man at the taps who poured out two carafes of Trebbiano this time. Valeria came right up to Amerigo and poured out a glass for him to start with. Then she handed the carafe to Vittorio who helped himself and passed it on around the room.

     Gennaro began with the numbers again.

     Seven– the vase.

     Valeria had this one. A vase for flowers and Amerigo thought about the vase on Violy’s empty tomb at his family’s plot at the cemetery in Faenza. He put fresh white chrysanthemums in it each week.

     Fourteen – the drunkard

     General hilarity ensued from this. “Let’s all put a pebble on our heads! We can just go ahead and concede this one to everybody. This game must be written in the stars. Valeria looked at Amerigo and raised her glass: “We can at least drink to the others, now can’t we?” Amerigo smiled piteously and knocked back his Trebbiano.

     “Fifty-five – the old man,” shrieked Gennaro.” None of them here, that’s for sure.”

     Valeria reached over and placed a pebble on Amerigo’s 55. “You’ve not missed a single number he’s called out! I can hardly believe it.”

     “Well, I suppose it would be ironic if I didn’t have the old man since that is what I am, isn’t it?” This time Amerigo did smile at his own irony, because it was his irony and not someone else’s at his expense.

     Seventy-two – Wonderment

     “And you’ve got that one, too! It is a wonder.”

     “Forty-two – coffee,” and “I could use some of that in about an hour or so.”

     “Eight – The Madonna,” and all the old men reached down and touched their left testicles with discretion, warding off any bad luck she might bring. After all, look what happened to her son!

     “Eighty-six – the shop,” Flavia spun the cage Domemico reached into it again saying he would need something spicy now.

     “Thirty – the lieutenant’s balls! I suppose that might make the girls happy!”

     The girls all booed him in unison and he reached into the cage again, saying: “let's see what kind of ball I get this time.”

     “Fifty-one – the garden!”

       Valeria looked at Vittorio on the other side of her. Although Amerigo was certainly clean, Vittorio was well put together. He was nothing like she would be interested in with his pomaded hair and diamond rings, but he was someone who took care of himself and smiled through his smoke at her.

     “32 – The Sturgeon, and caviar for everyone!”

     Vittorio turned to Valeria and said: “Well signorina, I’ll let you have mine. I never did like eggs of any kind – even in noodles.

     12 - Soldiers

     At this, a groaned hush fell over the older men. They had all been soldiers. They all knew what real violence and hate and tragedy were, something all soldiers in every war have seen. The young lions didn’t pick up on it. 

     Valeria quickly looked at her own cards and then looked at Amerigo’s and kept covering the numbers Gennaro called out with pebbles on the little boards. Gennaro regaled them with little Neapolitan tales for each of the numbers, each with its significance and image. Most of the old men were acquainted each number since their wives used the same book with numbers associated with images from their dreams to play the nationalized numbers game. The old guys were all wearing their hats and laughing jovially, slapping each other on the back and cursing more blasphemously than stevedores. The twenty-somethings were drinking a fair amount and having a good time as well. It didn’t get much cheaper than this for going out in the wintertime. There was also something politically appealing about going to the Socialist Osteria since most of the younger people leaned to the left, to the Communist (or even Republican) party. Smoke rose from the tables as did laughter and an occasional shout.

     Amerigo was lost. Completely at sea in his mind, wallowing in his mourning and misery, unable to come up for air. He only managed to come up for red wine. The succession of numbers and their images at the beginning of the game were unfortunate, for the ones that followed would not have reminded him of Violy in any manner. However, it was too late, the luck of the draw was the luck of the draw, and not all luck is good.

     
     Valeria kept busy covering his numbers and hers and she suddenly jumped up and screamed “Bingo! Amerigo’s won!” She reached over and pulled up his limp arm to indicate he was the victor. The young people chanted “Amerigo! Amerigo! Amerigo! Pay for our wine! Pay for our wine! Pay for our wine!”

     Amerigo was unmoved. What was the use of it anyway? Valeria turned to him and said: “Well, it’s your turn again to pay for everyone to drink with the spoils of your gambling! You’re going to make everybody happy! I can’t believe you won the three in a row, the five in a row and then the whole bingo card on the same card. Do you know what the likelihood of that happening is? Just like a million to one. What luck!”

     “Luck, some kind of luck.” Amerigo responded. “I don’t know what to do with this kind of luck.”

     “Oh, I do. You can pay for all of us to drink!  I’ll help you, don’t worry. You poor thing: you’re so lucky at cards I’ll just bet you’re unlucky at love, handsome as you are.”

     
      Amerigo’s friends’ heads all twitched as he looked up at Valeria. She immediately sensed she had done something wrong but she had no idea what. She bent over Amerigo, smiled, and tried to get him to stand up. A tiny blood vessel burst in Amerigo’s brain and he suffered a minute stroke in the courtesy and respect sector of his cerebrum. It was very small and just enough to stun him for a second. He stood up by himself.

     “Let go of me, you fucking sodden mass of offal-dripping sow!”

     Valeria’s friends gasped. Vittorio tried to change the subject:     “Amerigo. You should go get your winnings. You did win!”

Amerigo walked over to the wooden box, asked how much he had won and Gennaro shouted out twenty-thousand lire from across the room. Amerigo slowly counted out the 1,000 lire bills in his hand and then turned around to face everybody.

     “May you all get tumors. Every one of you. Luck! Huh! Luck! My luck even prevents me from wanting to be nice. Get some nice big tumors on your asses, bleeding tumors on your wives’ faces and deadly crippling tumors in your children’s hearts. Then laugh!”

Amerigo uttered a short chortle, wadded the cash up, and pushed it into his coat pocket. He stopped by the door to put his hat on and walked out into the darkness.  At least, that’s what everyone glibly pretended in the osteria as he closed the door. No one wanted to admit he had been walking in darkness for the last two years.

     Valeria burst into tears. Flavia stood by the bingo pebbles, pouted and motioned to leave. Gennaro walked around the room and collected the bingo cards while one of his friends put the pebbles back into the jar. This part of the afternoon was ruined for the young lions; the old dinosaurs just ordered another carafe of red and sat down to play cards again. Amerigo sat silently in his cold car, slumped across the wheel, tears running down his face. There was no consoling him. There never would be.

     Vittorio tried to calm Valeria down inside the osteria. He explained Amerigo’s story, he explained how she could not have known, and he explained that she should not feel bad, but she felt terrible all the same.

     
     “Isn’t there something I can do?”

     “No, poor thing, there’s nothing to do. You can’t give him back his Violy, and he doesn’t want another woman. That’s the hard luck of hard luck when you’re old. He’ll never get over it. We all got our drubbing tonight; we were lucky it wasn’t a really vicious one.”

Vittorio smiled at her, proudly displaying his two even rows of perfect teeth. “See these? They’re all porcelain. Do you know why? The Nazis pulled them out of my head, one by one when I was twenty years old in Trieste. Because I had been to a Chinese wedding and the bride told me to wear a red boutonniere to the reception, for that is Chinese luck. My luck was that the Fascists interpreted it as a secret symbol of the Communist Party. Combine ignorance with luck and the result is usually pointless and painful. You see, at least I had a lot of future in front of me. The future helped me get over that torture and luck. Oh and don’t ask me anymore about it!”

     “Go on home, poor star. You come back another day and put this afternoon behind you. There’s no use dwelling on your mistakes and pains in the past, when you have the rest of a long life in front of you.”

     Vittorio stood up and announced: “Who wants to play a game of snipe with me? I think we’ve probably had enough Bingo for the year! Bingo! What kind of game is that anyway? For pimps and pussies! Bingo’s all pure coincidence, and the only thing you have to do is pay attention. Luck! Hah! Luck! Now snipe, that’s something different.  There’s a question of luck, but you have to play the hand that’s dealt you, and if you know what you’re doing, you can cut your losses and increase your gains.”

     Vittorio turned to Valeria and finished saying what he had on his mind.

     “But mainly, when you play snipe you pay attention and talk and drink wine and you realize your luck ain’t so bad. Especially if you can keep playing even when your friends wish you real tumors. Now, come on!” 

     Valeria sat down across from Vittorio. “Well, will you teach me? I can play ‘War’ and I can play ‘Hearts’; that should be a start for learning to play snipe, shouldn’t it?”

     Vittorio smiled across the table at her and winked at      Nedo. “Well, this is going to take some patience too, but we’ll give it a try. You’re going need some patience and when we tell you go get buttfucked with a gritty spinning distaff, you have to play out the end of the game before you leave. Do you think you can do that?”

     Giannino who had also sat down to play against Vittorio and Valeria, smiled and looked at her with a slight grimace. This would take a lot of patience. Giannino winked at Valeria, rapped his knuckles on the table, and grabbed Valeria and Vittorio by their elbows.

     “May you both get tumors the size of sugar beets! Now, deal those cards Vittorio and watch me lose my luck with dignity.”