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“— very likely to get Angelo in a lot of trouble if he uses it,” Sister Dimples warns.
Stefania holds up her doll and whispers. Renzo brings his ear closer to her mouth. Stefania repeats something almost inaudibly. “I am requested to tell Suora that Antoinette is also from Austria.”
Word by word, with frequent asides to Angelo and the nun, Renzo draws the little girl out. As the conversation progresses, infant allegiance to her mother tongue begins to loosen and it becomes clear that she understands more Italian than she’s been willing to admit. Gradually, Renzo brings the questioning around to the painful topic of parents. All he can get from Stefania is “They went away.”
Angelo, by contrast, is voluble on the topic, hurt and angry that his parents haven’t visited either. “Angelo,” Renzo reminds him, “I told you— your babbo can’t come yet. He’s locked up, but he’s in a safe place—”
“Well, you should just go and get him out!”
Above the starched white collar, Renzo’s eyes rise to meet Suora Corniglia’s. “It’s not that simple, Angelo.”
Abruptly, Renzo lifts Stefania off his lap, plunks her onto the bench, and limps toward a bicycle leaning against the monastery wall. Between grief and grievance, Angelo stares open-mouthed at his neighbor’s back. Just as stu
As if in answer, Renzo stops and takes a deep breath, willing the fun back into his face. “But wait! I almost forgot!”
Drawing something from a rucksack draped over the handlebars, he returns, hands concealed behind his back. “Which?” he asks. Angelo points to his right. Crestfallen, Renzo moans his dismay. “Too bad! I thought you’d like to have this.”
He reveals a left-handed miracle: an orange. Horror-stricken at having guessed wrong, Angelo’s face falls. Renzo lets him suffer for an instant before tossing it. The fruit, heavy with juice, drops into Angelo’s palm with a thwack, and he tears the peel like a ravening wolf. “Share it with Stefania!” Renzo orders.
Angelo rips the fruit in half and hands Stefania her portion. With the bliss of a soul ascending directly to heaven, the little boy bites into a segment and staggers with pleasure as the juice slides over his chin. Stefania may never have seen an orange before, but the item is demonstrably edible, and she too stuffs orange segments into her mouth, one after the other.
“Suora Corniglia,” Renzo says sternly, “you’ve neglected the subject of table ma
Suddenly dizzy, the nun closes her eyes, but summons enough presence of mind to say, “In my defense, there is very little for us to practice on.”
“Sit,” he says quietly. “Put your head down.” She leans over, and hears his footsteps as he walks to the bicycle and back. “Drink this,” he says, handing her a silver flask. She shakes her head. “Don’t argue,” he says, “unless you fancy me carrying you back to the convent.”
Hesitantly, she takes a swallow, coughs, eyes tearing, and hands the flask back. He takes a healthy swallow himself and sits next to her. “There is a special place in hell for the man who invented bicycles,” he says, massaging his knees. Tucking the flask away, he rummages in his pack, produces a second orange, and digs his nails into the peel. The world contracts to the size of the fruit in his hand. She stares, motionless, struggling to keep her head clear. “Eat this,” he says. “Now.”
She does as she’s told. The juice is acid and sweet. When it hits her stomach, she retches. He hands her a canteen of water from his rucksack. This time, she drinks deep. Then she finishes the orange.
He makes the children drink as well, and when they’re done, he folds his handkerchief to a fairly clean spot, wetting white linen with the last of the water. Feinting left, he anticipates Angelo’s dodge to the right. Doing the same for Stefania, Renzo says, “Let’s see if the sisters have done a better job with your religious lessons than with your table ma
Angelo rolls his eyes at how easy this is. “Adamo and Eva!”
“And when were Adamo and Eva created?” Renzo asks, busily cleaning juice from Stefania’s fingers.
Angelo cries, “On the sixth day!”
“Right. And what happened next?” Renzo asks cagily.
Staggered by this evident contempt for his biblical acumen, Angelo yells, “God rested!” with a great show of exasperation.
“Wrong!” Renzo yells back triumphantly. Suora Corniglia blinks, and Angelo scowls. “God rested on the seventh day,” Renzo admits, handing Corniglia the damp handkerchief, “but what happened before that?” Silence reigns. “Before the evening of the sixth day,” he informs them patiently, “there was the sixth afternoon! And what happened on the sixth afternoon?”
Wiping her fingers and refolding his handkerchief neatly, Suora Corniglia bats her eyelashes in a parody of flirtation. “Do tell, Padre! We are breathless with anticipation!”
“I should think you would be,” he says huffily. “On the sixth afternoon, Adamo and Eva and the animals were all sitting around in Eden enjoying the lovely weather when something strange happened.” He pauses dramatically. “The big round yellow light up in the blue place—”
“The sun!” Angelo hollers. “In the sky!”
“Well, you know that, but Adamo and Eva had just been created, remember, and hardly anything had a name, and they didn’t know how anything worked! So when the big yellow thing started slipping down the blue place toward all that green stuff, Adamo wondered, ‘Why is the big yellow thing doing that?’ Eva said, ‘You’re asking me? I just got here myself.’ So Adamo asked the animals, ‘Why isn’t the big round yellow thing sticking up there in the blue place?’ And the animals said, ‘We were hoping you’d tell us!’ ”
“Except,” Suora Corniglia breaks in, “there was one little mouse who just looked at her feet and said, ‘Isma glai!’ ”
Stefania giggles, a tiny silvery sound, and lies back against the black worsted cassock, relaxing into the story. “The big round yellow thing disappeared,” Renzo continues, pulling Angelo onto the bench. “Eden got dark and chilly. Adamo and Eva and the animals were all cuddled up to keep warm, just like this. Santo cielo!” he cries wickedly. “No one is cuddling with Suora Corniglia!”
“Grazie, Padre,” she says smoothly. “I am quite warm enough!”
“Are you sure?” he asks. “Because I’d be happy to—” Stefania tugs the crucifix hanging around his neck and whispers something. “You’re right. I’ll finish the story. So there they were, all cuddled up. Adamo said, ‘I wish God had let us keep that big round yellow thing.’ But Eva said, ‘Well, those new little twinkly things are pretty, too.’ ”
“Stelle,” Stefania whispers.
“Stars! Exactly! But nobody knew that then. One by one, the animals went to sleep. Adamo whispered, ‘What a lot of trouble for God, making that big yellow thing for such a short time.’ But Eva said, ‘He’s the Boss.’ ” Renzo’s tone changes. “What do you think happened next?”
“The sun came back!” Angelo yells.
“The sun came up! The animals stretched and started walking around, mooing, and roaring, and so on. Adamo said, ‘Look, Eva! God made another big round yellow thing, but this time He put it over on the other side of the garden!’ ” Renzo lifts Stefania from his knee, his fingertips meeting across her little back. “What do you think, Stefania? Does God make a new sun every morning?”
She looks at her feet. “I don’t know,” she says. Not, Suora Corniglia notes, “I don’t care.”
“It just goes around to the other side!” Angelo tells her. “You can’t see it, but it’s still there!”
“Yes,” Renzo says softly. “The sun is still there, even when you can’t see it. And your parents love you, even when you can’t see them.” Out of the corner of his mouth, he mutters to Suora Corniglia, “Even when you can’t stand them.”