This must be that same girl.
Rubbing at the bar to remove streaks in the buffed stone, Edo thought about when Luciano was his own teacher. It was painful for Edo remember his childhood. The children had been merciless, treating him like the wounded member of the pack. He was teased and rejected, and didn’t know how to understand it beyond his stupid beak-like nose and forehead like a dumb shelf over his eyes. He knew he looked weird, but was he monstrous?
It was Luciano who noticed Edo shuffling on the edge of the playground and asked him to stay after school. Luciano sat Edo down on the child-size seat beside his sturdy teacher’s chair. Opening a drawer, he pulled out a glass jar of candy and set it carefully on the desk. “You mustn’t tell the others, Edo, but I have a fondness for caramelle. I always indulge in a piece or two after school. Would you care for one?”
“Or two.” Edo smiled at him through his lashes, still dewy with tears.
Luciano roared his approval.
“Or two, my child.”
Off came the lid and Luciano offered the jar to Edo who rooted around until he found a strawberry chew and a lemon hard candy. As Edoardo removed the wrapper from his strawberry candy, Luciano foraged through the crinkling sweets and asked, “So tell me, Edo. What happened today?”
“I don’t know, Maestro. The same thing that happens every day, I guess. The kids chose me last for soccer during ginnastica. Then made crude jokes that I can’t say out loud.”
“Why not?” Luciano asked, considering the cherry drop he pulled out of the jar.
“Because then I’d have to tell the priest I said bad words.”
Luciano fought a grin. “Fair enough. What does Maestro Andrea do when the children mock you?”
“Nothing. Laughs. And then knocks me on the shoulder and says a little ribbing is just what I need to make me a man.”
Luciano chewed his candy thoughtfully. “I wonder, why do the children say these things to you?”
“I don’t know!” Little Edo’s voice quivered. “I’m not mean or anything. I know I play more with the girls, but that’s because they are nice to me. Mamma says I need to eat more tagliatelle so I’m not so skinny and weak. Then they won’t pick on me. And anyway, I don’t even like soccer. I don’t see why we have to play.”
“Yes, well, not all foods can be caramelle.”
Edo’s brow bent as he asked, “What does that mean?”
“Just that sometimes in our day we get caramelle and sometimes we get liver. It is the way of the world. This is easy to understand when we are eating caramelle, harder when we are eating liver.”
“But Maestro, I like liver.”
“Then you are a truly exceptional child.” Luciano said, his eyes dancing. “So, what to do about this teasing. I believe I’ll have a talk with your Maestro Andrea. He may need to remember how children once teased him for wearing his big brother’s far-too-large hand-me-downs.”
Edo smiled tenuously. Luciano went on, “But let’s let that stay between you and me. Safeguarding the wounds of others is the purview and practice of real men. Will you honor that?”
Edo nodded and to this day he’d never divulged a word.
He never knew what Luciano had done behind the scenes, but the teasing stopped. He wasn’t popular, at least until high school when he grew into his nose and his feet. Even then, he never seemed to shake off the perception of being awkward, gangly, weak. Older villagers still saw him that way.
He wondered now what Luciano had said to his ginnastica teacher. It almost didn’t matter, actually. The magic of that afternoon was in Luciano’s kindness. Edo had carried that with him for years.
Edoardo angrily wiped at the tears that leapt unbidden into his eyes. His maestro deserved better.
Massimo gently opened the front door.
His mother clicked off the television and looked up expectantly, “Well?”
“Where’s Margherita?”
“Asleep. I expected you home an hour ago.”
“I stopped at the Autogrill for lunch. It was a long night,” Massimo smirked.
Anna held up a hand to forestall him. “I don’t need details. But tell me the rest.” She gestured for him to sit beside her.
“Mamma, I just got home.” The schoolboy whine was at odds with his knowing grin.
“Ma dai, Massimo. This is important. And once Margherita wakes up, you know we can hardly have this conversation.”
Massimo dropped his briefcase on the chair and stepped over his mother’s outstretched legs to drop onto the couch. “What do you want to know?”
“What do you mean what do I want to know? Everything!”
“Let’s see.” He stretched out, considering. “She’s beautiful.” Anna’s sharp intake of breath prompted Massimo to reach toward her and tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “You know what I mean.”
Anna gripped her hands in her lap and nodded. “Really beautiful?”
“Well, not exactly,” Massimo conceded. His equivocation was justified, if a touch unkind to his betrothed. After all, Isotta was easily overlooked, but you’ll remember there were those moments of radiance. Massimo considered, “Her hair is blond for one thing.”
“Blond? How odd. Is that her natural color?”
Massimo gave an easy laugh and leaned back a bit. “How should I know? But she doesn’t seem the type to dye it. She’s an innocent. Pure, or she was until last night.” Massimo gave a dramatic wink.
Anna shoved his leg in annoyance. “Really, Massimo.”
Massimo snickered. “Anyway, I think that’s what makes her so beautiful. She’s hungry to be loved.”
“That’s what you said in February. And July.”
“No, those looked right. Isotta is right. That’s the difference. Anyway, July wasn’t my fault. Her parents interfered.”
“But February.”
“Yes, I was wrong about Veronica. But this time I was careful.”
Anna furrowed her brow. “Isotta? That’s a strange name.”
Massimo smiled. “She’s from Florence.”
“Ah.” Anna paused.
