arrow.
" Ha bisogno di un'iniezione ,” she said.
"He'll need an injection,” Keith's friend—whose Italian was obviously better than the brothers'—said.
"Sure,” Bobby said. He was looking impatient, as if the mystery of the woman had been only a moment's dream, and getting out of this place was what really mattered—which, for Marco's sake, was true.
" Dovete portarlo subito in ospedale ,” she said.
"Hospital, yes,” Bobby said before anyone could translate it.
Then she said something that stopped my heart. She looked at Keith and Bobby, who were side by side now, cocked her heard just a little, and asked gently:
" Perche avete rimosso la testa della statua ?"
Keith and Bobby had no idea what she was saying, and it took me a second to find the courage to tell them.
"She wants—she wants to know why you took its head ... the statue's head."
Keith jumped, and even Bobby, calm as he usually was, stepped back.
"What?"
She was waiting for an answer. Then she said: “ Perche? Perche la testa di una donna morta tanti anni fa e cosi triste nei suoi ultimi anni...."
I looked at Keith's friend, but the Italian was beyond him.
" Why ?” I began—wishing I weren't the one to have to do it. “ Why the head ... of a woman dead all these years ... and so sad during her final days...."
Keith was looking at Bobby. Bobby was looking back. They'd both lost some color in their faces.
Keith said, “No one could have seen us—it was night. It was—"
"Shut up, asshole,” Bobby answered. “Who cares if she saw us?"
As Bobby guided Marco through the door, and Keith—looking both afraid and angry —muttered what sounded like, “Bitch!” everyone followed, but I trailed behind. I couldn't help it. I couldn't stop looking at her, and neither could Marco. Even as Bobby pushed him through the door, he was looking back at her as if he did know her. A chill ran down my neck.
" Lo conosce ?” I heard myself say to her. “You know him?"
" Si ,” she answered, her eyes on Marco. “ Lo conosco da sempre ."
Yes. I know him always .
I'd never heard the expression before, and would never hear it again. To know someone always .
What she said next, her eyes still on Marco, I would also never forget:
" Grazie per il regalo di lui. "
Thank you for the gift he is.
The chill did not go away. I walked quickly to the door, not looking back. I didn't want to see what was in her eyes, even if it looked like love.
* * * *
Afterward, the doctors said we'd done the right thing not letting Marco walk back to my house, but simply having him sit at the foot of the statue, keeping him awake, while I, since my Italian was better, ran to the nearest house on the path home and had them call my dad, who came in our car and drove Marco to the hospital in La Creccia.
The doctors also complimented whoever had removed the arrow and given Marco antibiotics—an old-fashioned kind, sulfonamides (Marco had one in his pocket still). When we said a woman in the old German hospital had done it, they thought we were drunk, I'm sure. We insisted. A woman had been there. “Well,” they said, “she must have been a nurse. She knew what angle to remove it on, and the danger. The tip of the arrow was near the carotid artery. If she hadn't removed it and the boy had fallen on it...."
* * * *
A month later, when Marco's wound had healed, my parents said what I'd known they would say—that I had to go to the man in the villa, who indeed did own the old hospital and all the land up from the cove, and apologize in person. I was, after all, the son of a Naval officer and therefore an ambassador from America, though apparently not a very good one; and I needed to try to fix the damage. My dad would go with me, it was decided, and that was because Keith and his brother weren't going. They were back in school in Rome; and, rather than having them apologize in person to the owner, Commander Speer had paid the man three hundred dollars and returned
" Ha bisogno di un'iniezione ,” she said.
"He'll need an injection,” Keith's friend—whose Italian was obviously better than the brothers'—said.
"Sure,” Bobby said. He was looking impatient, as if the mystery of the woman had been only a moment's dream, and getting out of this place was what really mattered—which, for Marco's sake, was true.
" Dovete portarlo subito in ospedale ,” she said.
"Hospital, yes,” Bobby said before anyone could translate it.
Then she said something that stopped my heart. She looked at Keith and Bobby, who were side by side now, cocked her heard just a little, and asked gently:
" Perche avete rimosso la testa della statua ?"
Keith and Bobby had no idea what she was saying, and it took me a second to find the courage to tell them.
"She wants—she wants to know why you took its head ... the statue's head."
Keith jumped, and even Bobby, calm as he usually was, stepped back.
"What?"
She was waiting for an answer. Then she said: “ Perche? Perche la testa di una donna morta tanti anni fa e cosi triste nei suoi ultimi anni...."
I looked at Keith's friend, but the Italian was beyond him.
" Why ?” I began—wishing I weren't the one to have to do it. “ Why the head ... of a woman dead all these years ... and so sad during her final days...."
Keith was looking at Bobby. Bobby was looking back. They'd both lost some color in their faces.
Keith said, “No one could have seen us—it was night. It was—"
"Shut up, asshole,” Bobby answered. “Who cares if she saw us?"
As Bobby guided Marco through the door, and Keith—looking both afraid and angry —muttered what sounded like, “Bitch!” everyone followed, but I trailed behind. I couldn't help it. I couldn't stop looking at her, and neither could Marco. Even as Bobby pushed him through the door, he was looking back at her as if he did know her. A chill ran down my neck.
" Lo conosce ?” I heard myself say to her. “You know him?"
" Si ,” she answered, her eyes on Marco. “ Lo conosco da sempre ."
Yes. I know him always .
I'd never heard the expression before, and would never hear it again. To know someone always .
What she said next, her eyes still on Marco, I would also never forget:
" Grazie per il regalo di lui. "
Thank you for the gift he is.
The chill did not go away. I walked quickly to the door, not looking back. I didn't want to see what was in her eyes, even if it looked like love.
* * * *
Afterward, the doctors said we'd done the right thing not letting Marco walk back to my house, but simply having him sit at the foot of the statue, keeping him awake, while I, since my Italian was better, ran to the nearest house on the path home and had them call my dad, who came in our car and drove Marco to the hospital in La Creccia.
The doctors also complimented whoever had removed the arrow and given Marco antibiotics—an old-fashioned kind, sulfonamides (Marco had one in his pocket still). When we said a woman in the old German hospital had done it, they thought we were drunk, I'm sure. We insisted. A woman had been there. “Well,” they said, “she must have been a nurse. She knew what angle to remove it on, and the danger. The tip of the arrow was near the carotid artery. If she hadn't removed it and the boy had fallen on it...."
* * * *
A month later, when Marco's wound had healed, my parents said what I'd known they would say—that I had to go to the man in the villa, who indeed did own the old hospital and all the land up from the cove, and apologize in person. I was, after all, the son of a Naval officer and therefore an ambassador from America, though apparently not a very good one; and I needed to try to fix the damage. My dad would go with me, it was decided, and that was because Keith and his brother weren't going. They were back in school in Rome; and, rather than having them apologize in person to the owner, Commander Speer had paid the man three hundred dollars and returned
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