speculate about the perpetrator. Giuseppe pours the prosecco liberally. I remember Lina in a bronze satin dress with spaghetti straps, Chiara with her hair up, and Renato going on about fascists and fools. I remember the word joke bouncing from chair to chair. I begin to understand that our friends are only trying to shield us. Still it annoys, as in saying “You’re going to be fine in no time” to the ashen patient whose sands are free-falling through the hourglass.
A SHLEY REMEMBERS THAT the dinner was splendid. I, who remember divine meals as far back as third grade, recall nothing. I know everyone was very charged, many toasts were raised, and Ed truly did not know what the key in the little box was for. Chiara and I led him to the street where the Vespa was parked. She had tied red, green, and white bows to the handlebar, Italian flag colors. The metallic white paint shone incandescent under the streetlight, as though a lightbulb burned inside the trim form. Everyone cheered. Ed hopped on, fired up, and raced off, his white spiky hair, white suit, and white Vespa conspiring to look like an ad in the Italian GQ . He looked as carefree as he’d felt four hours ago. I felt a sudden sting of tears. He is the finest person; he does not deserve this. Then a surge of hot anger.
The Vespa—Fellini’s Italy. Romance and freedom. If there’s reincarnation, let me be sixteen, hair flying behind me, as I take off from the piazza. I loved giving one to Ed.
He made a U at the fork and returned, crossing an invisible border between before and after .
After
I WONDERED WHAT THE TWO CARABINIERI dreamed. From my study window at six, I saw them in the car below, still sleeping. Did last night really happen? The early sky, streaked with lilac light and pink-gold clouds, proclaimed its daily innocence. I spotted Ed on an upper terrace clipping something that probably did not need clipping. He was awake when it was still dark, having kicked off the sheet and several times performed a kind of turning over that seems acrobatic—levitate and flip. I probably thrashed too, flashing a thousand times on the threatened other bombs mentioned in the note.
As the carabinieri backed out of the drive—surely seeking espresso and a bathroom—I felt an irrational conviction: They’re gone; it’s over; erase; delete. I considered the colors of the sky, now brightening to a blue like the veins inside my grandmother’s wrist. Violet. Violence. I curled my hand into a fist, still feeling the weight of the grenade. Some things are heavier than their size suggests. I imagined heaving the grenade myself, but at what? Violence begets. You kill one of mine, I kill ten of yours .
By ten, the parade began at Bramasole. Everyone casually passing by stopped to chat with the carabinieri posted below. The chief arrived with Claudio and another handsome, fearsome specimen whose adze jaw contrasted with pouty lips. This time they’d changed from the informal summer uniform to the red-trimmed black one, signifying the formality of the visit. The chief described how the fingerprinting and handwriting analysis would be sent to Rome. “How long will it take to get the results?” Ed asked.
“Maybe two months,” the chief admitted. We nodded, dumbfounded. We didn’t say, “Christ Almighty, man, two months! Why not two days?”
“Meanwhile?”
“We will be investigating and interviewing.”
“Is there any way we can keep this out of the papers, out of the news? With all the people stopping in the road, I doubt that. But my wife would hate the publicity …” Ed stood behind my chair, his hands on my shoulders.
“We’ll do what we can.”
“Do you have any idea who did this?” I already knew he wouldn’t say, if he did know, but I wanted to see his face as he answered.
“Mmmnn. No.” He maintained eye to eye. The furrow of his frown merged his eyebrows. He didn’t even twirl the hat he held on his lap. They stood, again expressing
A SHLEY REMEMBERS THAT the dinner was splendid. I, who remember divine meals as far back as third grade, recall nothing. I know everyone was very charged, many toasts were raised, and Ed truly did not know what the key in the little box was for. Chiara and I led him to the street where the Vespa was parked. She had tied red, green, and white bows to the handlebar, Italian flag colors. The metallic white paint shone incandescent under the streetlight, as though a lightbulb burned inside the trim form. Everyone cheered. Ed hopped on, fired up, and raced off, his white spiky hair, white suit, and white Vespa conspiring to look like an ad in the Italian GQ . He looked as carefree as he’d felt four hours ago. I felt a sudden sting of tears. He is the finest person; he does not deserve this. Then a surge of hot anger.
The Vespa—Fellini’s Italy. Romance and freedom. If there’s reincarnation, let me be sixteen, hair flying behind me, as I take off from the piazza. I loved giving one to Ed.
He made a U at the fork and returned, crossing an invisible border between before and after .
After
I WONDERED WHAT THE TWO CARABINIERI dreamed. From my study window at six, I saw them in the car below, still sleeping. Did last night really happen? The early sky, streaked with lilac light and pink-gold clouds, proclaimed its daily innocence. I spotted Ed on an upper terrace clipping something that probably did not need clipping. He was awake when it was still dark, having kicked off the sheet and several times performed a kind of turning over that seems acrobatic—levitate and flip. I probably thrashed too, flashing a thousand times on the threatened other bombs mentioned in the note.
As the carabinieri backed out of the drive—surely seeking espresso and a bathroom—I felt an irrational conviction: They’re gone; it’s over; erase; delete. I considered the colors of the sky, now brightening to a blue like the veins inside my grandmother’s wrist. Violet. Violence. I curled my hand into a fist, still feeling the weight of the grenade. Some things are heavier than their size suggests. I imagined heaving the grenade myself, but at what? Violence begets. You kill one of mine, I kill ten of yours .
By ten, the parade began at Bramasole. Everyone casually passing by stopped to chat with the carabinieri posted below. The chief arrived with Claudio and another handsome, fearsome specimen whose adze jaw contrasted with pouty lips. This time they’d changed from the informal summer uniform to the red-trimmed black one, signifying the formality of the visit. The chief described how the fingerprinting and handwriting analysis would be sent to Rome. “How long will it take to get the results?” Ed asked.
“Maybe two months,” the chief admitted. We nodded, dumbfounded. We didn’t say, “Christ Almighty, man, two months! Why not two days?”
“Meanwhile?”
“We will be investigating and interviewing.”
“Is there any way we can keep this out of the papers, out of the news? With all the people stopping in the road, I doubt that. But my wife would hate the publicity …” Ed stood behind my chair, his hands on my shoulders.
“We’ll do what we can.”
“Do you have any idea who did this?” I already knew he wouldn’t say, if he did know, but I wanted to see his face as he answered.
“Mmmnn. No.” He maintained eye to eye. The furrow of his frown merged his eyebrows. He didn’t even twirl the hat he held on his lap. They stood, again expressing
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