Love Begins in Winter by Simon van Booy Page A

in how you catch each ball at the last minute, before it’s lost,” the stranger explained.
    â€œI want to try,” the boy said.
    The gondolier stopped juggling and reached down.
    Max held the oranges in his hands and looked at them.
    â€œThey’re too big for me.”
    â€œAh!” the gondolier exclaimed, and from his pocket appeared three kumquats.
    Molly laughed.
    â€œKumquats are the way to every woman’s heart, my little friend.”
    The boy looked at his mother again. He wanted her to be happy. They were on vacation.
    â€œWe’re waiting for my fiancé,” Molly said. “He’s just finishing up.”
    The little boy set the kumquats next to his shoes and said quietly to the gondolier:
    â€œHe’s lost all our money, mister.”
    â€œHe’ll win it back,” Molly said.
    The gondolier sat with them and lit another cigar.
    â€œSmoking is bad for you,” the boy said.
    The gondolier shrugged. “Did my grandmother tell you to say that?”
    â€œNo,” the boy said. “I saw it on TV.”

    When Molly woke with a start, it was almost dawn. Her son was sleeping with his head against the gondolier’s striped shirt. The gondolier smoked and stared at nothing. Molly wondered for a moment if it was the same cigar.
    â€œYou must think we’re pathetic,” she said.
    The gondolier thought for a moment and then said:
    â€œWould you permit me to perform one favor for you and your son?”
    â€œI don’t know,” Molly said. “My fiancé may not be in a good mood when he comes out.”
    â€œOkay,” the gondolier conceded. “It doesn’t matter—I just thought you might like it.”
    Two small eyes between them bolted open.
    â€œMight like what?” inquired a little voice.
    â€œMight like to be honored guests on my gondola—through the canals of Venice.”
    The boy climbed up on his mother’s lap.
    â€œWe have to do this,” he said soberly.
    Molly turned to the gondolier.
    â€œI don’t know why you’re doing this for us—but if you were going to kill us, you probably would have done it by now.”
    Her son glared angrily at her.
    â€œHe’s not going to kill us.”

    As they entered the Venetian Hotel and Casino, the gondolier raised his arms.
    â€œWelcome to the most beautiful country in the world,” he said.
    The boy looked at the statues perched high up on the roof.
    Their white marble skin glistened in the early morning sun, their hands forever raised, the fingers extended slightly with the poise of faith.
    â€œI think they are holy saints, little one,” the gondolier said. “They look out for me—and you too.”
    One of the statues was missing. There was a space on the roof where it had once stood.
    â€œWhere’s that one?” the boy said.
    â€œI don’t know,” the gondolier said thoughtfully. “But just think— caro mio , he could be anywhere.”
    â€œI think I believe in saints,” the boy said, and considered how the missing saint might somehow be his real father.
    â€œYou truly believe in the saints, boy?”
    â€œYes. I do.”
    â€œThen you are an Italian, kid, through and through—a hot-blooded Italian. Can you do this?” The gondolier pressed his fingers together and shook them at the sky. The boy copied his movement. “Now say, ‘Madonna.’”
    The boy put his fingers together and shook them and said, “Madonna.”
    â€œGood, but louder, caro , louder!” the gondolier exclaimed.
    â€œMadonna!” the boy screamed.
    People looked at them.
    â€œWhat does that mean?” Molly asked. “It’s not a bad word, is it?”
    â€œNo, Mama, it means, simply: I am in love with this beautiful world.”
    The boy looked up at the saints, his fingers pushed together like a small church.
    â€œMadonna!” he said in that delicate