the little boy’s name over and over, wearing it down to a nub. The girl is on her toes now, peeking over the banco at what I’m doing. My hands begin to shake, and I make a silent prayer not to slice my fingers off. At least not in front of her.
“Everything is okay?” she says.
“Fine, fine. Tutto a posto.”
Just so you know, I am not a complete incompetent, and I’ve watched Papà and Nonno take the silver skin off a filetto hundreds of times before. I ease the knife under the white and wiggle it a little to get some room, then pull it down the length. Shit. I’ve made a small gouge in the muscle, so I even it up. And then I even that up. And then I’m not sure what happens, but the board starts to look like Calatafimi after Garibaldi attacked the Bourbons.
“Shit.”
“Everything is okay?”
“Yes, yes. Tutto a posto.”
I keep going. Rome or death. I don’t know why my hands aren’t listening to what I’m telling them to do. Even for battlefield surgery, it’s unacceptable. I can only hope to hide the filetto as quickly as possible, wrap it up and clean the board before Papà comes back and realizes what I’ve done. And while I’m at it, I will communicate telepathically to this girl that she must never, ever come here again and make these absurd requests to buy meat.
“It’s okay,” she says, answering an apology I’m too ashamed to make. “I’ll do it.” And I swear on my nonno’s and bisnonno’s portraits that she comes behind the banco and takes the knife out of my hand.
Let me be clear. We do not run some kind of casino operation here. People do not just come behind the banco. Since the war, there have only been about ten people back here, all of them either health inspectors or with the same last name printed on the awning outside. But she smiles at me and takes the knife from my hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Don’t worry. I used to work in a restaurant.”
The little boy flings the door open, runs in, and heads straight for the banco, pressing his face and hands against the glass so he can see through to what the girl’s doing. She says something to him, and like magic, he steps away, clasping his hands behind his back. I watch the knife flash in her hands, and I can feel the weight of everything in the shop bearing down on me—the loops of sausages, the scale, the slicer, the stool Mamma used to sit on next to the register, the portraits of my bisnonno, Nonno, and Papà wearing expressions of perpetual disapproval.
“So,” she says, cocking her head and smiling. “You and your friends will go to the disco tonight?”
I swallow hard and try to channel Luca, Fede, Totti, Chuck Norris, and all the rest of them. “Probably. Are you?”
She looks back at the filetto and shrugs. “I will talk to my brother. Maybe.” She holds up the filetto. It looks as good as when Papà does it.
“See?” she says. “Tutto a posto.”
The little boy watches me wrap it up, and the girl walks back to the sink and washes her hands as if she works here. Please, God, don’t let anyone have seen her through the front window. Please don’t let anyone have seen her completely and irreparably emasculate me behind my own counter with a few swift strokes of Papà’s knife.
“So, you are a fan of calcio?” she says, pushing through the bead curtain.
“Oh. The shrine back there? That’s my papà. He’s crazy about calcio.”
She stares at me as I ring up the order, and I can feel the heat creeping into my cheeks. The little boy says something in their language and she answers him. Outside, the blond woman snaps the phone shut and lifts her purse from the seat of the stroller. She wanders in like she’s never been in a butcher shop before, and she looks at everything curiously, as if she’s strolling around a museum. The girl glances back at her, and I can tell they don’t get along.
“It’s forty-two fifty,” I say. The girl hands over a hundred-euro
“Everything is okay?” she says.
“Fine, fine. Tutto a posto.”
Just so you know, I am not a complete incompetent, and I’ve watched Papà and Nonno take the silver skin off a filetto hundreds of times before. I ease the knife under the white and wiggle it a little to get some room, then pull it down the length. Shit. I’ve made a small gouge in the muscle, so I even it up. And then I even that up. And then I’m not sure what happens, but the board starts to look like Calatafimi after Garibaldi attacked the Bourbons.
“Shit.”
“Everything is okay?”
“Yes, yes. Tutto a posto.”
I keep going. Rome or death. I don’t know why my hands aren’t listening to what I’m telling them to do. Even for battlefield surgery, it’s unacceptable. I can only hope to hide the filetto as quickly as possible, wrap it up and clean the board before Papà comes back and realizes what I’ve done. And while I’m at it, I will communicate telepathically to this girl that she must never, ever come here again and make these absurd requests to buy meat.
“It’s okay,” she says, answering an apology I’m too ashamed to make. “I’ll do it.” And I swear on my nonno’s and bisnonno’s portraits that she comes behind the banco and takes the knife out of my hand.
Let me be clear. We do not run some kind of casino operation here. People do not just come behind the banco. Since the war, there have only been about ten people back here, all of them either health inspectors or with the same last name printed on the awning outside. But she smiles at me and takes the knife from my hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Don’t worry. I used to work in a restaurant.”
The little boy flings the door open, runs in, and heads straight for the banco, pressing his face and hands against the glass so he can see through to what the girl’s doing. She says something to him, and like magic, he steps away, clasping his hands behind his back. I watch the knife flash in her hands, and I can feel the weight of everything in the shop bearing down on me—the loops of sausages, the scale, the slicer, the stool Mamma used to sit on next to the register, the portraits of my bisnonno, Nonno, and Papà wearing expressions of perpetual disapproval.
“So,” she says, cocking her head and smiling. “You and your friends will go to the disco tonight?”
I swallow hard and try to channel Luca, Fede, Totti, Chuck Norris, and all the rest of them. “Probably. Are you?”
She looks back at the filetto and shrugs. “I will talk to my brother. Maybe.” She holds up the filetto. It looks as good as when Papà does it.
“See?” she says. “Tutto a posto.”
The little boy watches me wrap it up, and the girl walks back to the sink and washes her hands as if she works here. Please, God, don’t let anyone have seen her through the front window. Please don’t let anyone have seen her completely and irreparably emasculate me behind my own counter with a few swift strokes of Papà’s knife.
“So, you are a fan of calcio?” she says, pushing through the bead curtain.
“Oh. The shrine back there? That’s my papà. He’s crazy about calcio.”
She stares at me as I ring up the order, and I can feel the heat creeping into my cheeks. The little boy says something in their language and she answers him. Outside, the blond woman snaps the phone shut and lifts her purse from the seat of the stroller. She wanders in like she’s never been in a butcher shop before, and she looks at everything curiously, as if she’s strolling around a museum. The girl glances back at her, and I can tell they don’t get along.
“It’s forty-two fifty,” I say. The girl hands over a hundred-euro
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