The Sun and Other Stars (23 page)

He stops and holds the ball steady under his foot, as if he can sense me there, and I hold my breath as he looks around, only releasing it when he starts up again. He sticks to what looks like a prescribed routine some coach gave him decades ago. First, he takes penalty shots, then switches to running drills—hopping over imaginary lines, skittering sideways, and twisting around imaginary cones. When he messes up, he makes himself do it over.

After an hour he looks exhausted. Finished. Ready to quit. But he plays on. The rising sun fills in his features and his clothes, and he takes his shirt off and starts an imaginary match against himself, faking out imaginary defenders and passing to imaginary strikers. He runs in great, galloping arcs toward the goal, changing direction in an instant, all while keeping the ball firmly under control. I can’t believe how quick he is, how strong, how relentless, how . . . good. I wonder if in his head he is playing against Yuri. Or Luca. I wonder if this is where Luca got his talent from.

And then it occurs to me that this is the first time I’ve actually seen Papà
play
calcio. I’ve seen him watch calcio and argue about calcio of course. I’ve seen him read the twenty-five pages of calcio coverage in
Gazzetta dello Sport
every day. I’ve seen him coach us in chickadees, back when we were kicking with our entire shin, and yell through Luca’s matches. But I’ve never actually seen him play.

After about an hour and a half of this, Papà abruptly jogs to a stop, locks his hands on top of his head, and walks a few erratic circles. He picks up his shirt from the sidelines and throws it over one shoulder. He puts the ball on Luca’s grave, stands back, and crosses his arms. I’ll never know what he says. I wish I could understand the words, or that I knew him well enough to imagine what he’s saying, but I can only hear the faint whispers and stops. I can only watch the morning light falling to the ground around him, seeping into the field.

*   *   *

When I see him in the shop, I don’t say anything. But during the break, I work on a new panel on the ceiling of the aula, floating in the middle of the white space, out of order with the others. The fourth panel. The one you see cropped and framed on the walls of dentists’ offices, banks, and summer rental apartments. The one with God’s finger stretched out to Adam. E.T. phone home.

I start with the porcupine hair, the ham hands and the sausage fingers, Papà’s chin thrust forward fearlessly despite everything that’s happened to him. I pencil in his gray pants and his white smock, the top button open at the collar. The immaculate jacket, Silvio calls it. I draw directly on the ceiling, my knees sturdy, my hand steady, the lines sucked from the tip of the pencil like smoke from a wick.

When I’m finished, Papà is flying high in his great swirling half shell, a dozen San Benedettons propping him up. Down and to the left, I’m lounging on a grassy field in the same contorted pose as Adam. I stare at the panel in the shifting light, at Papà’s arm outstretched toward mine and at our fingertips, only millimeters from their target. One minute, the muscles of his arm seem completely rigid, his stiff finger pointing at me accusingly, and the next, it’s like he’s reaching out to get my attention. The only thing that doesn’t change is our expressions. The cynicism on my face and the intensity in Papà’s, just like when he’s breaking down a side of beef or charging toward the goal.

I stretch my hand up to the ceiling and touch the space between our hands. That synapse. That fottuto synapse.

Y
uri said a few days. I thought that meant two or three, but it’s already five. I worry that he’s managed to clear his name with the prosecutors, and now they will stay in Genoa, send for their things, and never return.

On Sunday afternoon, I dry the dishes while Nonna washes, the secret song vibrating on her lips. We never talk, but when I’m with her, I telepathically communicate to her all my deepest thoughts and feelings, and she always smiles back at me like she understands.

“Etto! Come out here!”

“Etto!”

I put the bowl I’m drying into the cabinet. “I’ll be right back, Nonna.”

She nods.

Outside, Nonno and Papà are sitting under the barren lemon tree in only their undershirts, their glasses of lemonade—made from store-bought lemons—propped in the grass at their feet. Papà has been on a high all week, relaxed and tan. He’s a different man since Yuri came into the shop, as if the warmth of Yuri’s calcio supernova has incubated all of his best characteristics. I’m not even sure how to deal with this Papà.

“Come sit with us, Etto,” he says, and he gets up to pull the third chair under the tree.

I sit down, wary. I have one of Luca’s old jerseys on. Not the last one, which is framed above his bed, but one from a tournament a few years back. There have been shouting matches about me wearing Luca’s clothes, but either Papà doesn’t notice or he lets it go.

“What is it?”

They look at each other and then at me.

“Nonno and I have been talking.”

This can’t be good.

“We think you’re ready to learn the real butchering,” Nonno says. “Not only taking care of the banco, but nose to tail, animal to plate.”

They both beam at me.

“When?”

“We can start this week,” Nonno says, rubbing his hands together. “Tuesday morning, as soon as the carcasses arrive.”

We all stare at each other for a minute.

“Well?”

“I have a choice?”

“Of course you have a choice!” Nonno says.

But to have a choice, of course, you need two things to choose between. They continue to stare at me.

“Okay.”

“Okay!” Papà repeats.

“I’ll get someone to look after Nonna,” Nonno says.

“You’re coming down to the shop, too?”

“Am I coming? Am I coming? It will be one of the biggest moments of your life. I wouldn’t miss it.”

I have two people to thank for this, I know. Yuri and Jimmy. Yuri for opening Papà’s eyes to our continental drift, and Jimmy for showing just how far that drift could take a son. I remember now that last week, I walked in on Papà and Jimmy’s papà in the middle of a very serious and hushed conversation that broke off as soon as I came in. Papà never wanted me to do any of the butchering before. This is just his way of anchoring me in place, of holding my feet to the terraces until they burrow and grow roots.

On Tuesday morning, I wake up before the sun and lie in my bed until I hear the truck rumbling down the alley.

“Etto!” Papà calls from downstairs. “Etto, you awake?”

“Yes, Papa.”

“The cow has arrived!”

“Okay, Papà.” The diesel engine gives one last sputter before it shuts off. I look over at Luca’s bed.

“Here goes nothing.” And I heave my feet to the floor.

By the time I get down to the shop, Papà and Jimmy’s papà are already jammed inside the back walk-in with the vitello, the nose of the animal pressed to the floor as they try to maneuver it onto one of the hooks. Papà is wearing an apron over a T-shirt, both stark white next to the deep brown of his skin. In the summers, it takes only a gentle lashing of the sun before his melanin stands at attention. Luca and Mamma were the same. Then there’s my skin, compliments of some raping, pillaging Viking ancestor. By Ferragosto, my face will look like I’ve been burned by a hot iron, red welts all over my cheeks and nose.

“Ready? Heave!”

“Porca miseria.”

“Let me,” I say. I squat and hug the calf around the shoulders, Papà gets around the belly, and we manage to hook it.

“Bravo. Bravo,” Jimmy’s Papà says. “Etto, when did you get so strong?”

“Boh.”

“So, I heard today is the big day,” he continues.

“Big day for who?” I say.

“For the calf.” He laughs. “For
you
, Etto. For
you
.”

“Ah, yes. Big day.”

Papà and I unload the side of beef and barely manage to get it hooked when Nonno bursts through the front door like a television host through a flock of showgirls.

“Ciao, tutti!” He’s wearing his old smock, which has his name stitched over the heart, like there’s anyone in this region who couldn’t recognize him. At his side is a large leather bag, which he sets on the marble next to the vacuum-pack machine. He looks like a doctor making a house call.

“Are those the famous knives?” Jimmy’s papà asks.

“The very ones.” Nonno claps me on the shoulder. “So, are you ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Ah, if only my Jimmy were so keen.”

Nonno unpacks his old leather and chain-mail aprons, and Papà and Jimmy’s papà bring in the rabbits, the chickens, the young roosters, and the boxes of “goodies,” as Papà calls them—the slippery insides that stay in vacuum packs in the back walk-in until the Algerians or the Sicilians request them.

“Here,” Nonno says. “Put these on.” He holds the chain mail in front of me, and I brace myself for the Dungeons and Dragons jokes if Fede or anyone else happens to walk by.

“Is this really necessary, Nonno?”

“That depends. Do you want to cut your nuts off?”

Jimmy’s papà laughs. So this is how the baton is passed. I let Nonno layer the leather and chain mail on me while Papà washes up in the back. The weight drapes over me, from shoulder to knee, like lugging an extra body around. Thanks a lot, Jimmy, wherever you are. Until you left, Papà was perfectly happy to let me stand behind the banco and grind the scraps. And now, thanks to you and your stupid video games, they feel they have to weigh me down with metal aprons and legacy knives.

“Who’s taking care of Nonna?”

“She’s at Martina’s.”

“All day?”

“She’ll be fine. It’s good for her to get out someplace besides church once in a while.”

I put a cotton apron over the leather and the chain mail, and my body takes on the square proportions of Nonno and Papà. The two of them don’t wear anything but the cotton one anymore. The safety catches are already built into their joints and muscles, telling them when to stop the knife. Papà pulls the hacksaw off the wall and sharpens his scimitar, the rasp of steel against steel cutting through the air.

“First we show you the primal cuts.”

“Wait, Carlito, not yet,” Nonno says.

He takes me by the shoulders and looks into my eyes. The whites of his eyes are cream-colored and cloudy, his eyelids caving in. “Etto. This is a very important day for you. I want you to remember this day for the rest of your life. This is the day you truly join the line, both of our family”—he gestures dramatically to the portraits behind him—“and of the noble butchers stretching back to the Middle Ages.”

“Can we hurry this up, please?” Papà says. “The customers will be here soon, and you still need to set up the banco.”

“Thank you, son, I know quite well what needs to be done. This was once my shop, you know.”

Papà rolls his eyes.

Nonno clears his throat and continues. “And so . . . to designate the magnitude of this day, I would like to present you with a gift.” He reaches into the leather bag and takes out a roll of cloth, thick as a salami. He unrolls it slowly on the marble, extracting knives as he goes.

“First, your boning knife. This one will become your best friend, and when your wrist starts to hurt, your worst enemy.” He hands it to me, the tip squeezed under his thumb. The hilt is smooth and warm, and it fits the shape of my hand perfectly.

“Your scimitar . . .” I can feel the pull of the shifting chain mail on my shoulders as I take the scimitar, the edge of the blade like a mirror.

Nonno pauses then, unrolling the rest of the knives, then rolling them back up just as quickly. He gives it a squeeze and tucks it back into the leather bag. “Eh, you’ll find you don’t really need the rest of them, but they’re all yours anyway. From your bisnonno to your nonno to you. Congratulations.” He gives me a bone-crushing hug.

“Can we start now?” Papà says. “Or do you have some sort of benediction prepared? A eulogy for the calf perhaps?”

Jimmy’s papà smiles. This whole time, he’s been leaning against the grinding counter, watching the spectacle, a wistful look on his face.

Papà carries the hacksaw into the back walk-in. “Okay, let’s go, Etto.”

“I’m leaving,” Jimmy’s papà says. “Good luck, Etto!”

“One more thing.” And Nonno hands me a hairnet.

“Seriously, Nonno?”

“Seriously. And go put on a glove. A metal one.”

I dig around in the cabinet under the grinding counter for a mesh glove. I put it on and squeeze my hand into a fist, the metal recording every millimeter of movement. I catch a glimpse of myself in the glass of the photographs.

“I look like a complete pedant,” I say out loud, and I wonder how hard it will be to avoid the sight lines from the window all day.

“Nonsense,” Nonno says, patting me on the shoulder. “You look good.”

They must have coordinated all of this on Sunday afternoon, sitting under the shade of the lemon tree. They must have played paper-scissors-rock for the one who got to tell me I had to wear a hairnet. I go into the walk-in, a man accepting his fate, and Papà pulls the door behind us so it’s just him and me, the vitello, the side of beef, and a couple of Parma hams.

“The first thing now is to count off the ribs.” His voice echoes against the smooth white walls as his thick fingers run down the inside of the carcass. Nonno pokes his head in to see what’s going on.

“You want to make your first cut between the eleventh and twelfth rib,” Papà instructs. “Right here.”

“Between the twelfth and thirteenth for the cow,” Nonno adds, and Papà nods.

Papà takes the hacksaw and starts sawing across the hanging carcass.

“Except you want to put your energy into the
push
and not the pull,” Nonno adds. “The pull rips. The push slides.”

“Do you want to do it?” Papà sets the saw on the upturned crate next to him.

“No, no. You’re doing fine. You’re doing fine.”

Papà pulls at the hook and it swings on its length of chain. The hook makes me shudder. Every time.

“Then, you want to hook it right here.” He takes my hand in his and finds a spot under the eleventh rib, just next to the backbone. “You feel that?” Papà hooks it, and yanks on the chain to make sure it’s securely looped around the pipe that runs overhead. My stomach churns, and I swallow hard.

“Here.” He hands me the hacksaw, and I continue the cut. The backbone stops me, and Papà takes his boning knife out of its scabbard and pops apart the joint. I start sawing from the other side, Papà and Nonno scrutinizing my movements.

“Now, counter the action of the saw with pressure from your other hand.”

The saw slips and comes loose from the carcass. “Shit.”

“You see?” Nonno says. “That’s what these stupid aprons are for.”

The door opens and I hear the noise from the passeggiata. Nonno disappears, and I can tell by the tone of his voice that the customer is a tourist, not someone we know. I keep sawing away, and finally, the foresaddle swings free. Papà yanks on the chain, hoisting it and fastening it to the pipe. Then we lift the hindsaddle from the pipe and carry it to the long table across from the grinding counter.

“Slowly, slowly. Gentle, gentle,” Papà says as we ease it onto the table. “A bruised vitello is not a happy vitello, and an unhappy vitello is not a tasty vitello.”

“I thought that was only when it’s alive.”

Papà raises a finger. “Ah, but you must always respect the meat. Rule number one, two, three, and four. Allora . . . first we will find the filetto.”

He guides my hand inside the carcass until I can feel the soft flesh. It’s strange standing close enough to him to hear his breathing and the small grunts as he stretches and maneuvers. Like he’s pulling me closer with each little sound.

“There. We just detach”—he reaches in with his boning knife—“a little scrape of the tendon and . . . ecco fatto! There we are.” He sets the smooth pocket of meat on the other end of the table.

I hear the last bits of conversation between Nonno and the customer. They’re talking about the weather and the lack of rain. The door opens and shuts, and Nonno wanders back again.

“Next we take off the loin.” Papà raises his knife in his right hand as he fingers the back of the carcass, looking for the precise spot to cut.

“I thought the idea was for Luca to do it,” Nonno says. “For
Etto
to do it,” he corrects himself. Papà steps back without a word and hands me the knife, and Nonno and Papà lock eyes as if to conclude a conversation they had when I was not around.

It takes me six hours to break down the hindsaddle under Papà’s close supervision, Nonno’s super-supervision, and my bisnonno’s beady eyes from the wall in the other room. Cazzo, I think even Dino Zoff gave his opinion when it came to the disastrous extracting of the fesa, which will have to be cut up now and sold as stew meat. By the end of it, Papà and I are both exhausted. Nonno tells us he will do the rest of the vacuum-packing and the cleanup, and he sends Papà to Martina’s and me to Bagni Liguria with an order of sandwiches.