The Unfinished Angel (4 page)

P
OCKETA

P
ocketa-pocketa-pocketa, pocketa-pocketa-pocketa, pocketa-
pocketa-pocketa, pocketa-pocketa-pocket—

What is it? What is the awful
pocketa-pocketa-pocketa
noise?

Pocketa-pocketa-pocketa, pocketa-pocketa-pocketa—

It sounds like peoples playing that game, what is it, pong-ping? Like that, hitting the ball very fast back and forth,
pocketa-pocketa-pocketa.

I flash here and there. Stop that noise! This is the peaceful village!

Pocketa-pocketa-pocketa—

Now
il beasto
joins in:
Arf, arf, arf, arf, arf, arf, arf, arf—

Pocketa-pocketa—

It is a workman. He is in the old Pita building just down the road, and he is putting up walls for the school of Mr. Pomodoro. He has a new tool, an automatico nail driver. It goes like this:
Pocketa-pocketa-pocketa, pocketa-pocketa-pocketa—

Signora Divino shouts out of her window. She tells the
pocketa
man to be quiet and then she says many ugly words. Next, Signor Rubini and then Signora Pompa and soon most of the villagers are leaning out of their windows with their ruffled bed hair and they are shouting ugly words at the
pocketa
man, who does not stop because he cannot hear them, what with all the
pocketa-pocketa-pocketa, pocketa-pocketa-pocketa.

A
GITATO

T
here is no sleeping, no resting to be had with all the noise in the village. This used to be such a quiet place. You only would hear the birdies twirping and the church bells ringing.

I am a little crankiful when I am not sleeping well. I fling myself here and there on the balcony ledges, trying to knock myself into sleep. Then I give up and see over the scene. This is an intrigueful thing to do usually. You can see into everyone's yards and windows; you see them walking down the paths and lanes; you see the dogs chasing the cats chasing the mices; you see the birdies nesting and squabbling and flittering. There are always many things going on.

Today I see Zola's father, Mr. Pomodoro, on his terrace, talking with an elderly man wearing painter's clothes. Mr. Pomodoro of the rubbery face has thick, black hair, and he has long bones with not much meat on them. He moves his arms a lot when he talks. The painter man stands very still, like a statue. It makes you want to poke him to see if he is alive.

Over there, to the right, I see Signora Mondopoco in her sheep boots. She is listening to two other women, who are speaking in a very
urgento
way.

Now Signora Divino comes out in her pink bedjacket over her black dress, and she throws a tub of dirty water on the bushes nearest our Casa Rosa, and then she goes to the back gate, where two old men and two old women are gathered. Signora Divino nods her head and then stamps her foot.

Something is up! Or down.

And then I remember that I did the flishing last night and the sprinkling over all the heads the knowingness of the hungry childrens. Aha! So this is good. Now they will do something to fix the hungry childrens.

Pretty soon, there are clomps of people in all the lanes and in the parco, and they are growing more
agitato
, waving their arms and stompling their feets. They are mad! Well, good. They
should
be mad that childrens are hungry and cold and all alone in the chicken shad.

And just when I am feeling mostest proud of my sprinkling work, Zola climbers up through the trippy-trap door and onto the balcony and says, “Angel! You have to
do
something!”

M
AD
P
EOPLES

Z
ola, she is swooshing with her colorful skirts, three of them: red on top of green on top of blue; and two blouses, yellow over white; and violet leggings; and black ribbons in her hair and on her wrists. It is a smiling combination, and it makes me happy.

“Did you hear me?” Zola says. “You have to
do
something!”

I am not feeling too worried because I have already done the swishing in the night so that everyone will know about the hungry childrens.

“Angel! The people are mad!”

“Mad? Why?” If they are mad because the childrens are hungry, that is good, because if they are mad, they will do something.

“Because of the stealing, and now—”

“What stealing? What are you talking in my ears about?”

“The stealing—everyone is missing food and some are missing blankets and clothing. And I don't know how they found out about the children—”

“The childrens?” I say. “The childrens in the shad?”

Zola is
molto agitato
, kicking acorns all around the balcony. “Yes! So now they think the children are stealing from them and they called the police—”

“The police? The police are coming after the hungry childrens?”

“Yes,” Zola says. “Angel! You have to
do
something!”

I do not feel so good.

Pocketa-pocketa-pocketa—

Arf, arf, arf—

Zola shouts over the edge of the balcony. “Be quiet!”

Mr. Pomodoro shouts from the terrace, “Be quiet!”

Pocketa-pocketa-pocketa—

Arf, arf, arf—

Signora Divino is gathering slugs in her garden. Her grandson, Vinny, is throwing a frog in the air. Signora Mondopoco is peeking inside her sheep boots. “Baa,” she says fondly. “Baa, baa, baa.”

How am I supposed to think with all this craziness going on?

“Angel!” Zola says.

“I know, I know. I will do something.” And then I think,
Wait a minute. I do not have to do what Zola says! She is a people and I am an angel!

Zola looks at me so pleading and begging. “Do something, Angel, please, I
beseech
you!”

Beseech?
“Hokay, hokay, I will do something, but it will be what I
choose
to do.”

Peoples! Why so bossy?

W
HERE
A
RE
P
ARENTS?

I
have to think. I do not have the instant answers. While I am thinking of what to do about the police going after the hungry childrens, I am wondering where are the parents of the childrens? Why are they all alone, with only other childrens for company? And while I am wondering this, I also think about Zola.

Where is
her
mother? I want to ask, but it seems too bold, no? She wants me to do this; she wants me to do that. Why can't I ask her a little question?

Pocketa-pocketa-pocketa—

Arf, arf, arf—

“Be quiet, you annoying arfing dog!”

Arf, arf, arf—

Zola scrabbles up a handful of acorns and tosses them over the side of the balcony. “You most annoying dog in the universe!” Now she unties a ribbon from her ankle and wraps it loosely at her neckle.

Boom, boom, boom-de-boom—

“Auf!” Zola says. “The drums of Vinny!”

Boom, boom—

Arf, arf, arf—

“Be quiet, you artichoke!” And then Zola turns to me and says, “Where is Vinny's mother? And father? How come he lives with his grandmother?”

“That is a twisty tale,” I say. “I will tell you later, because now I have to swish the heads of the childrens.” I float off the balcony, but then I turn back, full of nosy courage. “Zola! Where is
your
mother? And do you have a brother? And why do you live with your father?”

Zola pinches her lips as if she has sucked on a peppercorn. “A mother, a brother, a father?” She turns that into a tune: “A moth-er, a broth-er, a fath-er. A doodle, a dandle, a candle.” She disappears through the trippy-trap door, just like that.

I
NSIDE THE
M
OUNTAINS

A
ll around are the mountains. I used to think the mountains were made of dirt: heaps of dirt piled high. Now I know they are mostly rock with dirt on top. I mentioned this to Zola one day and she said, “Of
course
the mountains are rock,” and then she gave me the scowl that tells me I am
stupido.

An angel is
not
stupido
!

What I like is that the houses and the churches and the paths and steps and walls and towers in this village are all made from the rock of the mountains, so the inside of the mountain is on the outside. And the houses made of rock and stone, they are like childrens of the mountain sprinkled all around, close by. That gives me a good feeling.

On the inside of the mountains, where the rock for the houses and the roads and churches and towers used to be, is the secret that everyone who lives here knows. Inside the mountains is dynamite to blow up bridges to keep out invaders, and inside the mountains are airplanes ready to zoom into the air in a blink to keep out invaders. Inside the mountains are food and guns and ammunition and water and blankets and medical equipment. Inside some mountains it is like a whole village. I am not kidding you.

All of the peoples here know this and they know where to go if the invaders come and they know what is their job to protect their country. Sometimes I think that is extramarkable and smart, and sometimes I think it is so sadful that peoples have to worry about invaders. Why would peoples invade other peoples? Don't they know the other peoples are like their own peoples, who don't want to be invaded? I get
agitato
if I think about it too much.

What calms me down is the rock of the houses and the towers and the churches. The rock is so strong and has been here forever and will still be here even if peoples make a mashmish of things. The rock of the tower makes me feel safe.

I hurry to swish to the hungry childrens, who are not in the shad because they have heard that the police are coming, and so they are hiding here, there, and there. I flish into their heads to let them know where to go. To the rock. To the tower. My tower.

P
ERMISSIONS

I
don't need the permission of Zola or Mr. Pomodoro, but I think it is better to have at least Zola in the knowing. It is funny about peoples, but they like to be in the knowing; they like to give permissions; they do not so much like surprisements unless the surprisement is a lot of gold dropped into their laps.

So I tell Zola the childrens are coming. They will enter through the basement doorway and make their way up the back steps to the lower tower rooms. This way they do not have to go through the house and they will not frighten Mr. Pomodoro.

Zola says, “He won't like it. He'll say he needs permission from the authorities—the police or whoever would be in charge of the children.”

“I am thinking no one is in charge of the childrens, or else they would not be hungry and cold in the chicken shad.”

“No, I mean
officially.
So we don't get in trouble.”

“In trouble for what?”

“For hiding the children.”

“We are not hiding. We are protecting.”

Zola is kicking the acorns again. “Okay, then,” she says. “Okay. Let's see what happens. Let's see if the children will be quiet.” She does the smile with her mouth and I think maybe she likes this plan.

The police are out hunting for the childrens, but the childrens have managed to hide themselves well, and as soon as it is dark they slip into the tower one by two by one. Zola brings blankets and pillows and bread and cheese and chocolate. She adds three stuffed animals and extra socks and scarves and some of her swirly skirts and ribbons.

The childrens are surprised by what they see, and at first they are suspicious. They think it is a trip-trap. Zola tries to explain to them that they are safe, but they are not understanding her words, so I flish inside their heads to calm them.

W
HAT
I
T
M
EANS?

H
ere in the Ticino, in the south of Switzerland, the peoples mostly speak Italian. In another part of Switzerland, the Swiss peoples speak French; in another part German; and yet another tiny part Romansch. But the Swiss peoples are so smart that most of them can speak all those languages and switch from one to another zoomzoomzoom just like that and
then
they will dizzy you and switch to English. How they are holding all those words in their heads?

Many tourists come to this part of Switzerland, but most of the tourists are stubborn and only want to speak their own language, very loudly. They will inspect a menu and then say to the waiter (in English or Swedish or Japanese): “What it means? WHAT IT MEANS?”

The Swiss people are used to this. They don't swat the tourists on the heads with the menus. Mostly they don't say rude words or spit on the ground. No, they smile politely and manage to explain calmly, either in the tourist's language or by an incredilish movement of their hands, what it means.

This impressifies me.

When Mr. Pomodoro goes into the pharmacy hoping to find some nasal spray and asks for
puzzo di naso
, the Italian-speaking clerk does not fall in the aisle laughing because Mr. Pomodoro has asked for “nose stinky.” No, the kindiful clerk does not even feel the need to correct Mr. Pomodoro; instead the clerk smiles politely and reaches for a bottle of
spruzzo
(not
puzzo) di naso.
Maybe the clerk will laugh after Mr. Pomodoro leaves, but she will not laugh in front of the person who does not have the right words.

I loaf this. I loaf it very much.

In the tower, with the hungry childrens, I am wishing I had some of these Swiss peoples with all the words. Zola and I are trying to understand what the childrens are saying. They speak very fast, zoomzoomzoom, so fast the words fly out of their mouths and disappear into the air before you can catch them with your own ears.

I tell Zola she will have to do the talking. The childrens won't be able to see me, and they might be frightened if Zola talks to an invisible someone. They will think it is a ghost. Or that she is kookoo. Only one young boy seems to sense my presence. He stands near me and stares and blinks his eyes as if the light is too bright, but it is dark in the tower room beneath the balcony, with only the starlight and moonlight outside the small window.

This boy puts his hands forward as if he is parting the air. “Wow,” he whispers. He stands on my robe. This is hokay; many times peoples have stood on me. Animals, too. They do not know what they are doing. It does not hurt.

There are three girls and five boys. The youngest, who is maybe five, is the “wow” boy; the oldest is a boy about ten or eleven. Most speak a little English. They are all dirty, from head to foot, and dressed in odd combinations of old clothes and newer ones, and in clothes too small or too large. I recognize, on one girl's head, an old scarf of Signora Mondopoco. The youngest boy wears the weathered hat of Signora Divino's deadened husband.

The childrens are not related to each other and do not all speak the same language. They are straggled together, maybe from an orphanage in another country. It is hardness to understand everything that is jumping out of their mouths.

In quiet voicing, Zola asks each one's name. I loaf this, that she does not treat them like a herd of sheep. She wants to study each face and say a name. The boys are Paolo, Manuel, Stefan, Franz, and Josef. The girls are Terese, Rosetta, and Nicola. Zola hears each name once and does not forget it.

Once we know their names, we start to see their peoplealities. The youngest one, Josef, is all eyeballs and interest. He says “Wow!” and “
Was ist das?
” The smallest girl, Nicola, says, about once an hour, “Be
nice
to me! Be
nice
to me!” Rosetta is so quiet, always glancing down shyly, her hand clutching a torn piece of cloth which she occasionally rubs against her cheek.

Franz is maybe a little confused. If anyone speaks to him, he repeats, “
Glocken, glocken, glocken.
” I think this means “bells, bells, bells,” and I do not know why he is saying this. The other childrens don't seem to find this odd, though.

Terese is impressified with Zola and imitates the way Zola stands, the way she holds her head and moves her arms. It is not a mocking way. It is as if Terese is trying out what it would be like to
be
Zola.

Then there is Stefan. He does not say much but clomps around making strange faces and noises, to make the others laugh. They do laugh at him sometimes, but Stefan is the one with the saddest eyes of all.

Manuel is jumpy, like a hot bean. Noises, moths, shadows, all these things stiffen his arms and shoulders and even his hair, if you can find this believing. Lastly, there is Paolo, the oldest boy, who is maybe Zola's age. He has a smart head and a watching eye.

Zola says to Paolo: “Tell them we will bring food.”

“Who is ‘we'?” Paolo asks.

“Um. Me and a . . . a . . . helper.”

Helper?
Now I am the
helper
of Zola?

“Tell them,” Zola says, “not to steal anymore. They could get in trouble. We will try to get them what they need. No stealing. Stealing is bad. Okay?”

Paolo zips into a swirl of words in the languages of the childrens. Then, to be sure everyone understands, he acts out sneaking around and stealing something; he pretends to eat the something. Then he shouts “No!
Molto
bad! No!” and he chops himself in the head and falls onto the ground. “Bad!”

Stefan thinks this is a game. He pretends to grab something and then clonks himself in the head and falls onto the ground. “Bad! Bad!”

Terese laughs; Rosetta cries; Nicola says, “Be
nice
to me!”; the rest look puzzled.

It is going to be a long, long night.