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Keep Quiet If
You Know the Game The sun shimmered so
that the sea looked like gold. It was late spring, and even though the German
tourists liked to come down to Southern Italy before everybody else, May was
still a little too early even for their vacations. Good, thought Pascal to
himself, that means no one is going to try to sell them anything at off
hours. Nobody was around. Not even a dog. Pascal had done well to come at
this early hour while everyone was still resting after lunch. That way he
could talk to Lidia without being disturbed. He crossed the small piazza and
headed into Bar Pasticceria Lido;
the word pasticceria on the sign
made him lick his lips, maybe Lidia would even give him a pastry. Before his eyes could
adjust to the darkness inside the bar he heard what made his heart sink, “Pascá, vieni ’ca, com’ere.” As his
eyes adjusted to the dim light Pascal matched the voice to the short, stout,
dark body of Antonio, brother of the bartender. His bright shirt was more
visible than he was. Sign that he spent much of his life on the beach.
Something Pascal would never do. Not any more, anyway. “I gotta take your
measurements, Pascá, for this!” And he waved his arms toward a pencil drawing
on a crumpled piece of paper that Beppe, his companion in all jokes and dirty
tricks, held up. Beppe was easier to see in the dim light since he was very
white-skinned. His red, frizzy hair blazed in the light, and the freckles on
his face made his skin seem even whiter. His head seemed to float, grinning,
before Pascal, whose eyes were now beginning to adjust to the light of the
bar. Then Gianni, Antonio
and Beppe’s bar friend, snatched the paper out of Beppe’s hand and held it
up by the top ends gingerly; like a matador approaching a dangerous bull,
Gianni’s thin, wirely body danced in front of Pascal, taunting. Pascal
couldn’t see what the drawing was with Gianni moving it all around, but he
didn’t “Uéh lá! Hey there!” cried Antonio, “where do you think you’re
going? This is important, and we’re doing it all for you, the expense is
ours, all we need are your measurements.” Antonio looked toward the bar and
Pascal saw that Gigi, Antonio’s taller, muscularly stout brother, the
bartender, was there behind the bar with Lidia who owned the place. They were
smirking, under the neon advertising Nastro
Azzurro beer. Pascal’s heart sank even lower, down to the floor. They
were all here. And Lidia seemed to be in the mood for fun at Pascal’s
expense. Sometimes she was nice to him and sometimes she wasn’t. It looked
like today was not his day. “Whatta ya say? You
gonna be a good guaglió and let us
measure you or are we gonna hafta hold you down to do it?” insisted Antonio. “I ain’t no kid,” growled Pascal, “I’m a lot older
than you. I am forty-three years old. You are only twenty-five. I know, Lidia
told me. Let go.” He tried to pull himself free and found himself slammed to
the floor. “Lidia told you,
huh?” mimicked Antonio. “You think just
’cause you’re older than us you’re smarter?” Gianni hissed in his ear. “I am,” replied
Pascal. “You are?” cried Antonio, incredulous, “How
do we know?” Pascal repeated what
he usually said. These guys were so dumb they never remembered. “You know I
am smarter than you,” he said patiently, “because of my name.” “Your name?” echoed Gianni, and under his
breath, but Pascal could hear him clearly, “Madonna! Is this guy dumb
or what?” “You’re the one who’s
dumb,” said Pascal wishing he were at work with his pickaxe in his hand,
breaking rocks and hard earth, “My name is Pascal.” “And what does Pascal mean?” Gianni’s voice smirked. “Why his name is not Pascal, it’s Pasquale. He’s just giving hisself airs. A good, plain Italian
name ain’t good enough for him!” shouted Beppe. “No,” said Pascal
firmly, “Pascal means I’m smart. Pasquale doesn’t mean anything. It’s just
another name.” Whatta ya mean,
Pasquale is just another name?” cried Beppe. “And how did you get
such a smart name?” roared Gigi from behind the bar. Pascal could hear Lidia
laughing loudly, too. “My mother gave it to
me.” “And where is your
mother now?” cried Lidia. “She’s in France,”
replied Pascal softly. “What’s she doing in
France?” snickered Antonio, “is she fooling around with all the Frenchies?” “NO!” shouted Pascal, and pulled himself out of Antonio’s grip,
but Gianni grabbed him too fast for him to get away. “Fessi! Dummies! you’re nothing but a bunch of fessi! And then to his dismay he
realized he was crying. “Ah, poor baby!” said
Lidia, her voice smooth like when she treated him nicely, “They don’t understand like we do, do
they?” Her voice seemed to be coming closer, maybe she was going to measure him today, “Let me tell them why your name means you’re smart.” “AH! Tell us! Tell
us!” cried Gigi and Antonio. “Pascal was a famous
French professor, a genius. Pascal’s mother knew her baby was going to be a
genius, too. So she named him after this French genius. Isn’t that right,
Pascal?” “Yes,” said Pascal.
He waited. “Oh, well, now that
we know why you’re so smart, we can see we better get to work,” said Antonio.
“And since you are a genius, Pascal, you can understand why we have got to
measure you. Don’t you?” “No,” said Pascal,
“You’ve already measured me before, you don’t need to do it again.” He was
getting tired of laying on his back even if the floor was nice and cool, and
Gianni’s hands pushing him down so he couldn’t get away were beginning to
make holes in his chest. “But of course we
gotta measure you,” said Gianni, “after all, you’re gonna die.” That
was the word Pascal couldn’t stand. “How do you know I’m gonna die?” he
cried, struggling again to free himself. Now Beppe and Lidia came to help
hold him down. “We all die, Pascal,” intoned Lidia, her
voice friendly, soothing, “we just want to be ready. It could happen at any
moment.” “It could happen to
you, too,” said Pascal. “Uéh, is that any way to talk to a lady?” Gigi’s voice was still
behind the bar, but it seemed to arrive over Pascal’s head like thunder. He
didn’t say anything. He went limp. Better get it over with. Then he could go
break up the ground with his trusty pickaxe. Break up the ground before they
plow it. He knew they hadn’t taken his pickaxe away from him because the
whole time they’d been holding him down, someone had always kept his foot on
the long, tough cord that tied his pickaxe to a loop of his jeans waist. He
could feel the cord pull when they did that, when they put a foot on his
cord. Maybe if he lay still he could go sooner: zitto a chi sape ’o gioco, keep quiet if you know the game.
Pascal smiled to himself. “Bravo, Pascal, good boy. Just relax and we’ll be done in a moment.”
Lidia’s voice fell softly down upon him like a feather. He felt Gianni’s
hands lift off his chest. He breathed deeply. They still held him by the arms
and legs and the tension on the cord of his pickaxe was still pulled tight,
but at least he could breathe. He felt weak. He always did after he got so
mad. “You want me to
measure you, eh, Pascá?” Lidia said softly. “Sí,” replied Pascal softly. He heard snickers but now he didn’t
mind. Keep quiet if you know the game.
Zitto. Zitto. Keep quiet. He held his breath. Soon the measuring would be
over. Then they would show him the crumpled drawing of the coffin they were
making for him, at their own expense. As soon as they let him go he would run
out of there, his pickaxe running after him as it always did when he ran,
clanging on the asphalt after him. “Okay, Pascal,” said
Lidia, finally. He tried not to see the coffin-drawing wagging in his face,
but to look as if he did. “Aren’t you going to
thank us?” “Thank you,” said
Pascal, trying not to sound as if he said it between his teeth. “Good guaglió,” said Beppe, patting him on
the head, but stopping when he saw Pascal’s look. “You can go now,” he
added, with a smile. And Pascal was out of
there like lightning, his faithful pickaxe running along the asphalt after
him. After running without
direction for what seemed like hours, Pascal plopped himself down by the side
of the road. He hadn’t even noticed where he was running to, he had been in
such a hurry. Now he saw he was not far from the Di Nardi’s big house. As he
looked up at the building on the hill about half a kilometer away he heard
his stomach growl. He got up and started to walk toward their house. The Di Nardis always
gave him food, he was always welcome at their table, even after his wife had
kicked him out. In fact, that was why he’d gone to the bar in the first
place. When no one was around Lidia would often take pity on him and tell him
how his son and daughter were doing. Concetta wouldn’t let him see them. Not
since she kicked him out. Why had she kicked
him out? Pascal scratched his head. He couldn’t remember why. All he knew was
the Di Nardis wouldn’t kick him out, and that his top jacket was making him
hot after all that running—or maybe it was the two sweaters under his two
jackets? Well, he would probably never know—even the French Pascal probably
wouldn’t even know which piece of clothing was responsible for making him
hot—all he knew was that he had no closet to put his clothes in and he hated
carrying things—that’s why he dragged his pickaxe instead of carrying it like
everybody else: if you know the game,
keep quiet. Zitto. Zitto. Keep quiet. “Shh, shh,” said Pascal to the road
under his feet. “Zitto a chi sape ’o
gioco! IF YOU KNOW THE GAME—Ha, ha, and I know the game, so I
am keeping quiet!” said Pascal and he giggled into his hands. When he looked
up after having had a good laugh to himself, he saw a stray dog looking at
him as if he wondered what he was laughing at. “Who’re you looking at, dog? Mind your own business,” said Pascal in a stern voice, and
to himself, “Zitto. Quiet. Shh.” It
worked. The dog had disappeared. Soon Pascal was
walking the thin, steep, curvy, dirt road that lead ever up to the big house
where he would find food to eat. He was thinking about that, and how he used
to zappare, break the earth, with
his pickaxe for this family for so many years. Then the plow could make its
deep crevices in the land. But without the work of his faithful pickaxe, the
plow would break on the rocks he would throw away as he broke the earth. He
liked to till the earth with his pickaxe, and his pickaxe liked to hit the
rocks and let him know they were there so he could throw them away. The Di
Nardis knew a good zappatore when
they saw one. Pascal had always gotten a certain satisfaction from working
for them. And they had understood when he told them that he couldn’t zappare anymore until he had a closet
to put his extra clothes in. They had been very understanding and had even
offered to put his clothes in one of their closets, but he couldn’t do that.
Not even for the time he would zappare
their land. The lady in the kitchen tried to trick him like they did at the
bar, but out of respect Pascal couldn’t tell the Di Nardis that. So he just
shook his head and they fed him anyhow, knowing that he would zappare with his pickaxe as soon as he
got his own closet in his own home once again. He was almost at the
end of the little dirt path at the foot of the big house when three of the Di
Nardi children jumped out from behind the huge prickly pear cactus and started
squirting water at him with their plastic pistols. If he hadn’t been so hot
he might have gotten mad, but actually it felt good getting streams of water
on his face to cool him off. It was what they said that bothered him. The skinny little
girl stood right in his path so he couldn’t ignore her and with her hands on
her hips, feet planted apart like a maschietto,
a little boy, she said, “Pascá, where do you think you are going? You can’t
go anywhere here. You can’t come here.” “Oh, yes I can,” said
Pascal firmly. And he started to walk around her when one of the little boys
popped in front of him at her side, squirting him all over as he talked,
wagging his scruffy dark, curly head like a dog wags its tail back and forth. “He wants free food,”
screamed the maschietto. “That’s
what you want, isn’t it, Pascal?” “NO—” started Pascal,
but there was no stopping these little monsters. “You want a handout,
don’t you, Pascá? Uéh, Ma’! Pascal wants a handout.” And
then the other two, the skinny, odious little girl and the other maschietto, who was so small he looked
like he could hardly hold up his plastic pistol, started chimming in, in
unison, “Pascá wants a handout, Pascá wants a handout, PASCÁ WANTS A
HANDOUT!!!” “I AM NOT A BEGGAR!”
shouted Pascal, trying not to cry in front of these little snotty-nosed
babies, “I—” “Pascá wants a handout! A HANDOUT, a
HANDout!” “I—I—” “A HAND, HAND,
HANDOUT!!!” Pascal became very
quiet, and said in a low voice that the kids would have to be quiet to hear,
“Ninnilli stateve bbuone, kiddies, be
good.” But the children kept
on repeating what they said, so Pascal kept on repeating what he said, until
the littlest boy came up and stepped on Pascal’s foot. “NINNILLI STATEVE BBUONE! Before I lose my patience!” shouted
Pascal. But the children wouldn’t stop, they were too wound up. At that
moment, their great aunt, the lady of the house who always treated Pascal
with respect, understood who he was—she had known his mother—she, Donna Gina, came out on the balcony
above where they were standing. “Bimbi! Kiddies!” she cried at the children, who didn’t hear her
at first. “BIMBI! STOP IT AT ONCE!
STOP TORTURING PASCAL! You must respect your elders! Bad bimbi! Come in the house! Dinner’s ready.” The children
scattered like horseflies on the scent of fresh meat. “You come up, too,
Pascal, I’m sorry about the children.” Donna Gina shook her head and smiled
sadly at Pascal. “That’s okay, Donna Gina,” said Pascal,
“But I’m glad you came when you did—” “Hush, Pascal, come
up and wash your hands, tonight we have your favorite, brodo vegetale, vegetable broth. And some cheese and capicollo sausage, cut fine.” “You are the best,
Donna Gina,” said Pascal. “If I weren’t already married to Concetta, I’d
marry you!” Donna Gina waved her arm at him and turned away so quickly to go
into the house that he wasn’t sure if his bold remark had pleased her or not.
True, she was thirty years his senior, and she was also from a family who
would never allow him, a poor zappatore,
to marry her—maybe she was offended because she had been friends with his
mother and so was like family? He decided he better apologize when he got
around the house and up into the dining area. Once he had entered
the house, however, he was greeted at the door by the awful hired help Fiorella.
She always tried to get him to eat the scraps for the dogs that she put aside
just for him, but he knew she poisoned them, just for him. He was wise to
her. So he pretended he didn’t see her at all and walked right passed her and
into the hallway that lead to the dining room. He could hear her mumbling
about how rude he was, as Donna Gina came to him and told him to go sit down.
Better she grumble than that he be dead. When he got in the room, everyone
was already sitting down, even the little ninnilli.
He could never remember them all, there were so many of the Di Nardis, big
and small—so he didn’t try. He was about to head for his place, the one right
next to where Donna Gina’s brother, Don Osvaldo, sat, when he saw his place
was occupied. He stopped in his tracks and stared at the young lady sitting
there. She smiled at him. He didn’t budge. What did she expect him to do?
Smile back? Sit somewhere else? He waited. He waited. He became embarassed. “Come on in, Pascal,”
said this young lady with a smile. She pointed at an empty place, and
everyone was waiting. But he couldn’t sit there, so he just waited, too. Finally she got the
idea and said, “What’s wrong?” She was wrong if she thought he was going to
tell her. He waited some more. “Pascá, do you want
to sit where I’m sitting? Is that the problem?” Ah! She had understood,
finally! Pascal nodded and she got up and took the empty seat on the other
side of the table. Then Donna Gina came in with the steaming vegetable broth
creating clouds of vapor which floated temptingly behind her as she came into
the room. As usual when he came
by, she served him first. That was because she understood who he was. He
smiled up at her and then remembered to apologize. “Donna Gina, I didn’t
mean to be so bold when I said I would marry you if I weren’t married. I
didn’t mean to offend you, me being a lowly zappatore.” He heard some youthful snickering, but ignored the ninnilli. “You didn’t offend
me, Pascal, I know what you mean. Now try the broth and tell me what you think.” Pascal’s heart
swelled with gratitude for this great lady, and smiled at her in admiration
for a moment. “Go on, Pascal, try
the broth,” she coaxed with a gentle smile. He tried it, and it was even
better than it had ever been, and that was something incredible to say. “Donna Gina, this is
from Paradise itself—” “Thank you, Pascal,”
she said, and was going to go on and serve the next person at table when he
had an inspiration to honor her. “Donna Gina!” he
cried, “This broth is so good I’d like some to take with me! Put some in my
pocket! Then later I can sip it out of my pocket and think about your great
cooking ability.” He looked up at Donna Gina and she was so shocked at his
brilliance that she just stood there with her mouth open. “I mean it!” he
crowed, “See?” and he held the right side-pocket of his top jacket open for
her. “Pascal,” she said
modestly, “I can’t do that.” “Certainly you can,”
he said, “Just do it. You know, like that commercial on the T.V. Just do it.
Put it in my pocket.” He opened his pocket wider, and widely smiled. “Pascal,” she said,
irritated that he was making such a fuss over her in front of everybody, “I
can’t do that. The broth will go right through your pocket and dirty your
jackets and sweaters, shirts, and even your slacks. You don’t want to dirty
your clothes, broth is greasy.” “No it won’t,” he
said. “It’ll stay where it must.” Now the other people
at the table, including Don Osvaldo, were trying to change his mind. They
were all jealous of him. But he kept insisting. After what seemed like hours
he just started chanting, “Just do it, just do it, just do it,” until Donna
Gina, exasperated with his ardor for her gave in and put a ladle-full of
broth in his open pocket. He sighed with delight as he felt the hot broth snuggle
in his pocket and even fill the side of his slacks! Everyone was disgusted
with his luck, as Donna Gina continued to give everyone else some of that
wonderful broth. Pascal ate happily, humming to himself between gulpfuls. When dinner was done,
he thanked Donna Gina and the Di Nardo family and took his leave. He smiled
to himself, and when he went out the door he said under his breath so Don
Osvaldo couldn’t hear him, “Zitto a chi
sape ’o gioco, Keep quiet if you know the game.” He said it over and over
again, laughing to himself, and he must have gotten a little loud because
when he was starting to go down the windy little path away, Don Osvaldo
stopped him, gently catching his arm. “Pascal, you always
say, ‘keep quiet if you know the game.’ What game? What do you mean?” “Ha, ha,” said
Pascal; he really didn’t want to tell Don Osvaldo, but Don Osvaldo was
feeding him, so he thought that maybe he should share a bit of his secret. He
looked around; nobody else was there. Not even up on Donna Gina’s balcony.
“Okay, Don Osvaldo, but you must keep the secret, okay?” Don Osvaldo nodded
his head seriously, looking a bit perplexed. That was only natural. He didn’t
know the game, and he wasn’t named Pascal. Pascal took a breath
and said quickly in a low voice, “People think I’m so dumb and I don’t know
anything, and they think that my name doesn’t mean that I’m a genius because
they aren’t geniuses so they don’t understand. But I get fed every day just
like them only I don’t have to work like they do! Even Gigi at the bar works!
Even Lidia pays taxes! Even you,
Don Osvaldo—excuse me if I say so, but you asked—even you pay taxes and
work.” Then Pascal smiled to himself. “Zitto
a chi sape ’o gioco. Ha, ha. Ha, HA, HA, HA, HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!” And he
started running down the hill as fast as he could without tripping on his
trusty pickaxe, before anyone would catch on and ask him more about how to
play the game, because if too many people learned the game, there would be no
more game for Pascal; they would take that away from him like they had taken
everything else and without the game, life just hurt too much. Pascal slowed
down at the bottom of the hill; he forced himself to smile, forced himself to
laugh: he told himself, zitto, shh,
and kept walking toward the early rising moon. |