The Demon Catchers of Milan (24 page)

Giuliano put his arm around me.

“I just want it to end,” I said.

“I know,” he said, and I’m pretty sure he did. He pulled me to him, and I rested on his shoulder. After a while, I stopped shaking.

“Nonno?”

“Yes?”

“What was that thing the demon said? It wasn’t in Italian? And Uncle Matteo answered him.”

“
,” Nonno said.
“Molon labe.”

He smiled slightly and rubbed his forehead, turning to Emilio, who leaned around him again to explain.

“It’s Greek, ancient Greek.”

“I didn’t know Uncle Matteo spoke ancient Greek,” I said.

Emilio smiled, and Nonno said, “My brother and I do, and Emilio and Anna Maria are studying it.”

“But not enough,” Emilio added apologetically.

His grandfather shrugged. “With more than thirty verb tenses, it takes a while. Don’t worry.”

“So what did the demon say in ancient Greek?” I pressed.

“You know the Battle of Thermopylae?” asked Emilio.

I shook my head; Milanese history was hard enough, without throwing in some place that sounded like a board game.

“About four thousand desperate Greeks facing twenty thousand Persians, knowing they would have to die to hold the pass just long enough for the Greek lands behind them to organize. King Xerxes of Persia told the Greeks to lay down their weapons, and King Leonidas of Sparta said,
‘Molon labe’
—Come and get them.”

“Wow,” I said. For some reason, probably because it was three in the morning, I could picture a narrow strip of coastline at the foot of a cliff, full of men facing death, some of them looking at the sea for the last time, thinking—what? Probably that they’d rather be fishing.

What a strange thing for the demon to say, to paraphrase the heroic words of some long-dead king. I thought about the immensity of that choice, of being willing to die for the sake of the people and the place you love.

Would I do that?
I thought.
Yes
, I answered myself. Not for Center Plains or Milan, no. But for Gina. For Mom and Dad. They would all lay down their lives for me, regardless of how they felt about certain things—regardless of how angry Dad was about my being here. He’d let me go, though, hadn’t he? For all three of them, I’d do what I had to. And for my new family? Maybe—yes.

I might have to die, if the demon came back into me and started laying about like he had tonight. To protect others, I might have to die. Had Martino had to make that choice? Or Luciano, Emilio’s father? I thought for a moment of that whispered midnight conversation between the two men beside me, that seemed to have taken place centuries ago: “She’s not going to survive.” I wondered why I didn’t feel angry at them; I was probably too tired.

I shook myself out of my thoughts. Coastline, silence, the breathing of the men beside you, waiting: giving up everything. I looked across at Lisetta, breathing softly in the hospital bed.

“The best account, though, is in Herodotus,” Emilio went on. “You should read him eventually, once you’ve got a good grasp of our history here.”

I’d at least heard of Herodotus, so I could nod sagely without faking it this time.

“What did Uncle Matteo say back to him, when he said, ‘Come and get them’?”

“ ‘Very well then.’ ” Emilio smiled.

I thought for a minute, frowning.

“What kind of demon quotes from Herodotus?” I asked.

Emilio laughed.

“I don’t know,” he said. “It’s a good question, though.”

“Definitely one I’m thinking about,” said his grandfather. He straightened up, stretching. “But not just now, to be honest.”

Nonno pulled out a worn pack of playing cards, shuffling them on a hospital tray.

“Do you know how to play Briscola?” he asked me as he
dealt out to the three of us, discarding a two.

The question made my eyes sting. My grandfather had taught us. That, and the food my grandmother cooked, seemed like the only Italian things that didn’t put him in a bad mood.

“A little,” I said.

“Good. I’m too tired to teach you.”

Emilio chuckled. He took the cards his grandfather dealt him and smiled his one-cornered smile at them. I watched him, thinking about how getting to know him better hadn’t helped my crush; in fact, it had made it worse. I decided not to let that stop me from beating him at cards, if I could.

We played until I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer. Sometimes I won, which took my mind off of where we were, and why.

I didn’t mean to fall asleep, and for a long time I thought I would be too scared to, but in the end, I only dimly noticed as Nonno gently prized the playing cards from my hand and spread my coat over me.

When I opened my eyes, Giuliano and Emilio were both sleeping, and the girl on the bed was looking at me. She smiled a slow and terrible smile, like a reptile.

When I jolted awake and opened my eyes again, she was still asleep, and Emilio and Giuliano were awake, talking softly. So I’m pretty sure it was a dream.

TWENTY-TWO

La Befana

S
omebody must have shuffled me home in a car at some point. I woke up in time to watch the Pope come out on his balcony on TV. “How is she?” I asked, coming to sit on the couch by Nonna and Nonno, cradling my usual bowl of morning coffee in my hands.

“She? The Pope’s a he. Mind your pronouns,” Nonna corrected absently.

“No, I mean Lisetta, in the hospital.”

“Ah!” She gave me an approving look.

“Good that that was the first question you asked,” said Giuliano. “Matteo and Francesco are there. They will call us when she wakes up. She will wake up; she was looking better before we left.”

“What did you tell her parents?”

“Father Giacomo and I agreed that it would be best to say she had a fit. He’s coming over this afternoon,” he added to his wife.

“Of course he is,” she said, looking fixedly at the TV.

“I don’t think we have to worry,” Nonno said.

“Wait and see,” she replied expressionlessly.

There was a whole panettone on the coffee table, plates beside it. I cut myself a slice. Nonna smiled at me and said, “You helped make it taste so good.” I smiled shyly back and said, “It probably tastes good in spite of me.… Oh! I mean, thank you, Nonna.” I had already tried a slice of a store-bought one that a new neighbor had brought by the shop. Giuliano had eaten his share out of politeness, content to let someone else in the neighborhood explain why this was a faux pas; it certainly hadn’t seemed very special to me, kind of like cardboard with currants and citrus peel in it. Dipping it in coffee had helped, but not enough to make me see why our family would go to the trouble of actually
making
the stuff.

I took a bite. Nonna watched.

“Better than that neighbor’s?” asked Giuliano.

To my surprise, it was: sweeter, softer, richer, far more flavorful—even the currants and lemon peel made sense—a much more fitting gift from a nobleman. I could imagine that Renaissance lover and his baker girl much more easily now. I didn’t answer Giuliano, just nodded vigorously, my mouth full of sweet bread.

Bit by bit, the house filled up again. Nobody seemed to want to talk too much about what happened the night before. They would drop their bit of news into the conversation and go into the kitchen to get something to drink. On normal days, Nonna was the one who got glasses for everyone. It looked to me like Christmas Day was her day off. I was suddenly filled with love for them, coupled with annoyance that that was probably her only day off.

We gradually moved into the kitchen, everyone adding their dishes to our Christmas Day lunch: Matteo and Brigida brought a roast turkey stuffed with chestnuts; Emilio finished up the tortellini from the night before and tossed them into chicken broth; Anna Maria brought a horrible stuffed pig’s leg, which she assured me was delicious; and Francesca and Égide rounded off the meal with breads and salads.

“Nobody at the butcher’s remembers,” said Francesco. “I dropped off a panettone for Signora Strachetti, after we came back from the hospital. Lisetta is doing as well as can be expected,” he added, looking at me.

“Thank you,” I said.

“Good, good,” said Emilio. “Signora Strachetti was in one of the back pews, so that’s good news too. Beppo doesn’t remember, either.” He quickly changed the subject. “Tell us about Christmas in America, Mia.”

So I did. I told them how mall Santa Clauses kind of creeped me out, how my mother baked the best coffee cake in the world, how hard it was to wait until after breakfast to open presents.

“Some people open presents on Christmas Day here,” said Égide. “But most people wait until January sixth. It’s mostly for children, of course.”

“Yes, and Santa Claus doesn’t bring them,” said Emilio. “
La Befana
does.”

He gave me a quick grin and added, “She’s an old witch all dressed in black. The three kings asked her to come with them to Bethlehem, but she didn’t think it was a big deal, so she waited, and then tried to follow them later, but it was too late. So she flies around the world and leaves gifts at every house that has a child in it, just in case it’s the Christ Child.”

“I think she mostly flies around Italy,” Francesca amended mildly.

For some reason, I pictured
La Befana
as Signora Negroponte. But I didn’t think Signora Negroponte would be that dumb. She would have worked out that all these kids weren’t Christ.

“That explains the witches hanging in shop windows,” I said. “I couldn’t figure it out. You don’t really have Halloween.”

I felt a knot of disappointment in my stomach, although of course it could have been just too much food. I hadn’t known what to do about presents for everybody, but I had gotten something small for each of them, sneak-purchasing gifts while out on errands with various relations, saving money that they gave me, getting Nonna or Égide to pass by one shop or another on our way to somewhere else.

I’d gone to some trouble, and the gifts were wrapped and waiting in my room. I hadn’t been sure where to put them.
Now maybe I would embarrass everyone because nobody gave gifts? I knew that a few small packages were sitting out on a pyramid-shaped shelf that had only come out the day we had hung up holly and mistletoe. But there was no tree, no pile of presents. That’s when I really missed home.

When we all retired to the living room with coffee and a few last sweets, I made a decision.

“I’ll be right back,” I said.

I went to my room and brought back all my packages, pressed to my chest.

“I know it’s not really tradition and maybe you want to wait for
La Befana
, but where I come from we do give gifts on Christmas Day. So, uh, here. You can wait till January sixth to open them if you want.”

I started passing them out while my relatives stared at me. I wondered if it had been a bad idea, but it felt right, and I have never liked the feel of gifts that sit ungiven.

For Francesca and Égide, I’d gotten beautiful bottles of ink from the shop down the street. They were handblown glass, with real corks sealed in wax, and the ink was supposed to be really high quality. For Nonna, a bracelet like the one I had gotten my mom, only with green stones in the flowers. For Nonno, a brass bookmark with a cloisonné design of a candle on it. For Uncle Matteo, a pot of the Piedmontese mustard that disguises itself as jelly. (He laughed for a long time when he opened it.) For Aunt Brigida, a simple silver bracelet, really elegant, I thought. (I couldn’t tell if she liked it.) For Francesco, an
American mystery novel translated into Italian with big serious block letters on the front. (I’d seen him reading them.)

Anna Maria had been really hard to choose for, because nothing would be cool enough, and every time I thought I saw something she would just die for and that would finally prove how cool
I
was, it was way, way too expensive. So I handed her her package, which was a lot bigger than the others, and said, “This might seem kind of strange, but I just had a feeling, and I hope I’m right,” while she blinked at me. I swallowed hard, hoping she’d at least get the joke, even if she didn’t like it. She started opening it right then and all around the room I could hear the sound of rustling paper, which I hadn’t known until then was the sound I was missing. Nobody was waiting for January sixth. Anna Maria was the last to pull off all the wrapping paper, from the lamest thing I think I’ve ever bought: a stuffed Snoopy doll.

She stared at it for a full minute, then burst into tears and stood up and hugged me really hard.

“Who told you? Who told you?” she demanded.

“Wow, I’d forgotten,” Francesco said behind us.

“Nobody told me anything,” I said. “It’s okay? You like it?”

“I love it,” she said. “Really, nobody told you?”

She looked around the room accusingly, but everybody shrugged. She turned to me.

“Thank you so much. I have to go fix my eyes,” she said, and with another tiny sob she grabbed her purse and ran to the bathroom.

I watched her go.

Francesco repeated, “I’d completely forgotten. Ah. It’s not a pretty episode in my history.”