Handsome Freaks: The quiet ways of Zola

No one knew that Zola Piccolo had died that rainy spring morning in the village of Bergamo. There were no reports in the local paper, or mourners to carry her body to the place she was born. She had returned from Spain many years earlier, forgot that she existed and slowly disappeared, becoming more transparent with each quiet day that passed in the small stone apartment on Via Gombito. For years, Ghost like figures wondered the narrow halls, on drafty floors, searching for the once stubborn brazen woman, but she had no remaining substance, nothing that eyes could see, only the quietness of her ways. Zola did not believe in God because of sex. Especially a being with a penis, like the God-Man Christ. The closest She had ever come to worship was bowing to count the money in her red velvet purse after a profitable weekend in the markets selling her pig fat soaps. She never consummated her marriage, and had only faint memories of sexual intimacy from her youth, when she comforted her father in the silence of his room. Her first son, Piero Piccolo, was conceived in a bathtub; after she took a bath in her husband's leftover warm water, which was the reason Piero was so slight and frail. When Piero was born, the doctor said he would die very soon, so Zola instructed her husband, Elmo, to build a small coffin from the wood of a cypress tree. It was beautifully crafted, with carvings of many children at play around their father, as he harvested grapes in a plentiful vineyard. Pierobeing so slight and frailslept in the coffin until his feet hung over the edge at the age of three. Zola then had Elmo build

another, larger coffin, this time from the mulberry tree. Elmo adorned it with scenes of a bullfight in an ornate frame of red stained roses, and swords. Knowing that Piero would die soon, Zola did not pay much attention to him. From birth she had Elmo feed him goats milk from a pigs bladder so that he would not know the warmth of a woman's breast, and therefore know what he had missed in this life. She did not enroll him in school, or allow him to play with the other children in the nebiorhood, not because she was cruel, but to protect him from becoming too comfortable with the living. Spending most of his days at the window studying life in the street outside their apartment. The frail Piero quit speaking at age twelve, after asking Zola for a bed like she and his father had. He wanted it made from pine and carved with a brigata of soldiers, unified in collective step, like he had seen marching down their street, Via Gombito, on holidays. She told him that he was to die very soonas the doctor had saidso he should learn to be satisfied with a coffin, where the dead sleep forever. Soon after, he became invisible, and was never seen in the house again. It went unnoticed by Zola, because she set his place at the table as she always had done, his plate was cleaned as it always had been, andas was the routineran a bath for Piero each night, and instructed the invisible boy to wash his pene, as if it were his ano. A year after Piero became invisable, his younger brother Pio Piccolo was conceived; though not by Elmo, who was a very quiet man. It happened on her yearly trip to France where Zola sold her pig fat soap (and other beatifying products of pig fat), at different markets across the country.

In Avignon she met a priest, Father Matthieu Fulke, at the famed Spring Market on Rue de la Republique. His booth was next to hers. He sold a deep green tinted liquid medicine for charity, which could cure impotence, headaches, loose bowels and joint pains. She had suffered for many years with aching in her hips; only able to stand for an hour at a time before feeling she may collapse. She complained constantly about her hips to anyone that would listenalso to those that wouldn't. She had a talent of twisting any topic, even of God, to the topic of her hips. (Of course, on topics of God, she would bring up Christ's penis before a proper segue to her hips.) The Priest had a talent of steering conversations (even on the topic of aching hips) to the topic of God. That morning, Father Matthieu made small talk about the oppressively hot season the year had brought. He complimented her on her French after learning she was from Italy. She told him she was originally from the Spanish border town San Sebastian, where she sold sweet wine from her Father's vineyard and learned French as well as Spanish, but had become most comfortable with Italian, since she had lived there most of her life. She told him how she missed San Sebastian, especially the mild coastal weather. "But in my travels, the constant weather changes from Italy to France to Spain to Germany cause such an aching in my hips," shed said, Then asked whether he would mind helping her set up her booth so that she could rest her joints for a while, and prepare her soap. Father Matthieu was glad to help, and while hoisting the paper mache pig to the support beam of her tent, he commented on how much Christ's hips must have ached as he carried the cross to his death. She agreed that they must have ached, but said Christ didn't live long enough to have the profound aching of an old woman who had birthed a

child and traveled constantly carrying heavy bags of soap. The Priest responded, "though his life was brief, Christ felt all the sorrows and pains of man." "Yes but not of woman" She replied. The Priest gave a kindly patronizing smile "His sympathy is with us all, but a man's sin is twice that of a woman, so it was appropriate to choose the male form to redeem all flesh." "That is odd, I would think it would be dangerous for God to be roaming the earth with a pnis, I mean, isn't that why man has twice as much sin?" He dropped the pig "Our Lord does not have a pnis! the spidering purple veins on his cheeks turned red "I mean..." She tightened the string around the soap with a snap "Well does he or does he not?" "Well of course, he does or did," He said. "He is fully man and fully God, but he is without sin" "I am not so much worried about sin," she said. "We are talking about the God Man, Christ, sitting now, on his heavenly thrown, with a pnis." "Madam this is very inappropriate." He said. "Is it? I think God having a pnis is inappropriate." He rang his finger inside his tight collar. "Could you stop using that word, please." "What word?" "pnis!" He said. "I see. You must be ashamed of it for some reason, now think of your reasons for shame. Do you think God can rule the earth with the same member between his hips? Do you not think it would cloud his judgment! Oh, That is why women suffer so!"

The Priest turned varying shades of violent red, his crooked milky teeth clenched. He shoved his long trembling finger in the air. "Blasphemy! I fear for both us." She Laughed. "Why both of us?" "I fear for you, for his judgment will be swift against the blasphemer. I fear for me, because my tent is a mere two feet away." She laughed from the gut, holding her mouth and her stomach. The Priest tried to speak; nothing came from his mouth. Incensed, he turned on his heel and stomped the few feet to his shop. He flung a drape from his table, knocking over a few bottles of medicine, and proceeded to nail the drape, as a partition, between the two tents. The Priest's demeanor was of such a disturbing manner, he sold nothing that day, rather he brooded and paced the small area with retribution on his mind. He would peek through the drape to see her selling pig soap and filling her velvet red purse, unaffected by their controversy she had sparked. That she prospered still, after such vile heretical statements, spotted his chest with burgundy hives. He was aware from the history of the church; that God sometimes used a mere man to bring down swift judgment on the wicked, so he prayed to Saint Joan of Arc, the Patroness of France and war and asked for the courage to be such a blessed instrument of the lord. After much prayer and meditation he took a family portion of the green medicine from the shelf and popped the cork with his thumb. He then unlaced a small ornate gold vile, which hung from his neck; It was holy water and his most prized position. He had bought it with two days wages in Rome, out side of the Vatican. The monk that sold it to him said the Pope himself had blessed it for the special season of lent. He only could

dream of what powers of judgment it possessed. He poured the entire vile of holy water into the milky green liquid, which contained: Oriental rice whiskey, fabric dye, three ounces powdered opium and one half ounce of gunpowder. The consecrated brew bubbled and hissed, a green smoke snaked from the bottle into his nostrils and he saw the Prince and Principality battling in his tent. When the sun was on the decline and the busy shoppers where sparse he approached her with the green bottle behind his back and a contrite smile on his lips. "I've come to make amend as Christian's do," he said. She looked suspicious. "And how would that be? ...apology or a blessing?" "Both," he said, landing the bottle on the table stacked with soaps. "This is a medicine of great healing power, from the orient, where it is considered sacred. It cures most ills, including aching hips I might add." She took the bottle and weighed it in her hand. "The orient eh?" she said. "How much does it cost?" "Well being so quick to judge, and extremely impertinent in my zealousness for the lord, I would like to offer this bottle, free of charge, as a humble amendusually ten franc." "Ten franc?" she said, sniffing at the cork. "Must have the blood of Christ in it." A large vein suddenly protruded from the Father Matthieus forehead "Yes, you could say that...It is the family portion, and you, with what you have told me, concerning your hips, will need such an ample amount. "How kind of you," she said and started tugging on the cork. "Oh no, no. Not here."

He took the bottle from her hands. She looked at his face; he had a smile that revealed the missing molars behind his crooked lips. He showed her where he had written the prescription on the back label, stating that first, she must drink two pints of ale to coat and protect her stomach, also that she must not have anything to eat prior to administering, then she must consume half the contents of the bottle in one sitting, but, if desiring hastened relief, she was to consume the entirety of the bottle. Zola eyed the big bottle. "That will be hard to do, but it can't be harder than dealing with these aching hips. Thank you. He bowed slightly at the waist. "Your most welcome. I apologize again." She reached out to shake his hand. "I must say my hatred of Christians has lessened by one today." She stopped at a small sidewalk cafe on the way to her room and ordered two pint ales. The ale went down smooth. She became even more optimistic of the medicine's prospects. She took the green bottle from her bag and asked the attendee for a small clean glass; she didn't want to contaminate the medicine with the leftover muddy hops. As soon as she opened the bottle the smoke, like a siren, bid her to drink. She inhaled the smoke and felt a sublime peace seeing naked ghost, dancing around the small patio. She spent that early evening in the humid air, drinking the foul tasting liquid. She finished the bottle a little after 8pm, her head swam in murky visions of spotted light, the bottle fell from her hand, smashed on the cobblestone, and the judgment of God came swiftly upon her. The next morning she awoke with two smiling naked men beside her in bed. She first thought they were angels and asked whether Christ still had a Penis in Heaven. One said

he was from Russia, and had never been taught about Christ, so he did not know. The other said he was a Gnostic and didn't believe in the humanity of Christ so he suspected he did not have a Penis in heaven. She asked them if they had made love to her, and they both agreed that it would be ungentlemanly to discuss what they did to her the night before. When she arrived at her booth later that morning she saw that Father Matthieus had an aghast look on his face. She took a basket of soap to him with a great smile and offered it as a gift. She told him that her hips had never felt better and said she would gladly pay for another bottle of the miraculous medicine. Father Mattieu, very quietly, removed his collar and never spoke of God again. Nine months after her night with the Russian and the Gnostic, Pio was born. He was such a large baby that the doctor charged extra wages to deliver him. Within a few years, it was obvious that Pio was like no other. At three years of age he stood nearly 4 foot tall, and at eight, he was so tall that he looked down to speak his mother and Elmo. It was at this age that an old woman in the corner bakery revealed to him that he was a double cursed bastard because he was conceived by two men--a demon of nature. At dinner Pio asked Zola if what the old woman had said was true, she said it was, then added, "...one of them was a dirty Russian too!"

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There was a saying in old Italy, "It is better to be hungry than to be empty." Pio was both. His appetite was ravenous and rarely satisfied with the meager offerings his

mother allotted for each meal. His turbulent stomach insulted Zola. She would pour pints guilt on his head each meal as his belly growled in bitter pain. "How will we feed your abyss of a belly? I've taken to traveling an extra week of the month to pay for your mouth, and still your belly slaps my face," Shed say. When Pio was nine (the age of understanding) he began to question whether his twenty-three-year-old brother, Piero, actually existed. He had never seen or heard a sound from him before, and thought his mother was mad to instruct an empty bathtub, each night, to wash the pene as if it were the ano. The only mystery Pio had not solved about his missing brother, was how the full plate set for him each meal, became suddenly empty. But, one night, his faith was renewed; when his invisible older brother gave him his bowel of soup. It was a routine night, when after a meal, Pios stomach began growling as if it might eat itself. Zola reached across the table and began beating him with her baguette. The aroma of the warm bread slapping against his face made him ravenous, so snatched the baguette with his teeth, tore it in half and devoured it like an animal. When Zola ran to the kitchen to retrieve something more substantial to beat him with Piero's bowel of leak and potato soup glided, seemingly untouched, across the table to Pio. Pio thanked his invisible brother and sucked the potatoes and leaks from the bowel in one colossal breath. When Zola returned, with an iron pot, she saw Pio with Piero's bowel in front of him, empty. She threw the iron pot at Pio and said, a boy that would steal food from his dying brother was not worth beating, and went, as she did every night, to draw the bath for Piero.

After the incident with Piero's food, Pio was told by Zola to sleep on the flat roof of their apartment, saying there was no room long enough room to accommodate his great height. She instructed Elmo to construct a bed from the hard trunk of the olive tree. He built the bed with tenderness and quietness. He carved the great cities of America on the headboard, and surrounded them with a border of stars. The neighbor said Pios tears could extinguish the eternal flame of hell, for he would cry himself to sleep each night in grumbles and snorts echoing down the old stone walks. As weeks and months past on the quiet roof, his anguish and despair were of such great complexity, they could only be released in song; with each heaving breath and sigh, an outflow of music, which only a spirit could transcribe, poured from his chest. His song entered the dozing minds of neighbors sleeping near by, and they would awake in great mourning and prayer. The church proclaimed a revival at hand, and many lost souls were saved during those years. Pio, in desperation, would sometimes catch the boney rats that traveled the pipes that climbed the walls of the roof, and swallowed them hole (so as not to taste them), but still his stomach bellowed like a beast giving birth in the morning. Elmo, a very quiet man (so quiet in-fact he could walk through walls without disturbing the plaster), began climbing the stairs to the roof each night, after Zola was well asleep, with a satchel of her pig fat soaps, leaving them beside Pio so his stomach wouldn't disturb his wife in the mornings. At breakfast Pio would pop soap bubbles that formed in his mouth with his tongue, but one morning they had eaten cabbage soup with pigeon eggs, and he belched a

balloon of a bubble that was as large as his head. It floated towards his mother; she popped it with her spoon, tasted it, then sent Pio to the roof hungry. That night she followed Elmo into her workroom, where she manufactured the soap products, he took one of the many prepared satchels of soap bars, as he did each night, and deliver it to Pios bedside. The next evening she tied him to the bed but the ropes slipped through his quiet skin and bones, and he delivered the soap as he always had. In the following weeks she tried every form of restraint, but nothing could hold Elmo. If she nailed the door, he would walk through it, if she crushed glass on the floor, his feet, like an airy ghost, would be unharmed. She regretted that she had made such a quiet man of him that he could walk through walls. She begrudgingly produced an extra satchel of soap each day, for him to take to Pio on the roof. Bubbles filled the house each day and streamed from the rooftop each night. Young children would follow Pio home from school, laughing and jabbing him in the stomach with sticks (producing one large bubble). They would then try to capture bubbles before they popped. Soon, classes were filled with bubbles and the school expelled him for causing such distractions. With clearly no use in this world, Zola tried including Pio in her soap business, sending him to the Casa di Macello each night to collect the fat for the next days production. The first week he did well, returning with the two large baskets of fat on his shoulders and a grand smile on his face. But, secretly he began lusting after the sensuous

creamy slush on his shoulders, and one day, without even thinking, rewarded himself with a finger full, then another. When he returned to the apartment, he realized the baskets were much lighter than when he had started, then realized they were empty. That night Pio cried on the steps of their apartment until Elmo returned home from the tavern. Pio explained what had happened to the pig fat, and how he could not face his mother with the empty baskets. Barely able to stand, Elmo climbed a small cypress tree in the court yard and split a branch from the trunk. He then opened Pio's mouth with his fingers and shoved the branch down his throat. The problem was solved, the baskets were filled again with the pig fat, and Pio carried them to his Mother, as he had done, with a grand smile. He continued using the trick his father had taught him that allowed him to enjoy, if only a fleeing, relief of his desperate hunger each night. Soon Zola began to complain that her soap would not hold its form. She grew suspicious (which was her nature), and followed him one night, to and from the slaughterhouse. She realized, the soap would not hold its shape because of Pio's regurgitated stomach liquids, and so she sent him no more to the Casa di Macello. His violent sobs returned with an even more beautiful sigh of misery. Elmo heard Pios sobbing, and commit to give him something of interest in his life. So he built a large birdcage on the roof, and on weekends, captured select white pigeons at the park, stuffing them a bag, and transported them to the cage until it was full. The birds became Pios life and would keep him safe from the quiet nights. He felt a kinship with the birds that were far from home, imprisoned; though Pios bars could not be seen, they were as real as his invisible dying brother Piero.

Zola hated the birds, especially the waste they would drop in the courtyard. Pio would often find one of his bird friends on the dinner table, roasted to a perfect crisp brown with Rosemary and thyme. He would eat the pigeons to the naked bone, but would secretly resent his Mother for putting such contradictory feelings in his stomach. He was most angry that he still loved and needed his Mother so much.

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The evening of Pios thirteen birthday (the year of accountability), his mother asked him to assist her on a trip to Spain for the week of a thousand celebrations. She would need to take three times the soap and supplies, and could use his inhuman strength to transport the burdensome load. Pio was thrilled for a chance to win back her favor, and knew he had to impress her this time. That evening he opened the birdcage and set the pigeons free. He watched them scatter to different building rooftops and felt a certain freedom revealed in himself. He disassembled the cage and built a harness from the frame. Then took the wire mesh and formed two large baskets that hung from the edges of the harness. It fit over his shoulders like a yoke on an ox, and he practiced maneuvering it back and forth across the roof top. She told him what a creative boy he was and filled the meshed bags with all their belongings. Pio was not accustomed to the kindness his mother showed him on the trip to Spain, her warmth and her slight satisfied smile were foreign in the little apartment on

Via Gombito. She reminisced the days her mother was still alive, dancing through her Fathers vineyard in the early morning sun. She fed Pio like he had never been fed, buying pig snouts, chicken parts, and other leftover scraps from the kitchen car, and placing the feast before him. He felt a certain love from Zola, for the first time, that made him feel she was invested in his well being, and he was jealous to think of anyone else possessing that love. When they arrived in Pamplona, he hoisted the great supply bundles on his back, and his mother led him through the small winding streets of Pamplona. As the walked in the cool evening shade, she told him many family secrets that she had never revealed, and stories that made Pio laugh from his gut. She showed him the street on which she had met his Father (She reminded him, he was a bastard, and when she spoke of his Father, she spoke of the quiet man that walked through walls, not the Russian and the Gnostic.

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Zola had met her husband Elmo when she was fourteen, he was twenty-six. It was the longest day ever recorded in Spain's history. Many people fell in love that day and where married that night. Some even bore their first child. Zola had been selling sweet wine for her Father all morning to the thirsty celebrators lining the filling of Pamplona. She enjoyed the days they spent in Pamplona because her Father would become very drunk during the celebrations and as a result, unable to be comforted by her at night, though he might try. It was at the Running

of the Bulls, there were thousands of men lining the streets and she had sold all of her wineskins except one. She turned back towards the hotels where her father replenished her supplies every few hours. That's when a tall man with wet hair stopped her and requested the last wineskin. When she turned he was taken back by her extraordinary innocent beauty and told her that He had never seen such artistry of God. He had a deliberate way of speaking, as if he considered each word that left his lips. Zola was flattered by his words, and dazed by his almost black eyes, which looked through her and not at her. He asked whether she would wait for him at the bullring; she said her father did not allow her near the stadium. He stepped away backwards and told her he hoped would reconsider. "If I do, how will I find you with all the crowds?" She said. "Just follow the blood," he said with a sideways smile. Zola watched him disappear into the masses. The day was so long, when the bulls were finally released the men in red scarves, where well drunk and sleeping, sprawled on the stone streets, their white shirts stained with wine. The bulls that raced out of the pin in a rage, dust like smoke bellowing from their nostrils, were suddenly halted by the quiet of the sleeping city. With nothing to be enraged about, they wondered the streets of Pamplona tasting the only freedom they would ever know. The men awoke and shouted at the bulls, some shot guns in the air and beat them with their empty skins, but the bulls would not chase them.

Defeated and angry the men herded all the bulls into the stadium and slaughtered them in a blood-drenched delirium. Zola found her father in front of their hotel, gave him two hands full of money, and waited as he accounted for it thoroughly, then stuffed it in the crotch of his pants. He said, "Look Zola, see how it bulges today, we will have enough for a vineyard of your own won't we?" "Yes papa," She said diverting her eyes. He loaded more skins on her shoulders and told her not to wonder near the bullring. "Be careful, Dove," he said. "The men are hungry, because it is such a long day" She had reached a far enough distance that her Father could no longer see her, then ran to the stadium where she was to meet the man with almost black eyes and wet hair. She looked for the trail of blood that he said would lead to him, but there was no blood. As she neared the stadium there were great shouts that shook the ground beneath her feet. She ran even faster, pushing her way through the boisterous loitering men. She climbed onto the front row of the stadium where she could see crowds of men in a circle thrusting their fist in the air and shouting in unison. A horn blasted, the circle opened like a gate; she could see a bullfighter slumped on one knee with several swords in his back. He had a hollowed severed bullhead over his own and his white shirt was drenched in dark red streaks. He tried to stand, shook his head, and the bullhead fell to the ground. The crowd shouted "...Elmo Piccolo il Toro." That's when she saw the almost black eyes that look through and not at. His face was red with blood and rage.

Without thinking Zola dropped under the rails, dropped several feet, and ran onto the field. She heard the shouts and howling of hungry men as they poured from the stands. Hundreds of hands, unseen by her, ripped her dress off and tore the wine skins from her shoulder. She fell and crawled as men descended upon her. They had eyes of wolves and clawed at her naked body. She clamored to her feet, stumbling forward. Through an opening, she saw the bullfighter stand and rip the cape from his back in one palatial move (still pierced with many swords). He held up the red cape in front of himself and began charging towards Zola, knocking men to the ground that stood in his way. She gained control, and ran towards the cape as fast as she could. She dove into his arms, and burst through the other-side of the cape, looked back and saw him holding the flowing red and black cape out to his side with his back to her. The crowd cheered even more loudly, and the ground shook. She thought she had tripped and stood again. He turned on his heel and walked briskly towards her, holding out the cape, as if to shield her nakedness from the ravenous men. He smiled at her with his dark eyes calling. It was like the ancient books of love, she thought, and ran towards him with arms open. But again, she broke through the cape with nothing behind it. Zola lay on the ground, dizzy, seeing spots of bright blood falling from the sky. The haze cleared, the falling blood spots were revealed in a thousand roses, raining from the stands. The bullfighter picked one up and put it in his teeth, bowed at the waist to the charged crowds, she then realized that he had no intentions of covering her nakedness like the ancient books of love. His back turned, she clenched a sword that had fallen from his blood dappled back, clutched it in her hand and lunged at his heart. He swiftly spun, flapping his cape

with a snap, and like a great wave of the ocean the cape broke over her and she landed flat in the sand. Enraged, she chased him in circles around the ring, determined to carve his almost black eyes from his head, but he averted her each time with great eloquence. Finally Zola could run no more, fell to the ground nearly unconscious with muddy tears mingled in dust on her cheeks. The crowd flooded the field, cheering and singing. They carried the Fighter on a thousand arms out of the stadium leaving Zola, naked and exhausted, on a bed of trampled roses. After the cheers were gone and the ground no longer shook, Zola stood to leave. She heard two feet packing the sand quickly towards her and turned. It was the fighter, with his cape again in front of him, running to her, just as before. With her last breath of strength, she picked up a sword and pointed it at his heart. She ran towards him with the sword braced in her petite hands. He did not change course, and when the sword was at the point of entering his chest, he slapped it aside with one hand and twisted her tight in the cape, thrusting her back to his chest. He wrapped both arms around her tight, pressed his rough face against her smooth cheek, "It was the only way; the men were hungry." She kicked and screamed, but he grasped even tighter. "Such a fool you made of me," she said. "You would have been raped, defiled, and I would be dead." "I would rather be defiled than to be such a fool. What will I do now, I cannot show my face in Pamplona again." Elmo caressed her cheek, held her bosom tight, "Then I will marry you, he whispered, and take you far away were no one will know your shame," his almost black eyes seemed to glow with the moonlights refection.

He kissed her, Zola tore away and slapped him, digging her nails into his dark

skin, three red lines appeared on his cheek. "I would rather die, she said. Tears streaked her dirty face. He wrapped the cape around her and said, "Please change your mind, I'm at the Gran Hotel La Perla. I am Elmo Piccolo" He turned and walked away. "My father will kill you when he finds out!" She screamed. Zola ran to the Hotel where her Father drank each night in Pamplona. She rushed to him crying and explaining everything that had happened in the bullring. He said he had heard, that it was the talk of the Pamplona. He laughed, but saw that she did not. He had two more swift glasses of whiskey and walked her back to their room. He was very drunk but still managed a few comforting words. "What you need Zola is a hot bath to wash away the humility, I will draw it for you, and these things will pass," he said leaning on her shoulder. She heard the water running in the other room--he called to her. She still was unconsciously clutching the sword that she tried to kill the Bullfighter with when she pulled the bathroom door open. She was not surprised to see him naked in the water.

When Zola arrived at Elmo the bullfighter's room, she was wearing a clean white dress with small blue flowers that freckled the waist. He opened the door startled. "You," he said.

She pushed the door slamming it against the wall; "I will marry you if you will take me far away this night. "Where is the Father, the one who will kill me?" He said with a grin. "Just follow the blood," she said. They were married on midnight of the longest day. They rode all night on a black horse to the French border where they took a train to Italy. As the train rolled through the serine French countryside, Elmo told her excitedly of his hopes: many children and a vineyard, and a trip to America, where they would find riches, and cover her neck with gold and jewels. He did not notice, because of love, that she did not listen. When they found a home in Bergamo, he made her a grand bed from olive branches, with solid cedar slats that he carved on a horse, stained black, racing across a an empty field, a woman clutching a man. But She would not make love in the grand bed, and he soon found that love was a commodity in rare supply with Zola. Elmo tried for years to find the path that would lead him to her heart, but found all paths were closed, on rocky cliffs, too dangerous for man to traverse. So he became very quiet.

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As they worked each day selling soap, Zola filled Pio full of her stories and the young dreams of herself and Elmo; he took hold of them as if they were the fragile birds he once loved and set free.

All the memories of his mother belittling him, and calling him double cursed, were gone like shadows under a bridge. He loved her, and felt loved by her. The future was an expansive ocean to him now. He could see a life beyond the roof, where there would be no more tears, sighs, and bitter songs. No more bars as real as the invisible brother. They worked continually day and night selling from tent to tent, it wasn't long before all the soap was gone, and Zolas little red velvet purse was full. She showed Pio the purse and let him hold it. "Notice the weight," she said. "We could by you a vineyard!" But I wouldnt know what to do. Pio said. I could show you. She said, My father had a vineyard you know. you told me Momma. The celebration continued as small pockets of people made their way to the train station. Zola and Pio pushed their two small bags on the rack above the row of three seats. Pio sat in two and his mother beside him. He thanked his mother for telling him their history. She patted his knee and told him "Even a bastard has a past. He told her that this trip had been the single most sublime time of his life and he knew, now, he could carry the pig fat home without eating it and throwing it up. He said he would make her proud. The train horn howled and the sound of compressed air hissed bellow them. "We must celebrate such a great profit..." Zora said. "...with two arroz con leche, my favorite dessert." "Perfetto!" Pio said.

He watched her join the long line at the food stand inside the station. He lay back in his seats and thought of the longest day in Spains history. He thought maybe he would become a bullfighter like his father and fall in love with a beautiful Spanish girl. He liked his father's dreams--many children, a vineyard, America--what could be better. A train horn blasted, and he looked at his faint reflection in the window, with a comfortable smile. He was tired from the long days carrying soap from tent to tent, and his eyes were heavy. The train across from theirs was rolling slowly, and he wondered what wonderful part of the world it would arrive at. He couldn't wait to tell Piero of his tripif he could find himand how much money they had made in just three days. Pio would surely be jealous, and maybe even say something. Pio wanted Piero to be jealoushe wanted be someone to be jealous of. The people in the row of seats in front of him, waved to the departing train slowly picking up speed beside them. He waved and laughed at the men hanging from the windows with wineskinsmostly young Americans. A strange feeling came over him when he found himself waving at his mother, directly across the tracks from where he sat. She didn't wave or even see him. She sat eating a cup of what looked like arroz con leche. He thought maybe she had jumped the wrong train, so he banged on the glass of the window. Her train picked up speed. He stood and ran with the train pushing through people, banging, yelling. "Tereno errato!" he cried with his grand baritone voice. When he reached the last window, she turned as if she heard something. Their eyes locked and she waved. She pointed in a down word motion and mouthed something he couldnt make out.

Momma, he said in a whisper. He walked back down the row of staring people, sat down, and looked down at his feet. There was the velvet purse, filled to bursting. He looked at his transparent image again in the window and became very quiet.