that polenta* that the sub-factor's wife for forty-five minutes had turned and turned with a wooden stick and then, pataplaf!** copper on a wooden board and with a wire each one cut his own steaming slice; and soon after, a good smell of resin and glue, no Titta is gone.
Our front door looks great, yet it isn't the goal - that is, one of the two leaves - of one of the doors that have not been completely destroyed. Neither the stucco nor the paint have managed to make the marks left by the splinters disappear completely.
You have many hidden wounds and I have some too, Papa had told me. Not only us men, things also have hidden wounds, I thought as I opened the door.
In the sitting room, my mother. Sitting in front of the reconstructed fireplace with some pieces of the beautiful sixteenth-century fireplace recovered from the rubble, a newspaper on her lap, she seemed absorbed.
"I've finished the story. Do you want to take a walk or would you prefer to go to Latisana, or..."
"Adriana..." she said and turned her head towards me.
"What's up?"
"The ship... The ship has arrived..."
"Which ship? There were so many arriving in Venice."
"The ship with the Hemingways."
"Are you sure? Who told you?"
"The newspaper." She said. "The newspaper says they arrived last night..."
"Mom, I have to see them!"
"You'll see them. As I promised you. As soon as they go to the Kechler's in the country."
"I can't wait that long. For three years, three long years he never came back because of me. He was about to die in Africa and now he is just an hour from here, injured, sick... He did not warn of their arrival so as not to embarrass you.
* cornmeal
** Onomatopoeia that mimics the noise that something makes when it falls and hits violently on the ground or any object
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