in front of a shop window without offering to give me something. Nice of him, but awkward. As far as I knew, gifts were only given at Christmas or birthdays.
Halfway through the Procuratie, Papa suddenly stopped: "Here I met Gianfranco, last March," he said. "You saw him from afar, you said," That and my brother, just back from New York. "He walked like an Indian, he looked absent but as soon as he saw you he smiled. When you introduced us he said" Humm."
"Sometimes he talks hard. But I understand him. That 'Humm' meant he was glad to know you."
"Nice boy. I like that boy," Pape said resuming walking. "Maybe we'll meet again soon. In Cuba." he then said."
"You have a good memory, "I said.
"Some time." Ernest Hemingway smiled.
I remembered too, now. "In Cuba?" Papa had repeated, surprised.
"Concluded just now" explained Gianfranco.
"Concluded what?" I had asked.
"Work. Life's strange coincidences. Months of looking for work in the United States, then one evening a Venetian friend from Saint Regis offers you a job in Cuba. Sidarma."
"Are you saying you are going to work in Cuba for Sidarma?" I asked excitedly.
"In Havana" had specified Gianfranco.
"As of now you can count on me" Papa said.
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