Lost Words Read Free

kill you.”
    The only one who didn’t complain about the cold was Bortolon. She had no intention of spending money on fuel—all she needed to stay warm, she was proud to boast, was her husband. Didn’t the rest of them have husbands? . . . In the meantime, she would light the oven—which was cheaper anyway—and bake a nice cake.
    To console myself from all the hen-pecking, I started to fantasize about the person who was supposed to move into the Petillo’s one-bedroom apartment, the woman with a “y” in her surname. Would she be different? Would she show more consideration for my mother? Or would she be just one more person tormenting her with stupid requests? Despite my mother’s forebodings—all based on experience—I imagined Miss Lynd to be kind and respectful, even if I still couldn’t picture her face or her voice . . . For me her essence was summarized in that strange surname, Lynd. Lynd, Lynd, Lynd—shimmers of music, tinkling of silver . . . All the others were coarse and ugly by comparison: Dell’Uomo, Bortolon, Mellone, Terzoli, Paolini, Mantegazza . . .
    â€œMomma, when is Signor Petillo moving out?” I asked impatiently.
    â€œWhat’s it to you?” she replied, surprised I would care. “Sooner or later he’ll leave, don’t worry. He’s waiting for his transfer to come through . . .”
    Having been bombarded with complaints, the building manager ordered the heating to be turned on earlier than usual this year. It had been authorized by the municipality.
    â€œFine,” my mother conceded. “We’ll turn it on. The signore want heat? They can have it. Let the whole bunch of them burn alive!”
    The maintenance man came to check the furnace. He cleaned out the tank and the first fuel shipment was delivered. We turned it on and the water started boiling in the pipes, spreading warmth through the apartments. What a blessing! No more shivering. The laundry dried in a second. The older Mantegazza stopped coughing. You could lounge around the apartment in a T-shirt—even without socks, even bare-boot, since the marble floors were no longer ice-cold . . .
    After dinner my father took me to the boiler room, down a steep and narrow iron staircase outside the building. In all these years I’d never been there before—it wasn’t a place for children.
    â€œThis is disgusting!” he complained while unlocking the gate. “That damn cat comes down here to pee . . .”
    In the basement’s dim light, we could make out a small furry shape that recoiled and leapt behind the straw broom, sheltered from the autumn wind.
    We went down the last flight of stairs, covered with ugly gray tiles. There the temperature rose because the burner was near and it was noisy. My father stood fearlessly in front of the bulky furnace. Swift and efficient, he showed me a black lever, next to the main thermostat, which was easy to make out against the body of the burner.
    â€œLike this . . .”
    All you had to do was turn it. In that very second, the sound of the flames quieted down. Now it was a whisper, a voice that had lost its terrible power.
    A decision had been made: from now on turning off the furnace would be added to the list of my evening chores. I was thirteen, after all.
    *.
    â€œ HE DOES IT ON PURPOSE! HE DRAGS HIS FEET ! AND THEN HIS WIFE, WITH HER DAMN HIGH HEELS, ADDS INSULT TO INJURY !”
    Vignola’s voice over the intercom was so loud that my father and I could hear it from across the table, ten feet away. My mother wrinkled her nose. She hadn’t even finished chewing her food.
    â€œMalfitano told me to tell you, Signor Vignola, that if you have anything to say to him, you have to say it to his face. He doesn’t want to hear about it from me.”
    â€œ AH ! SO THAT’S WHAT HE WANTS ! WELL THEN TELL HIM, PLEASE, THAT IF HE