Lost Words Read Free Page A

FORCES ME TO GO UPSTAIRS I DON’T KNOW WHAT MIGHT HAPPEN. THIS COULD GET UGLY !”
    â€œCalm down. Signor Vignola. These walls are made of paper.” And after giving me a complicit look, she pointed a finger at the ceiling, indicating that we could hear both him and his wife peeing in the toilet and even worse, fooling around in bed. “We learn to live with each other . . .”
    Vignola was beside himself. In the background there was a high-pitched chatter, the shrill voice of his wife egging him on.
    My mother was having trouble swallowing her food.
    â€œWhat a mess! We have to do something. Do you remember that guy, here in Milan, who shot his neighbor because she used to vacuum all night?”
    â€œIf you ask me they can all go kill each other,” my father cut her off. “They’re nothing but a bunch of Christian Democrats anyway!”
    â€œWhat are you talking about? Don’t you realize we’re stuck in the middle of this? We can’t pretend nothing is happening! Vignola is going crazy!”
    â€œShut up already, I’m trying to listen to the news.”
    The IRA had planted another bomb.
    â€œNow
that’s
what I call killing each other,” my father commented with a crooked smile.
    The intercom buzzed again.
    â€œ DO YOU HEAR THEM ? DO YOU HEAR THEM ?” Vignola shouted, “ THEY’RE TRYING TO DRIVE ME CRAZY !”
    â€œYes, I can hear them,” my mother admitted, almost in tears. “What are they doing? Are they moving furniture around?”
    â€œ DO SOMETHING RIGHT NOW OR I’M CALLING THE COPS !”
    My father went out to lock the gate and change the trash bags. My mother put the dishes in the sink to soak. In a daze, she stared at an invisible horizon that blended into the powerful gush of the faucet. Then, while I was getting ready to go out for my usual evening chores, she told me:
    â€œChino, can you please stop by the Malfitanos’ and tell them that the whole building is complaining.”
    I went up to the second floor. From the Malfitanos’ apartment you could hear the sound of furniture being dragged across the floor and the scraping of metal. A shadow broke away from a corner of the landing and came toward me. For a second I thought I was going to scream. It was Vignola gnawing on his fists. He stared at me, his eyes popping out of his face, begging for help and vowing revenge. We both stood there listening. The noise was endless . . . Fearing the feverish stare of Vignola more than the wrath of the Malfitanos, I rang the bell. The noise stopped immediately and the door opened. The first thing I saw was the parrot, perched on Malfitano’s shoulder.
    â€œ
Our father who art in heaven . . .
” the bird recited.
    Malfitano appeared to be disappointed. Obviously he was expecting to find Vignola at the door.
    â€œ
Our father who art in heaven
. . .
”
    His wife, in the background, was pushing a big checked sofa toward the back of the corridor and sweating profusely. “Who is it?”
    â€œThe doorwoman’s son,” he replied.
    â€œ
Our father who art in heaven
. . .” the parrot continued.
    Malfitano stuck a finger in its beak and the bird started to chew on it. Then it focused on his right ear. It pecked at the inside of his auricle methodically, scrupulously cleaning the inside of his ear. The lady of the house, blue in the face from her efforts, collapsed onto the sofa. From what I could see in the doorway, the living room was in complete disarray: the chairs were upside down, the table out of place, the Magritte posters askew.
    â€œTell your mother we’re done for the night,” the woman gasped.
    Convinced I had done my duty, I headed for the upper floors. Vignola was standing and waiting. From the balcony I could see that he had lit a cigarette and was smiling like an idiot, triumphant.
    On the fifth floor I looked for the door to