From that night on, Maria Teresa and I feuded incessantly over the air conditioning. I would come back to the bedroom earlier than her to do my work, and turn it on. She would return soon afterwards, and turn it off.
This is a story of seventy years ago (or a stretch from long before WWI to the end of Viet Nam) in the memory of a little boy who could catch the colors and delight in his exceptionally cultivated family’s recognitions, but could not join them up.
I touched his arm and told him, “hai amichi ovunque” (you have friends everywhere) which made him cry, and that made me cry, and he patted down his tears with a handkerchief as the bus arrived.