TE22 Potpourri

Antonella Lattanzi

This Looming Day

Angela stood at her side, up to her mid-thigh. She had grown so much in such a short time. She had to remind herself to savor all the beautiful days that would come. The little girl waved her arm out of boredom and, as a result, her mother’s arm moved too. Francesca looked toward the gate again. And now she could really see it: impeding with a bright red, as if just painted, solid, majestic, a few meters from them. Impregnable. Now every detail shone crystal clear in front of her. Francesca smiled, perhaps as radiant as she had ever been in her life. Angela suddenly wiggled free. She ran like the wind for those last few meters. With each step she shook off a little of the seriousness that had come over her since her little sister was born, and she turned back into a child: all visible to the naked eye. She threw her whole body against the gate, so hard that she bounced back, unhurt. “First place!” she screamed, and laughed. She turned to look at her parents, ready to collect the praise that was due her, and for the first time in months her eyes, big and round like a doll’s, stopped looking sternly at her mother and father from her five-year-old’s height. They shone with joy. “Wed.” Francesca looked at Emma, incredulous. Shewas saying “red.” Her first word after “finger.” “Very good, love! Red, yes!” And she kissed her again. Massimo joined Angela at the gate carrying the suitcases. He 192

turned to Francesca. She had never seen him more satisfied than this.

Here we’ll be happy.

2. Francesca grabbed the gate with her free hand. She pushed it to enter. She felt it hot from the sun. Then a sharp pain on her palm, like a bite.

She let go of the metal. Looked at her hand.

Blood, a red darker than the gate, ran down her palm to her wrist.

She watched it for a moment, stunned. Then she sucked it.

With Emma still in her arms, she inspected the gate. Therewas nothing there. It must have been an insect. And the wound had already closed. “Who are you looking for?” A peremptory voice distracted her. She stopped thinking about her hand. It was a short, very skinny woman, about sixty-five, with her 193