The Comandante looked up at the boy, thinking he was looking at a ghost. “Romeo!” he said. “Romeo? Is it you?”
But it was not Romeo, just a boy of eight or so, very dirty and dressed in rags. “My name is Romanino,” said the boy. “I can pull that cart for you.”
“Why do you want to pull my cart?” asked the Comandante.
“Because I am hungry,” said Romanino.
“Here-” The Comandante took out the rest of his money. “Go buy some food.”
But the boy pushed his hand away and said, “I am not a beggar.”
So, the Comandante let the boy struggle to pull the cart all the way back to Palazzo Marescotti-occasionally, he helped him and gave the cart a little push-and when they arrived at the gate, the boy looked up at the eagle ornaments on the wall and said, “This is where my father was born.”
You can imagine what a shock it was to the Comandante to hear this, and he asked the boy, “How do you know that?”
“Mother used to tell me stories,” replied the boy. “She said my father was very brave. He was a great knight with arms this big. But he had to go and fight with the Emperor in the Holy Land, and he never returned. She used to say that maybe, one day, he would come back and look for me. And if he did, I had to tell him something, and then he would know who I was.”
“What did you have to tell him?”
The boy grinned, and just then, in that smile, the Comandante knew the truth before he even heard the words: “That I am a little eagle, an aquilino.”
That same night, Comandante Marescotti found himself sitting at the empty servants’ table in the kitchen, eating food for the first time in days. Across from him, Romanino was gnawing at a chicken bone, too busy to ask questions.
“Tell me,” said the Comandante, “when did your mother Rosalina die?”
“Long ago,” replied the boy. “Before all this. He beat her, you know. And one day, she didn’t get up. He yelled at her, and pulled at her hair, but she didn’t move. She didn’t move at all. Then he started crying. And I went up to her and talked to her, but she didn’t open her eyes. She was cold. I put my hand on her face-that was when I knew he had beat her too hard, and I told him so, and he kicked me, and then he tried to catch me, but I ran… out the door. And I just kept running. Even though he yelled after me, I just kept running, and running, until I was at my aunt’s, and she took me in, and I stayed there. I worked, you know. I did my bit. And I took care of the baby when it came, and helped her to put food on the table. And they liked me, I think they really liked having me around to take care of the baby, until… until everyone started dying. The baker died, and the butcher, and the farmer who sold us fruit, and we did not have enough food. But she kept giving me the same as the others, even though they were still hungry, so… I ran away.”
The boy looked at him with wise green eyes, and the Comandante thought to himself how strange it was that this boy, a skinny little eight-year-old, could have more integrity than he had ever seen in a man. “How did you survive,” he had to ask, “through all this?”
“I don’t know”-Romanino shrugged-“but Mother always told me I was different. Stronger. That I wouldn’t get sick and stupid like the others. She said that I had a different kind of head on my shoulders. And that’s why they didn’t like me. Because they knew I was better than them. That was how I survived. By thinking of what she said. About me. And them. She said I would survive. And that’s what I did.”
“Do you know who I am?” asked the Comandante at last.
The boy looked at him. “You’re a great man, I think.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“But you are,” insisted Romanino. “You’re a great man. You have a big kitchen. And a chicken. And you let me pull your cart all the way. And now you’re sharing your chicken with me.”
“That doesn’t make me a great man.”
“You were drinking sewer water when I found you,” observed the boy. “Now you are drinking wine. To me, that makes you the greatest man I’ve ever met.”
THE NEXT MORNING, Comandante Marescotti took Romanino back to the boy’s aunt and uncle. As they walked together down the steep streets towards Fontebranda, weaving their way through garbage and gore, the sun came out for the first time in days. Or perhaps it had been shining every day, but the Comandante had spent all his time in the darkness of his home, pouring water to lips that were beyond drinking.
“What is your uncle’s name?” asked the Comandante, realizing that he had forgotten to ask that most obvious question.
“Benincasa,” replied the boy. “He makes colors. I like the blue, but it is expensive.” He glanced up at the Comandante. “My father always wore nice colors, you know. Yellow mostly, with a black cape that looked like wings when he was riding fast. When you are rich you can do that.”
“I suppose,” said the Comandante.
Romanino stopped at a gate of tall iron bars and looked glumly into the courtyard. “This is it. That is Monna Lappa, my aunt. Or… she is not really my aunt, but she wanted me to call her that anyway.”
Comandante Marescotti was surprised at the size of the place; he had imagined something far more humble. Inside the courtyard, three children were helping their mother spread out laundry, while a tiny girl crawled around on her hands and knees, picking up grains laid out for the geese.
“Romanino!” The woman jumped to her feet when she saw the boy through the gate, and as soon as the bar had been lifted off the hook and the door opened, she pulled him inside and embraced him with tears and kisses. “We thought you were dead, you silly boy!”
In the commotion, nobody took any notice of the baby girl, and the Comandante-who had been just about to back away from the happy family reunion-was the only person with the presence of mind to see her crawling towards the open gate and to bend over and pick her up with awkward hands.
It was an uncommonly pretty little girl, thought Comandante Marescotti, and much more charming than one would expect from someone that size. In fact, despite his lack of experience with such tiny personnel, he found himself almost unwilling to hand the baby back to Monna Lappa, and he simply stood there, looking at the little face, feeling something stirring inside his chest, like a small spring flower forcing its way up through the frozen soil.
The fascination was equal on both sides; soon, the baby began slapping and pulling at the Comandante’s features with all signs of delight.
“Caterina!” cried her mother, quickly liberating the distinguished visitor by snatching away the girl. “I beg your pardon, Messere!”
“No need, no need,” said the Comandante. “God has kept his hand over you and yours, Monna Lappa. Your house is blessed, I think.”
The woman looked at him for a long time. Then she bent her head. “Thank you, Messere.”
The Comandante turned to go, but hesitated. Turning again, he looked at Romanino. The boy was standing straight, like a young tree braced against the wind, and yet his eyes had lost their courage.
“Monna Lappa,” said Comandante Marescotti, “I want-I would like-I wonder if you might consider giving up this boy. To me.”
The woman’s expression was mostly one of disbelief.
“You see,” the Comandante quickly added, “I believe he is my grandson.”
The words came as a surprise to everyone, including the Comandante. While Monna Lappa looked almost frightened at the confession, Romanino was positively cock-a-hoop, and the boy’s glee nearly made the Comandante burst out laughing despite himself.
“You are Comandante Marescotti?” exclaimed the woman, her cheeks flushed with excitement. “Then it was true! Oh, the poor girl! I never-” Too shocked to know how to behave, Monna Lappa grabbed Romanino by the shoulder and pushed him towards the Comandante. “Go! Go, you silly boy! And… don’t forget to thank the Lord!”