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eyes are wide because of the dark. She cracks a smile and the tip of my piscitiello moves by itself. When she opens her mouth and shows me her teeth I get itchy and hot down there. I slip my arm around her shoulder, squeeze a little. It’s the first time that I’ve touched her, that the moves have come from me. Maria rests her whole head on my arm, I can’t see her face anymore, the itching of my piscitiello calms down. I feel a huge force inside. Practicing for the big throw has even given me a muscle to hold Maria. She stands up, gathers to her breast the clothes hanging on the line, and pushes her neck forward for a kiss good-bye. Then I go with my mouth aimed right at hers, so we’re equal. Boyfriend and girlfriend make the same moves.

 
    A T THE workshop I take the boomerang out from under my jacket and leave it in plain sight. Master Errico squeezes it, turns it around, sniffs at it. “It’s thick,” he says, then he spits on top and rubs the saliva in with his thumb. I’m shocked by his familiarity. The boomerang is ancient, it’s foreign, it’s a weapon. How dare he do this? He shows me the spot where he rubbed, it’s turning violet, he puts his mouth over it. “It’s full of tannen. It’s acacia.” I tell him how I got it. It’s not good to work with. It’s too hard. You could break a planer on it. You couldn’t even carve a crutch out of it. It’s not good for the stove. It must be good for something, but he doesn’t know what. He gives it back to me and gets an electric shock as he lays it in my hand. He jumps in surprise: is it electric? I didn’t feel anything, I lie, because I’m used to the tingling of the boomerang. Master Errico makes a dark face like he does when hedoesn’t understand why something went wrong. Then he comes out with his motto: “Iamme, vuttammo ‘e mmane” ; let’s go, get a move on it. “ ’A iurnata è ‘nu muorzo.”
     
     
    I LEFT the boomerang near Rafaniello. The mountain of broken shoes starts to dwindle. In his hands they walk away by themselves. The grease makes them shine; you smell the scent of happy leather. At noon, when Master Errico goes to lunch, the poor come by to pick up their repaired shoes. With the arrival of the first cool evenings their troubles seem to get worse. They cover themselves in army blankets, two jackets, or all their shirts if they’ve got nothing else. “Don Rafaniè, the Heavenly Father is gonna make you rich as the sea,” they say to repay him in words for what theycan’t pay in money, along with blessings for his health, or against gossips and the evil eye. “May you be protected from fire, earth, and evildoers,” “May gold rain from your hump.” Rafaniello is happy. He says that blessings are worth more than money because they are heard in heaven. Curses are heard, too, he says, and spits on the ground to rinse his mouth of the sad word.
     
     
    A MAN who sells combs on the street left his shoes with Rafaniello and went away barefoot. He comes back to pick them up, sits down, and unwraps the dirty rags from around his feet. Rafaniello takes out the shoes. The man can’t recognize them they look so new. He hugs Rafaniello, hump and all, giving him a big squeeze. It hurts Rafaniello because of the wings pressing on him from the inside. The comb seller brought along a basin.He fills it with water and washes his dirt-caked feet, making them clean again out of respect for the pair of shoes perfumed with grease and polish. He does it for Rafaniello, who always recommends cleanliness. He wants to give him a comb made out of bone, but it would take a copper comb at the very least to straighten out the wild red mop on Rafaniello’s head. He hugs and kisses him again and then leaves, singing out to Montedidio the cry of his trade that makes me laugh: “ Pièttene, pettenésse, pièttene larghe e stritte, ne’ perucchiù, accattávene ‘o pèttene,” which sounds all right in Neapolitan, which is always happy to