Breadcrumb #689

LHC

There’s a man in Astoria named Pasquale. He calls out to me and my friend as we walk down the sidewalk. Though I do not tell him I am a writer or that I intend to pass on his stories, he tells us his name several times and seems to take for granted that we will want to tell others what he has told us, and only asks that we remember and tell his name. He tells us that when he was eight years old in Italy during the Second World War, he went fifteen days without eating. He says this many times as he talks to us, a sort of punctuation between different stories. Fifteen day no eat.

He tells us that we are not enemies but humans, and that we must respect humanity. He spreads his hand out on the brick of the fence between him and us and points to each of his fingers and says that this is what people are like, each one different. He lays his left hand on top of his right and laces the fingers together and tells us that it is not easy to bring people together. Fifteen day no eat.

“There were children, he says, babies, who were murdered in the war only because they would cry in the night. Fifteen day no eat.”

One time the dog birthed 11 puppies and his father said Pasquale, don’t kill the babies and Pasquale said no, no, I won’t kill the babies, no, of course not, and his father told him to take six of the puppies to the molina. Pasquale said the mother of the puppies would go get them back but his father said go, take the puppies, and so Pasquale walked the two miles to the molina and the two miles back. That night, the mother walked the two miles to the molina and the two miles back six times, carried each puppy home in her mouth. Pasquale’s father cried and said my son, my son, how did you know? And Pasquale said, a mother is a mother, this is part of life, a mother is a mother. Fifteen day no eat. I think of my own dear good mother and of walking in any crowded place with her, how often she will look over her shoulder to check that I’m still there. But I know that not every mother is like my mother. Pasquale is telling me a story and I do not stop him to argue about maternal instincts. Fifteen day no eat.

His granddaughter walks across the yard. That is my granddaughter, he says, Bella. I wonder if Bella understands that her grandfather is a writer who never got the chance to write. Everyone who walks by while we’re talking says ciao, Pasquale! You must respect humanity, he tells us again. During those fifteen days, his grandmother told him to drink water, that that would make him feel better. He scrubs his hand hard across his mouth, shrugs. I didn’t want water, he says. I wanted food, I needed food. They called him up for the army when he was 19. He did not want to hurt anybody. He did his tour and left the army. He wants us to be mindful of how lucky we are never to have gone to war. He addresses us as gentlemen. Fifteen day no eat. He says goodbye to us three times but always there is a last story to tell. He bumps our fists. I have forgotten some of the stories. I waited too long to write this down. But there is a man in Astoria named Pasquale who says that someone ought to write his story down, and I have done what I can.

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