Free Lost Words by Nicola Gardini

would say. And we would begin.
    Much of the lesson was dedicated to learning vocabulary. The Maestra would look up words I didn’t know in one of her many dictionaries and read me the definition. I quickly learned how to tell her in English what had happened that day at school, describing my teachers and classmates, or talking about my parents, the only people the Maestra never allowed herself to criticize. Nevertheless, by her very nature she represented a complete, radical critique of everything I had learned from them.
    She often interrupted me to comment, to probe—without the least malice—to correct me, or to ask me for an explanation when I expressed myself poorly. If I didn’t understand something, she would say, “Would you like me to repeat the question?” with delicacy and grace, savoring the honeyed tones of her own voice. And that honey blended like wildflowers in a spring meadow with all the adventures and encounters of her mysterious life, in an indefinable accent that was both foreign and familiar, and actually more than familiar, dripping from my ears down into my heart. And I prayed that the Maestra would continue to speak with me like that forever, while I jotted down in my notebook every detail of a life I hadn’t lived, a life she was bequeathing to me through her words.
    â€œWhat’s your name?” she asked me one afternoon. I thought I had misunderstood the question. The Maestra already knew my name. But she insisted: “Do tell me your name. What is your name?” Although I was used to her unpredictability, I was completely confused.
    â€œMy name is Chino,” I reminded her.
    â€œAre you sure? Chino must be a nickname. I’d love to know your real name . . .”
    I had to admit that my real name was different. It was Luca. But no one ever called me that. Satisfied, she explained to me that
Chino
literally
pulled you down. It meant “bent toward the ground.” Chino—and to explain this she shifted to Italian—and it was the posture of a farmhand. Chino was the head of an old man who had received bad news . . . “Go ahead, look it up in the dictionary . . .” She preferred Luca. She said that, although the etymology was different, my name was similar to luck.
    â€œLuca,” she repeated, “The Son of Luck.”
    *.
    My mother didn’t know what to say—only, with a somber air: “Go upstairs to see Riccardo. He needs you.” For the first time I wasn’t allowed to go to the Maestra. I conveyed the news to her over the intercom. “How disappointing,” she sighed. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
    The Lojaconos’ apartment was a corner unit with one bedroom. I knocked softly and right away they opened the door. It was the first time I had been inside. In the doorway I was greeted by three embroidered flowers enclosed in a frame, and a porcelain dish with the words, “Guests are like fish. After three days they stink,” and a trout painted in the middle. The wall around the telephone was decorated with postcards. The air was stagnant with the smell of hot soup and damp laundry hanging to dry.
    Signora Lojacano was perfectly still. She appeared wet and shriveled from head to toe, as if she had just emerged from a flood of tears. She had the face of someone with a bad cold. I noticed for the first time that she had two beautiful blue eyes, which she had passed on to her son Riccardo, but right now she looked more like his grandmother. “Go on in,” she encouraged me.
    I went down the hall and stopped at the door to his bedroom. Riccardo’s voice invited me in. The room was sunken in darkness—the shutters were closed. I made my way to his big bed. “Can you see me?” he asked. I could barely make out his profile, his naked arms on the bed-sheets, the shape of his head against the pillow. His eyes and other facial features remained in