Journal of Italian Translation - Brooklyn College - Academic Home ...

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Journal of Italian Translation
“I tell you, she’s a mass of contradictions.”
“Mass?” Mom looked up at Cisco, hopefully. “You go to mass?”
Cisco hesitated.
“Mass, my ass!” Pop gave Cisco’s shoulder a hard slap. “A
strong, beautiful, intelligent young man, what the hell he needs with
mass? Shake hands, my dear Cisco!” He nearly wrenched Cisco’s
shoulder with one powerful shake.
Mom muttered something and disappeared into the steaming
kitchen.
“Is your mother angry?” Cisco asked.
“Not really.” Fred pulled some cotton from a package. “She
just asked God to bust my father’s atheistic belly wide open.” He
handed Cisco two wads of cotton. “Here, put these in your ears if
you want to survive this meal.”
“Hey, you shit!” Pop tore the cotton from Fred’s hands in mock
anger. “Why you always make fun of me?”
Fred was Cisco’s height; he pulled the three of us in a ring
around Pop, who was only five feet ten. Fred kissed the top of Pop’s
bald head. “Pop, if you don’t behave today, we three are gonna pick
you up and sit you on top of that closet.” Although Fred had already
drunk a couple of glasses of wine, it was not enough to dim
the twinkle in his eyes or dull the intelligence of his kind, open face.
Despite the theological tensions, the dinner was a great success.
“I’m so glad you come to my house, Cisco.” Mom poured him
another demitasse of coffee. “I’m gonna pray for God to watch out
for you and my boy. You believe in God, no?”
Again Pop came to Cisco’s rescue. “No religious discussion in
this house!” He banged a wine bottle onto the table. “Eat! Drink! Be
happy!”
“Mussolini!” Mom pointed angrily at Pop. “He look just like
Mussolini!”
“Hey! Hey! Hey!” Pop rubbed his bald head. “Mussolini is bald,
short, and ugly. I’m bald, tall, and beautiful!”
“Same thing – dictator is dictator! Cisco, you think that’s nice?
You and my son gonna fight dictators, and we have dictator in this
house?” Cisco stammered; he was getting a taste of what it was to
be caught in the crossfire of a religious war.
“Cisco, don’t believe her!” Pop fired his salvo all in one breath.
“In this house there is democracy! The law is the same for everybody:
no religious discussion allowed!”
“Hitler.” Mom pointed at Pop. “He look just like Hitler! I can’t