Opera Sundays

by Brett Rutherford

Sundays we flock to the alley lane
where the Manfredis live. Grandma
Manfredi, who speak-a no English,
defies the Blue Laws and sells us
from the cool shadow of cellar door,
soda pop in 16-ounce bottles. We hand
her quarters and dimes. A half-dollar,
heavy and mint-new shiny, alarms her.
When she counts to make change,
we giggle and stamp feet impatiently.
"That's a five," she says, "and a five,"
and then her eyes move over and down
an imagined arithmetic lesson. "No!"
we shout when she counts it wrong,
and she starts all over again, down
and over in her nonexistent abacus.

While most run off
with soda and straw, I linger,
pass by the basement window
where Signor Manfredi plays
his antique big-horn Victrola.
I listen, rapt, as Caruso sings
Vesti la giubba over and over,
the high-arced aria ending
with the heart-break sobbing
of the jilted clown. Each time
he lifts the needle and arm
to restart the record, Signor
Manfredi himself is sobbing.

Ridi, Pagliacci!

Around the run-down house's
other side, above the arbor
festooned with ripening grapes
the buxom Mrs. Manfredi,
Sophia Loren beautiful,
above a geranium window-box
pretends to read, and leans
into the sunrays to show herself,

as in the window across from her,
a shirtless young man
with another Victrola plays Gigli
in the seductive serenade
that only Lola understands
as Cavalleria Rusticana unfolds
its lurid infidelities. He mouths
the words and stares and stares
at Mrs. Manfredi.

She smiles and blushes. The chest
of the shirtless man swells
as he would have her believe
his mouth and lungs were singing.

His eyes dart at her.
The clown in the basement
suspects nothing, he seems to say,
as he goes back to the Victrola
and starts the serenade anew.

Sunday afternoon,
as every Italian knows,
is for opera.