Wisdom of Angels

The Abruzzese village was as one would expect -- replete with copper-coloured roofs, mountain pine trees, ageing edifices, and a host of onlookers scrutinising the unexpected arrival of stranieri -- foreigners. The Italian-American cousins had barely moved into the village centre of their grandmother's youth when the natives began emerging from their geranium-laden window frames and through the hanging beads of the town's main bar. Why are you here, the locals asked without speaking a word. Our nonna was born here, in Campo di Giove, one cousin began in Italiano, more than 100 years ago. We are here in search of roots. Of family. Her name? an elderly woman called down from her post. Rubeo. Her name was Beatrice Rubeo. Rest here, a gentleman uttered softly behind the visitors. I will return immediately. And he did -- with his aunt-by-marriage, who stretched to reach 4'10 in her impeccable leather shoes. I understand you are Rubeos, she said when she first spoke. Si, we are Rubeos. I, too, am a Rubeo. Come. Come with me. I will help you with everything. And with that, the cousins -- new and old -- walked up the steep path to Iolanda's 435 year-old family home and toward a visit that would bring their grandparents and their parents and theirs, too, back to life in ways that, for years, had been long forgotten.