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Beppe Novelli, the master gilder, looks up and smiles. He gets up, throws his arms around Angelo, and keeps his eyes on me. Angelo introduces us. How could this robust and compact man around five foot five be any trouble at all? What was Signora Strazza thinking? Beppe, in his sixties, has youthful energy. He kisses both my hands before he buries his own in the chest pocket of his overalls, underneath the apron. He steps back and sizes me up.

“This one has a good shape,” Beppe decides. “Not like the other one.”

“Who are you talking about?” Angelo asks.

“The broomstick.”

“Dalia?”

“I was going to say Diana, but she is far from the Greek huntress. I don’t know what I would call her besidesstuzzicadenti.”

“Why don’t you start withnice woman,” I snap, “instead of comparing her to a toothpick?” I find myself in the odd position of defending Angelo’s girlfriend.

“Women stick together,” Beppe exclaims. “Good for you. Always know which side you’re on.”

“And bad for you,” I reply.

Angelo pats imaginary dough with his hands. Uncle Louie must be floating around in the grotto.

“Forgive me, Giuseppina.” Beppe doesn’t seem particularly contrite.

“I broke up with Dalia,” Angelo explains. “My friend Beppe is concerned for me. That’s all.”

“She was not for you!” Beppe says.

I don’t know what to say; Angelo is single. When he moved to Milan, and I was invited north for the holiday, I thought I would assume the role of the extra guest, like Carmel or Marina at our Christmas table. I even packed two pairs of new mittens, in anticipation of Dalia and her daughter showing up at the last minute for the holidays. I didn’t want to be caught without gifts for them.

“How is Laura?” Beppe asks Angelo as he rocks back and forth on his feet.

“Mamma sends her regards.”

“Impossible! She loathes me.”

Angelo laughs. “It’s Christmas, Beppe. Mamma is being charitable.”

“What happened between you two?” I ask Beppe. “Why does Signora Strazza make a face when your name comes up?”

Beppe looks at Angelo, who looks at me.

“I’m curious,” I tell them. “It will go no further.”

Beppe begins. “I tell you the story. Many years ago, I was seeing Laura’s sister. Bette was myinnamorata.” He whistles. “We were young.”

“Zia Bette,” Angelo explains.

“And one day, poof! I disappeared. It wasn’t a match. Bette wastoo much for me. And I didn’t know how to handle it. I knew theromanzawaspfft, but I didn’t want to tell her, so I became a vapor. When Bette came to the shop to find out why I disappeared, I acted like I had lost my mind so she would fall out of love with me. It worked. Bette believed I had gone crazy because she would never understand why any man would leave her. She thought very highly of herself.” He whistles and makes his hands outline the dimensions of a curvy bass fiddle. “Perhaps she was right.”

“Zia Bette is a great beauty,” Angelo agrees.

“So was I.” Beppe winks at me. “Everyone thought that I waspazzoexcept for Angelo’s mother. Laura knew I was…” He whistles again. “Ascungilli. So she sent her husband to Bergamo to set me straight.”

“My father was sent to restore the family honor,” Angelo explains.

“Your mother wanted your father to beat me.”

“When my father got here to defend Zia Bette’s honor, you already had another woman in the back room.Scungilliis right.”

“Is that true? I don’t remember. Anyway, I told your father to go home and tell his wife that he beat me with stick and I learned my lesson. Your father did as I said and she believed him.”