Page 158 - The Grotesque Children's Book

Chapter 6.

Stipulate out loud

Aurelio’s conversations with Santi had first started one afternoon when Aurelio was lying
on his back, on top of a tower of scaffolding, right up near the ceiling. He had been working on
a centaur creature whose torso and lower limbs were transforming into vines and tendrils, and
had been in deep silent imaginary conversation with the centaur, when he noticed the painter just
to the north of him was making some sort of gestures, and was trying to speak with him. Of
course Aurelio couldn't hear the fellow and had merely shrugged, pointing to his ears with an
apologetic smile. Aurelio went back to his work, assuming the shrug had ended the
conversation. But it hadn't. The other painter pointed to Aurelio's centaur, nodding, and making
gestures to his own arms as if to say something about the centaur’s. Aurelio shook his head, not
understanding. Santi looked around at the artwork on his own ceiling, found a small grinning
putto and pointed to it, then back to Aurelio's centaur, then back to the grin on the putto.

Aurelio was astonished. Is he -- is he trying to say something to me? No one's ever tried
to speak with me before. No, he's mocking me, ridiculing my centaur with tendril feet. Stupid
anyway. Why would a centaur have a --

The painter from the next bay was pointing now to a little basket of food he had just been
working on, then pointing back at Aurelio. Food. Aurelio. Food. Aurelio. All the while,
making a quizzical look on his face. Is he -- is he asking me whether I'm hungry? Why would he
care? No one's even noticed me before. Why would he be asking? Careful, Aurelio. Don't set
yourself up for ridicule. Don't let him mock you for not being able to understand him. But there!
he's pointing to the basket of food again. Shall I, shall I answer? Aurelio shook his head, but
instead pointed to a wineskin which he had painted the day before. I'm not hungry, but I'm
thirsty. Aurelio set his brush down, prepared either to be mocked or ignored. But the painter
pointed at the basket of food, shaking his head. “No food.” Or maybe “not food". Then the
painter pointed at Aurelio's wineskin and then made a gesture as though drinking from a tankard,
then nodded. “Thirsty, yes.” Food no, thirsty yes. Hungry no, thirsty yes. It was astonishing.

They had gone to a tavern together afterwards (thirsty yes), bringing their charcoals and
notebooks, drawing pictures and bits of sentences for each other. This, me, Aurelio, deaf. This,
me, Santi, your centaur's bizarre.

Over time, Santi del Meglio and Aurelio DeSolo managed to work out quite the visual
vocabulary between them, able to carry on quite full conversations whenever their days' work
brought their scaffolds close enough to each others' ceilings that they were able to point at things.
Black, snake, bird flying upside-down meant “Whew, that alchemist's breath is smelly enough to
kill a bird.” And gold coins, old naked man beggar, seashell, sundial. (“Has the old master who
hired us paid you yet?”) To which Aurelio pointing at other objects was able to spell out “Not a
denaro. I'll need to go back to begging in the piazza next month.” And for the first time in his
entire life, Aurelio didn't feel so alone.

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