Red-faced, Giorgio pulled at Uncle Marco's sleeve. "Please, Uncle, please! I come to buy the umbrella. An oiled-cloth one, because they are cheaper. You see," he stammered, "today I go home to Monticello."
Uncle Marco slapped his thigh and laughed until the tears streaked down the furrows of his cheeks.
Giorgio grew angry. Was this a time to laugh? Had the Umbrella Man gone daft?
"Ah, the sadness so sweet! So joyous!" he sighed, making no sense whatsoever. A few bystanders nodded, as if they knew a sweet sadness too. One woman began sobbing softly.
Giorgio tried to back away, but Uncle Marco lifted him bodily off his feet, giving him a bear hug, almost crushing him in happy excitement.
"Put me down! Put me down! You spill my fish!"
Uncle Marco set him down as if he were a child. "You listen to me," he said. "I foresee...." He let the sentence dangle teasingly in midair. Then to heighten the suspense he whispered in a stage voice directly into Giorgio's ear. But first he examined the ear, marveling at its smallness. "I foresee," he said prophetically, "to Monticello you do not go."
"Oh, but I do! This very morning I go."
"Ho, ho! Listen to him! So little faith has he." Putting his arm around Giorgio, he faced the audience, sighing deep, as if he could hold the suspense no longer. "Someone," he pronounced, "someone multo importante wishes Giorgio to see. No less than the Chief-of-the-Town-Guards! Himself, the Chief!"
The crowd was enjoying the show, old men clicking their teeth, little boys nudging one another in envy.