The Most Beautiful Gift Read online

  Grampa

  Gus

  On his way home, Mark met up with other people. He asked all of them the same question, with the same result: zilch. According to Jenny, a classmate of his who was always impeccably dressed, “The snowflake would be very happy in my dollhouse.” Harry, a playmate who adored the Power Rangers cartoon characters, told him that he would transform the snowflake into a mutant robot. How exactly, he didn’t know, but he would find a way. The owner of Spring Valley’s newsstand, Mr. Peabody, even suggested selling the snowflake as part of the Sunday paper supplement.

  When he opened the door to his house, Mark wasn’t able to hide his bad mood. He kicked the doormat while impatiently unbuttoning his coat: “Is it possible that no one can give me the right answer? Everyone only thinks about selling the snowflake, or studying it, as if it were a circus animal. How disgusting!” He shuffled to the kitchen, where Grampa Gus was having his usual snack. It was kind of fascinating to watch the old man dunk his cookie into his glass of milk, pull it out, and then cram it in his mouth. For some reason, that series of gestures soothed Mark, lightening his very black mood—at least somewhat.

  “Grandson, you went out without telling me. You know very well that your parents would not be at all happy about that.” Grampa Gus had a large wave of white hair that fell over his forehead and resembled sea foam on a stormy day. His eyes were sky blue and the wrinkles around them only accentuated their brightness. His mouth was always relaxed in a calm and reassuring smile. It was impossible not to love him. He was the sweetest person on earth. He had come to live with them after his wife died, several years ago. He didn’t seem to suffer from her death anymore. “After all, life is also made up of departures,” he loved to repeat.

  “Sorry, Grampa. I went out for a walk,” Mark replied. “I was hoping it would snow. The day after tomorrow is Christmas, and a Christmas with snow is much more beautiful.”

  “Well,” responded Grampa, nibbling contentedly on a cookie, “at least there was a flurry.” He pointed to the street in front of the house; it was just barely dusted white. “You do know, of course, who makes the snow fall?”

  Mark took a minute to answer. He was afraid of having to listen again to Louis Lords’s weird theories. But this was his grandfather, not some fly-by-night philosopher. So he gathered his courage, stared at the old man, and said in a thin voice, “No, I don’t know.”

  “It’s a long story,” said Grampa Gus. “Do you have the time and the desire to hear it?”

  The boy shot a glance at the refrigerator. The snowflake would have to stay in there until the next day, or at least until he had found someone to give it to. By now, it was too late to continue his search. He nodded and Grampa smiled.

  The Story

  of the angel

  Camolino

  Well, once upon a time… a long, long time ago,” Grampa Gus began, “the good Lord decided to organize a competition in paradise. By now, He had already created almost everything: the mountains and the valleys, the oceans and the seas, daytime and nighttime, the moon and the stars, the four seasons, animals in the most bizarre shapes, and even humankind. He was, however, convinced that something was missing. So, one beautiful day he gathered the angels around Him and said, ‘Each one of you is to think of an idea. A stupendous idea, mind you. The most competent inventor will be awarded with a halo brighter than everyone else’s. You have two earth days’ time.’

  “Now, it’s not that angels are particularly vain, but you must know that they are very attached to their halos: They polish them every day with cloud puffs so that they will shine as brightly as the midday sun. God’s challenge was accepted with extreme enthusiasm and the celestial beings went straight to work. For two days, paradise echoed with their loud exclamations, their shouts of joy, and their expressions of defeat.

  “When the two earth days had passed, the entire array of angels came before God. They were all in a line, one behind the other, with their wings beating nervously and their halos whirling continuously around their heads, like records on turntables.

  “‘The first may come forward,’ said God, with His powerful voice.

  “‘Here I am, Lord,’ replied the angel, bowing. ‘I thought of this: Why don’t we have many little flames rain down from the sky regularly so that humankind can keep warm or cook food?’

  “The Lord thought about the idea for a moment before a vexed expression shrouded His face. ‘Yes, it would be a way for the creatures to warm themselves, but entire forests and buildings would be given over to flames. It doesn’t strike me as a great idea, Lucifer. The next may came forward.’ And with a wave of His hand, He dismissed him. He did not like Lucifer very much; sometimes he got the strangest ideas in his head. He would have to check up on him more often, before he got into trouble.

  “‘My Lord,’ began the second angel, ‘I thought that trees could be created, providing humankind with all their daily needs—from bread, to meat, to clothes with which to cover themselves.’

  “God shook His head. ‘Such a thing would mean that human beings would no longer have to work in order to obtain what they desired, and they would dedicate themselves to a life of idleness. No, this lovely thought is also a reject.’

  “The third angel approached, frightened and trembling. ‘Lord of creation, my idea is to light up the night sky with Your resplendent image so that everyone will acknowledge Your presence in the heavens.’

  “God thought a few seconds, then lowered His head in disappointment. ‘No, we’ll do nothing of the kind. If daytime is fit for work and the thousands of human activities, nighttime is made for sleeping. Furthermore, if I revealed myself so plainly, mankind would be sure of my presence and the concept of faith would no longer exist.’

  “Gabriel, the fourth angel, came forward boldly. ‘I would create a gigantic typhoon, an enormous blast of air that would clear off the earth every thousand years. By the end of this time period, a civilization has already given all that it has to give, and risks deterioration.’

  “God had to shake His head for the umpteenth time. ‘In this way, we would take from human beings their power of choice. And furthermore, Gabriel, why do you want to destroy my most successful creation every thousand years? For humans, I know that is a long period of time, but for us it hardly constitutes a bat of the eye. No, this solution doesn’t convince me, either.’

  “Raphael slowly came forward. ‘I was thinking of a new animal….’

  “God stared at him. ‘Of which one? It seems to me I have already created far too many. Yours would have to be a truly great invention.’

  “‘My animal would be called a “bumasaur.”‘

  “‘Already I don’t like the name,’ the Lord declared. ‘But let’s continue. What would he do, your buma—’

  “‘Bumasaur.’

  “‘Yes, in brief, this animal you’re talking about.’

  “‘Ah, he would do absolutely nothing. And he wouldn’t be useful for anything.’

  “‘What?’ cried God, His patience visibly tried.

  “Raphael took a step backward, frightened by God’s anger. ‘All the animals You have created have some use—for example, the sheep is useful for its wool, the ox for its quality meats, the cow for its milk, the chicken for its eggs, and so on. The bumasaur, on the other hand, wouldn’t be useful for absolutely anything: His fleece would be too bristly to be made into cloth, his meat would be inedible, and his character contrary and disobedient. He would do nothing other than take naps and complain the whole day long.’

  “‘And of what possible use would such an animal be?’ the Lord inquired.

  “‘Absolutely none, as I have said. Humankind would be shown that not everything—or all animals, in this case—has to have a precise purpose.’

  “God banged His hands hard against His knees and thunder echoed throughout the heavens. ‘Enough! I have listened long enough to your great discoveries!’ He snorted derisively. ‘If the rest of you have come up with si
milar ideas, you would be better off keeping them from me.’

  “In a split second, almost all the angels moved away, declaring a thousand excuses: Clouds had to be fluffed; halos had to be shined; manna had to be collected…. After a few minutes, only one very tiny angel remained. He was wearing a slightly crooked halo, a patched tunic, and a shy expression. His name was Camolino. He was one of the younger angels, and his wings were still short and he had a child’s spirit. Often, God had surprised him while he was chasing clouds, or riding piggyback on lightning bolts, or wandering aimlessly about down on earth, his big eyes widened by the marvels of creation.

  “‘So, Camolino,’ said the Lord. ‘I am ready to hear your idea.’

  “The angel looked around him. Blushing deeply, he began to stutter: ‘W-w-w-well, I—I—I—’

  “‘Come on, have a little courage,’ God prodded him. ‘Today I heard so much poppycock, a little more won’t make any difference.’

  “Camolino filled his lungs with air, sniffed, and, all in one breath, began to speak. ‘Well, I was thinking about rain….’

  “‘I already created that more than a month ago! Old news!’ the Lord exclaimed.

  “‘Y-y-yes, I know. But I was thinking that the rain might also be solid….’

  “‘Solid? What are you prattling on about?’

  “The little angel thrust his hand inside his tunic and pulled out a silver goblet. ‘If rain gets cold, t-t-this might happen.’ While he spoke, he turned the goblet upside down. Out came hundreds of white flakes, light as cotton, and they began to flutter above the clouds.

  “Intrigued, God took one in His hand. It melted instantly, turning into water. ‘And of what use is your invention?’ The tone of His voice was less impatient; it even sounded interested.

  “Camolino detected God’s change of heart and smiled happily. ‘For example, during the winter these white flakes would fall on earth, form a blanket against the frost, and protect the plants. People could also collect the flakes and quench their thirst. When the flakes melted, they could feed the rivers and streams, not to mention all the rest.’

  “‘Which is? Go on. Go on.’ The Lord now appeared to be hanging on Camolino’s every word. Ironically, their roles had reversed.

  “‘This white quilt would soften all sounds, creating a magical atmosphere, almost like in a fairy tale. Children could use it to play with. And, if it fell in December—’

  “‘And why exactly during that month?’ interrupted God.

  “The angel lowered his gaze. ‘Well, You know, Lord, here news travels fast. If You have chosen December as the month in which Your son will be born on earth, as word has it, this invention of mine would be the most effective way of reminding humanity of the event until the end of time.’

  “God stroked His long beard. Besides the gossip, which, by the way, happened to be true, Camolino’s idea really pleased Him. ‘Yes, it is not a bad idea. These… flakes of yours wouldn’t be difficult to manufacture, would they? I don’t want to waste any time, like I did when I put the salt in the oceans and seas.’

  “Camolino shook his head. ‘It’s all very simple. All you have to do is make the rain very cold and it’s a done deal.’

  “God seemed truly happy. ‘Have you already thought of what to baptize this invention of yours?’ He asked.

  “‘Oh yes.’ The angel lowered his head once again and regained the blush of a few minutes earlier. ‘I would like to call it snow.’

  “‘Snow?’ And what, dash it, does that mean?’

  “‘Absolutely nothing,’ replied Camolino. ‘But it is a short name, easily remembered. And when you repeat it—sn-ow—it has all the flavor of winter.’

  “God rolled the word around on His tongue for a while without finding anything to complain about. ‘Well, if you say so,’ He concluded. ‘So, snow it is.’ He reached out a hand and rested it on the angel’s right wing. ‘You deserve the prize I promised: a beautiful halo, the brightest of all.’

  “The angel bowed his head. ‘If You don’t mind, Lord, I would prefer something else.’

  “‘What?‘ burst out God. ‘You refuse my gift?’

  “‘N-n-no.’ Camolino started stuttering again. ‘I absolutely didn’t mean to show a lack of respect. As You know, I am shy, and I would be embarrassed to be seen around with my halo dazzling like a blazing ember. Instead—’

  “‘Instead?’

  “‘Instead, I would like to be the one who decides how and when the snow will fall. After all, it wouldn’t be an overly important duty, and considering the invention is mine…’

  “God thought about it for a minute. ‘All right,’ He finally agreed. ‘From now on, you will be the angel responsible for the white flakes. Does this please you?’

  “Camolino displayed the appropriate joy with an enormous smile. With a bow, he took his leave from God, lay down on his favorite cloud, and gazed at the panorama below. It was still early July and the sun shone high above the humans’ world. The angel couldn’t wait until December arrived. In the meantime, he decided to take a nap. His sleep was filled with visions of bright white flakes, cold as ice and light as feathers.”

  Mom

  and Dad

  Return Home

  Grampa Gus finished his story together with the last cookie. He looked at Mark, then smiled and winked. “So, do you understand who created snow?”

  “Of course,” responded the boy, who had drunk in the old man’s words as if they were a cup of sweet hot chocolate. “But there is something that isn’t clear to me.”

  Grampa looked at him with surprise. “Go on. What is it?”

  “If what Camolino had in mind was to make the snow fall in December, why is nothing happening right now? And why does it sometimes snow before, or after, the specified period?”

  Grampa smoothed his white hair with his hand. “It’s very simple. Camolino is a very good angel, maybe even the best of all, but he is very distracted. Often he doesn’t count the months very well. As you know, time in heaven does not coincide with human time. On other occasions, he forgets his duty, or gets carried away, and this is how avalanches, snowslides, and other natural disasters originate. Mind you, the little angel doesn’t do all this out of nastiness, but out of carelessness.”

  “A little like when I forget to do my homework,” suggested Mark.

  Grampa Gus laughed aloud. The sound rang out clear as a crystal and filled anyone who heard it with joy. “Something like that. Although in this particular case, I believe your forgetfulness is premeditated.”

  The boy knit his brow. “What does ‘premeditated’ mean?”

  “Someone, my dear, who forgets to do their homework on purpose,” the old man responded playfully. “Anyway—”

  Grampa was suddenly interrupted by the sound of the door opening. Mark’s parents were returning home from work.

  “So, aren’t you happy to see us?” asked Robert, Mark’s father, as he placed his leather briefcase on a kitchen chair. He was a short man, fortyish, with a nice plump face. Somehow, he reminded Mark of one of those marzipan cakes that were sold at bakeries around Christmas.

  Mark threw his arms around his father’s neck. “I am really happy! Grampa was telling me the story of Camolino.”

  “The story of whom?” asked his mom, taking off her raincoat. Her blond hair glistened like gold in the kitchen’s dim light. Her eyes, made up with mascara, were marked by a few wrinkles.

  “A little secret between me and Mark, Judith,” Grampa replied.

  “Oh, two conspirators!” exclaimed Mark’s father, pretending to pull a punch on him. The boy began to laugh. He was happy when they were all together—Grampa, his parents, and himself. When he imagined the perfect family, he remembered those moments.

  At the table during dinner, Mark asked his mom and dad the same question he had asked repeatedly all that afternoon. Grampa had already gone to bed with his cup of herb tea and a thriller by one of his favorite authors.

  His fathe
r responded first. “Oh, I wouldn’t know,” he said with his mouth full. He jabbed his fork into a chicken breast—precooked, of course. “I would probably stare at the snowflake, waiting for it to melt.”

  “That’s all?” Mark asked, as surprised as ever. Before him was a defrosted ear of corn waiting to be munched on.

  “What else should I do? I could hardly save it forever. And besides, the snow puts on a beautiful show when it descends from the sky, not when it falls on the ground.”

  “It immediately turns to slush,” explained his mother. “You should have seen the city today. Perhaps only a couple of snowflakes fell, and already everything was covered with a layer of filth.” She shrugged her shoulders as if to chase away the thought.

  Mark sunk his teeth into the ear of corn. The kernels were mushy, swollen with water, and tasteless. If it was up to him, he would grow his own corn and eat it only in the summer. He had to admit, though, that his father did have a flawless argument. When snow falls on the ground, it is almost … dead. Who knows whether the little angel Camolino had ever considered such a possibility? In any case, Mark would continue his search the following day. He wouldn’t, he couldn’t, give up.

  After dinner, he diligently helped his mom and dad clear the table, then went straight to bed. Star Trek, his favorite TV show, was on, but his thoughts were on other things: the snowflake … the snowflake … the snowflake.

  The

  Snowflake

  Disappears!

  Mark got out of bed at about eight o’clock—too early, considering he was on vacation. He had had a strange dream: There was an angel with short wings and a slightly crooked halo holding a crystal sphere. Inside the ball was a miniature reproduction of Spring Valley. The angel turned it upside down, and snow began to fall in great quantities, covering lawns and rooftops and chimneys. Grampa’s story must have affected him more than he had imagined.