Clown Shoes in the Coffin

Enea shoves the polished coffin into the van’s last empty corner, his shoulder pressed to its gleaming side while strip lights bleach the dust above him. He catches the blanket straps around its base, knots them tight, then points at the narrow strip of bare floor beside it. “Nothing goes there,” he says. “That is the whole plan.”

Ortensia Sorrentino ducks beneath the raised rear door carrying a black awning pole under one arm and a wreath stand in the other. Her charcoal sleeve brushes a plastic flamingo as she steps over deflated castle vinyl. “Your plan has omitted lilies,” she says, and drives the wreath stand toward the coffin. Enea grabs the metal frame before it can scrape the wood; Ortensia grips the other end, and for one cramped second they tug across the coffin like it is a disputed table.

“The party crates can wait,” Ortensia says.

“The party starts at two.”

“So does death.”

She twists the stand free and shoves it into the gap beside the coffin. The frame catches Enea’s blanket tie, yanks it loose, and leaves one corner of the coffin exposed beside a box marked SEVENTH BIRTHDAY—HANDLE WITH JOY.

Enea twists the ignition key, and the black van coughs awake beneath the garage’s low concrete ceiling, making the red foam nose on the gearshift bob like it is laughing at him. Behind him, the deflated bouncy castle shudders forward on the rubber mats and crushes two balloon crates against the coffin’s unprotected corner with a flat cardboard crunch.

Ortensia grabs the rear door before he can swing it shut. “What was that?”

“Awning poles,” Enea says, too quickly, as he wedges his shoulder between her and the cargo bay. Ortensia reaches past him toward the black vinyl, but he shoves the red nose over the gearshift, drops the van into reverse, and makes the whole vehicle jerk. The balloon crates thump again against the coffin.

Ortensia gives him one hard look, then slams the rear door herself and raps twice on its glossy panel. “Drive carefully.”

Enea rolls out beneath the strip lights with Ortensia climbing into the passenger seat, while the red foam nose nods over the gearshift and something large settles heavily behind them.

Enea yanks the black van around a chrome scooter mirror, and the rear cargo bay answers with a crash sharp enough to make Ortensia seize the dashboard. Hard afternoon glare bounces off the ochre walls of the Hearse Crawl, flashing across the windshield and the red foam nose nodding on the gearshift. Behind them, a boxed cake stand scrapes over the floor, followed by the hollow roll of something large and rubbery.

“Carefully,” Ortensia says, gripping the door handle. “Ruggiero Bellafesta is not being delivered as loose furniture.”

“I am driving carefully,” Enea says, as the front wheel drops into a pothole. The van bucks. A wreath stand slams against the rear doors, cardboard balloons crates thump against the coffin, and one enormous red-and-yellow clown shoe shoots out from beneath the deflated castle and skids past the polished coffin lid.

Ortensia twists in her seat toward the noise. Enea reaches across and catches her shoulder before she can undo her belt. “Awning poles,” he says.

The clown shoe rolls once more, bumps the coffin’s exposed corner, and settles upright in the narrow aisle like it has bought a ticket.

Enea slams the brake pedal as a silver scooter darts across the black van’s nose, its rider’s elbow flashing past the windshield in the hard gold glare of the Hearse Crawl. Ortensia braces one hand against the dashboard and the other against the red foam nose on the gearshift, which bends sideways beneath her palm. Behind them, the cargo bay erupts: metal stands scrape, cardboard bursts open, and something heavy slides with the long, polished sound of trouble.

“What did you do?” Ortensia snaps.

“I stopped us dying,” Enea says, then pulls into the first red-light gap beside an ochre wall. Before Ortensia can unfasten her belt, he is out of the driver’s seat and wrenching open the rear doors. A wreath box has split inside the balloon crate; white lilies, black ribbon, and green leaves bulge through bright plastic balloon packets, while one huge red-and-yellow clown shoe leans squarely against the coffin lid.

Ortensia appears behind him, black umbrella raised as if she might use it on the van. Enea shoves the balloon-crate flap down with both hands just as the light turns green, trapping a thin curl of yellow ribbon beneath the lilies.

Enea slams the black van’s rear doors and lunges back into the driver’s seat as Ortensia catches the door handle with one hand, her umbrella hooked beneath the other arm. “The light is green,” he says, and pulls away before she can answer, leaving the balloon crate bulging behind the coffin with white lilies pressed against bright plastic packets.

The Hearse Crawl spits them into Via dei Tribunali at 1:58, where hard gold light strikes the dark green door of number 14 and laundry snaps above the narrow lane. Enea noses the van into place beside the chipped butcher-shop steps, brakes too sharply, and hears the cargo knock once behind him. Ortensia is out before he can unbuckle. She reaches past his shoulder, throws open the rear doors, and rips a lily stem free from the balloon crate.

A yellow ribbon comes with it. It slides through her fingers, smooths itself over the white flowers, and opens to two cheerful words in blue print: **HAPPY SEVENTH**. Enea grabs one end. Ortensia holds the other, her face still as the van’s glossy black panel. “Packing material?” she asks.

The ribbon stretches between them above the coffin, bright as a warning flag.

Enea jerks the yellow ribbon down from the lilies, but Ortensia catches its loose end and snaps it straight between them above the polished coffin. The dark green door of number 14 looms over the chipped butcher-shop steps, where white flowers crowd beneath a damp black awning and the brass rail flashes in the hard gold sun. Blue letters bounce across the ribbon: **HAPPY SEVENTH**.

“Packing material?” Ortensia asks, quiet enough that Enea hears the van engine ticking behind him. He reaches for the ribbon again, but she lifts it higher, making him stretch across the coffin lid in his wrinkled shirt and loose red suspender. “It was trapped in the crate,” he says. “Along with the lilies,” Ortensia replies.

Mirella Bellafesta opens the dark green door and comes down one cool stone step in mourning black, her hand closing around the yellow strip before Enea can hide it. Ortensia holds on for one stubborn second; then Mirella draws the ribbon free and lets it curl around her fingers beside the funeral flowers.

Mirella Bellafesta pulls the yellow ribbon from between Ortensia’s fingers and presses it over her mouth beneath the damp black awning, but a laugh breaks through her hand before she can stop it. It rings off the chipped butcher-shop steps and rises toward the balconies above, where laundry snaps between the sunlit buildings. Enea reaches for the ribbon, and Ortensia catches his wrist without looking at him. “Do not make this worse,” she says.

Mirella folds the ribbon once, twice, then tries to tuck it into the sleeve of her black jacket. The blue letters flash again—**HAPPY SEVENTH**—and she lets out a second, louder burst of laughter, bending over the brass rail as her silver cleaver pendant knocks against the stone. Ortensia steps forward with her umbrella raised under one arm. “Mrs. Bellafesta,” she says, in the voice she uses for collapsing floral arrangements, “that does not belong here.”

“It belonged in his van,” Mirella says, wiping beneath one eye. Before Ortensia can take it, Mirella winds the ribbon around her wrist and knots it tight beside the black cuff. Enea watches the yellow bow settle against the mourning dress while Ortensia turns toward him and points at the van. “Every cheerful object,” she says. “Out of my sight.”

Viola Bellafesta darts from the coral cake boxes at number 16, plants one patent-leather shoe on the hearse step, and grabs a fistful of white lilies before Enea can block her. The dark green door of the butcher shop rises behind her beneath the damp black awning, while yellow number-sevens flap across the lane from the blue door. “Is the treasure chest full of clown shoes?” Viola asks, peering over the coffin lid with the grave concentration of an inspector.

Enea catches the back of her white cardigan as she tries to climb higher. “One shoe,” he says. “Possibly two.” Viola gasps as if he has confirmed a royal scandal, and points toward the polished coffin. “Then this is better than my party.” Mirella laughs again behind her yellow-ribboned wrist, but Ortensia steps between Viola and the flowers with her umbrella angled like a barrier.

“Enea,” Ortensia says, “remove the child. Then remove colour.” Viola twists free, leaving one yellow ribbon from her braid snagged on the hearse handle. She leans back toward the coffin and whispers, loudly enough for everyone to hear, “Tell the clown shoes I am coming back.”

Enea catches Viola Bellafesta by both elbows and hustles her off the hearse step, her black patent-leather shoes skidding across the frosting-pink smear between number 14 and number 16. “You wanted a clown,” he says, steering her around coral cake boxes and a wheezing balloon pump. “You get one balloon. Then you stay here.” Mirella Bellafesta watches from beneath the black awning, yellow ribbon bright at her wrist, while Ortensia Sorrentino points her umbrella at Enea’s back as if she can direct him by threat alone.

Enea snatches a black balloon from the party crate, pumps it until it squeaks, and twists it hard between his fingers. The long shape kinks, one side collapses, and four tiny yellow balloons end up tied underneath like wheels. Viola studies the result with the solemn attention of a judge. “That is a hearse,” she declares. “It is a sausage,” Enea says. “A hearse sausage,” Viola corrects, plucking it from him before he can untwist it.

She marches straight back across the lane with the black balloon bobbing above her lemon-yellow dress, then holds it up beside Ruggiero’s polished coffin. Ortensia makes a sharp sound behind her teeth as Viola announces, “This one can come to the funeral.” The crooked yellow wheels turn slowly in the hot air over the white lilies.

Mirella Bellafesta catches Viola’s black balloon sausage-hearse by one yellow wheel and presses it against the polished coffin before Ortensia can snatch it away. Under the damp black awning, the yellow ribbon on Mirella’s wrist flashes beside the white lilies as Ortensia lowers her umbrella toward the balloon. “That comes down,” Ortensia says. Viola plants herself against the coffin trolley, chin raised. “It is his small hearse.”

Mirella slides her fingers beneath the coffin’s side rail and pulls open a narrow polished panel Enea had not seen during loading. Ortensia reaches for her wrist. Mirella shakes her off, and the pocket spills its contents onto the black coffin lid: a battered brass handbell, a white butcher’s apron folded square, and a fat packet of tiny paper flags printed in clashing colours. The bell rolls once, then stops against the balloon hearse.

“He wrote nothing,” Mirella says, lifting the apron by its neck strap. “He knew I would read it aloud in the wrong voice.” She shakes the packet open, and three ridiculous flags flutter over the lilies. Ortensia clamps one hand over the coffin pocket, as if she can close Ruggiero’s wishes back inside it.

Enea picks up the brass bell before it can fall onto the chipped steps. Viola reaches for it at once, while Mirella holds the butcher’s apron against her black dress and laughs through wet eyes. Ortensia stares at the coloured flags trembling above the coffin, then says, “No.”

Viola Bellafesta snatches the black balloon sausage-hearse from Enea’s hand and slaps it onto a coral cake box, making its four yellow wheels wobble over a smear of melting pink frosting. “This is Ruggiero’s hearse,” she announces, loud enough for the half-inflated castle to hear her, while lemon-yellow number-sevens shiver against the sun-faded blue door behind her. Enea reaches for the balloon, but Viola tucks it under one arm and points at the polished black van across the lane. “The big one is for serious people. This one is for him.”

Lidia Bellafesta catches Enea by the sleeve before he can chase Viola toward the butcher-shop steps. “No funeral things on my cake boxes,” she says, dragging the box away from the balloon pump with the toe of her white sneaker. Enea still holds Ruggiero’s brass handbell, its dull metal flashing beside his loose red suspender. “It is not a funeral thing,” he says. “It is a balloon.” Lidia looks at the yellow wheels, then at Mirella Bellafesta beneath the black awning. “It is both, which is worse.”

Viola marches to the edge of the frosting-smeared pavement and raises the sausage-hearse toward Mirella like an offering. Mirella lifts the yellow ribbon on her wrist, then reaches across the narrow strip of street and catches one crooked wheel between two fingers. The balloon squeaks against the coffin’s polished side as Enea arrives too late to stop it.

Enea snatches the black balloon sausage-hearse from Viola Bellafesta and rolls it across a coral cake box, its four yellow wheels bumping through a pink frosting smear outside number 16. “It goes first,” he says, pushing it toward the narrow gap between the blue door and the butcher-shop steps, “then the flags, then the coffin trolley, then everyone who keeps blocking the street.” Viola runs alongside the box with one hand raised like a traffic officer, while the half-inflated castle bellies against the wall behind her.

Lidia Bellafesta hooks both hands around the blower crate and hauls it back before Enea can point to it. “My blower does not hold up funeral awnings,” she says. Enea lifts the brass handbell in one hand and gestures with the balloon in the other. “Your blower holds up a castle that is eating your pavement.” Lidia plants a white sneaker against the crate, and Viola points at the balloon hearse. “It has wheels. It is qualified.”

Across the lane, Mirella Bellafesta steps down from the cool butcher-shop shade with Ruggiero’s paper flags pressed against her black dress. Enea rolls the balloon hearse to the edge of the cake box and lets it stop with one yellow wheel hanging over the drop toward the street.

Mirella Bellafesta steps off the cool butcher-shop stone and plucks the black balloon sausage-hearse from the coral cake box before Enea can roll it away, the brass handbell knocking against her wrist as she crosses the frosting-smeared pavement. Lidia Bellafesta reaches for the balloon at once, but Mirella turns her shoulder and holds it over the melting cupcakes, its four yellow wheels wobbling in the hard gold light. Viola Bellafesta grips Mirella’s black sleeve and points at the wheels. “It goes first,” she says.

Enea keeps one hand on the blower crate while Lidia braces a white sneaker against it. “Mrs. Bellafesta,” Lidia says, “that is party stock.” Mirella presses the balloon gently against the white butcher’s apron folded over her arm, then rings the brass bell once against one crooked yellow wheel. The squeak that answers is thin and ridiculous.

Mirella’s mouth tightens as if she means to disapprove; then she laughs, sharp and helpless, and lifts the sausage-hearse toward the dark green door. “Ruggiero would have laughed hard enough to choke on an olive,” she says. Enea watches the yellow wheels spin above the pink frosting while Lidia’s hands remain locked around the blower crate.

Enea Sorrentino kicks a coral cake box sideways through a pink frosting smear and drags another beside it, building a crooked barrier across Number Sixteen Cake Pavement while the half-inflated castle presses against the sun-faded blue door. He sets the black balloon sausage-hearse on the first box, its yellow wheels trembling, then lays Ruggiero’s paper flags in a line behind it. “There,” he says, pointing through the gap toward the chipped butcher-shop steps. “Either it goes that way, or everybody goes into everybody else.”

Lidia Bellafesta grabs the blower crate by its handle and pulls it tight against her shin. “My guests are not marching behind a balloon sausage.” Mirella Bellafesta lifts the sausage-hearse before Lidia can snatch it, holding it above the softening cupcakes with the yellow birthday ribbon bright around her wrist. Viola Bellafesta reaches under Enea’s elbow, steals the brass handbell from his hand, and rings it once.

The bright clang cuts through the wheeze of the balloon pump. Children turn from the castle and bunch toward the dark green doorway; the people on the butcher-shop steps edge backward until one heel lands on a cake box and sinks into its lid. Enea catches the box before it collapses, while Mirella pins one clashing paper flag to the balloon hearse with her thumb and holds it at the front of the narrow passage.

Mirella Bellafesta knots a paper flag around the black balloon sausage-hearse, pulling the string tight until its crooked yellow wheels squeak above a coral cake box. The flag flaps beside her yellow birthday ribbon as she holds the little balloon vehicle up toward the dark green door. “He goes first,” she says, and Viola Bellafesta nods with such fierce approval that one braid swings into the pink frosting at her shoulder. Enea catches the balloon before it can brush the melting cupcakes, while Lidia Bellafesta keeps both hands locked around the blower crate.

Lidia looks from the flag to the half-inflated castle bulging against her blue door, then gives the crate a hard shove into Enea’s chest. “Use it for the awning,” she says. “Not for inventing a new profession.” Enea staggers back with the crate, its plastic handle biting his palm, and swings it toward the narrow strip between cake boxes and the butcher-shop steps. Mirella pins the balloon hearse at the front of the passage, its flag snapping over the coffin-side lilies.

A child climbs the sagging vinyl wall of the castle behind them and grabs the nearest rope as if it is a pirate ship rigging. The knot slips free from its pavement weight. The castle lurches outward, one painted turret rising into the hard gold light while the loose rope whips across the cake boxes.

Enea Sorrentino drops the blower crate as the castle’s loose anchor snaps free from its pavement weight and the painted vinyl wall jerks away from the blue door. Coral cake boxes skid through pink frosting, and the black balloon sausage-hearse bounces off one box while Mirella Bellafesta snatches it clear with her free hand. The castle catches a gust between the buildings, swells upright on one crooked turret, and yanks a string of birthday balloons after it.

Lidia Bellafesta dives for the rope, her white sneaker crushing a paper number-seven, but her fingers close on empty air. “Hold it!” she shouts, as if the castle has manners. The trailing rope sweeps across the butcher-shop side, hooks one white funeral wreath by its wire frame, and drags it over the black paving stones. Mirella grabs the brass handbell against her chest as the wreath scrapes downhill, its lilies shedding petals behind it.

Enea vaults a flattened cake box and runs after the bouncing castle as it gathers speed toward Spaccanapoli. Lidia tears after him, one hand still stretched toward the rope, while Mirella hikes up her black skirt and follows with the balloon hearse tucked under her arm. Behind them, the blower hose rattles over the pavement like a furious tail.

Enea Sorrentino throws himself onto the trailing blower hose as the painted bouncy castle hops downhill across Spaccanapoli’s rough black paving, its dragon turret snapping past a scooter rack in hard gold sunlight. The hose jerks beneath his hands and drags him two metres before his shoes catch between the stones. Ahead, the funeral wreath scrapes behind the castle, white lilies bouncing against the road while a string of yellow balloons knocks wildly along its side.

Lidia Bellafesta grabs Enea’s waistcoat from behind and hauls once, hard enough to tear a button loose. “Pull it left!” she shouts. “It is a castle,” Enea says through clenched teeth. “It has no left.” Mirella Bellafesta arrives at a run, black skirt gathered above her ankles, and swings the black balloon sausage-hearse out of the wreath’s path just as the castle slams sideways into the scooter rack.

The rack rattles. The castle wedges for one breath, then swells against it with a squeal of taut nylon, its painted dragon face pressing toward the stacked lemon crates of the fruit cart. Enea remains wrapped around the hose, one red suspender exposed beneath his open white shirt, while Lidia catches the main rope and Mirella raises Ruggiero’s brass handbell over the bucking vinyl.

Enea Sorrentino throws his full weight against the blower hose, wrenching the painted dragon turret away from the lemon crates as the bouncy castle squeals against Spaccanapoli’s scooter rack. The rack clatters over the rough black paving, and bright lemons shudder in their stacked crates like small yellow alarms. Lidia Bellafesta has both hands locked around the main rope, her white sneakers sliding as the castle swells and bucks toward her. Mirella Bellafesta hooks one arm through the funeral wreath’s wire frame and drags it clear of the dragon’s painted teeth, the brass handbell knocking against her wrist.

“Do not let it eat the fruit cart,” Lidia says, hauling back on the rope. “I am trying to stop it becoming a fruit castle,” Enea snaps, as a string of birthday balloons thumps against his shoulder.

Then a hard metallic rattle cuts down the slope. Ortensia Sorrentino appears above them, black umbrella tucked beneath one arm, both hands straining on the coffin trolley as its bad wheel skips from stone to stone. The polished coffin flashes between the flapping paper flags, aimed straight at the gap beside the trapped dragon. Mirella raises the bell, and Ortensia shouts, “Move that castle or move the dead man.”

Enea plants one shoe against the scooter rack while Lidia’s rope jerks tight between them, and the white funeral wreath catches on the dragon’s inflated claw.

Enea Sorrentino yanks the main rope toward the scooter rack as Lidia Bellafesta pulls the other end, and the painted dragon turret bucks between them above Spaccanapoli’s black stones. The rope burns across Enea’s palms while the funeral wreath hangs crookedly from the dragon’s inflated claw, white lilies shaking loose over the lemon crates. Above them, Ortensia Sorrentino wrestles the coffin trolley downhill with her umbrella trapped beneath one arm, its bad wheel hammering a frantic rhythm against the paving.

“Hold it!” Lidia shouts, sliding forward in her white sneakers. Enea braces one foot on the scooter rack and jerks his open shirt straight where the rope has caught his red suspender. “I have held everything all day,” he says. “Your castle, her coffin, both doors, and an argument older than I am.” Mirella Bellafesta drags the wreath free by inches, the brass handbell knocking against her wrist as she looks uphill at Ortensia’s swerving trolley.

The coffin trolley hits a ridge in the stones and swings toward the fruit cart. Lidia looks from Enea’s bleeding grip to Ortensia’s rigid black figure, then lets the rope snap out of her hands. She runs uphill through the whipping balloons and catches the trolley’s second handle just as Ortensia loses it, their shoulders slamming together behind the polished coffin while Enea is left alone holding the dragon’s rope.

Enea Sorrentino rips the black tie from his open collar and throws it around the scooter rack as the bouncy castle jerks its painted dragon head toward the fruit cart. He catches the main rope on the second swing, hauls it tight, and knots the tie with fingers scraped raw by nylon. “If this comes loose,” he says, pulling the knot with both hands, “I am moving to a monastery with no birthdays.”

Under the sagging red-and-blue wall, Viola Bellafesta’s small voice cuts through the blower’s roar. “Everybody off. This is not a game now. It is a funeral game.” The children scramble clear of the vinyl as Mirella Bellafesta drags the white wreath free, lilies scattering across the black paving. Above them, Lidia Bellafesta and Ortensia Sorrentino shove the coffin trolley uphill together, their shoulders locked behind the polished coffin while Ortensia’s umbrella bounces uselessly against her hip.

The tie snaps straight, then holds. Lemon crates press against the castle’s lower corner, bright fruit trembling beneath the dragon’s painted grin. Enea leans back against the scooter rack in his white shirt and lone red suspender while the coffin trolley, birthday balloons, paper flags, and rescued wreath crowd into the only uphill lane.

Enea Sorrentino grabs the front handle of the coffin trolley and pulls it uphill from Spaccanapoli Crossing, his white shirt stuck to his back and one red suspender blazing beneath the hard gold light. Behind the polished coffin, Ortensia Sorrentino shoves with both hands, her black umbrella trapped under her arm, while Lidia Bellafesta catches a drifting string of yellow balloons before it wraps around the trolley wheel. The rescued wreath hangs crookedly from the coffin’s side, shedding white petals over the rough black paving.

“Flags behind the coffin,” Enea says, pointing uphill. “Children behind the flags. Nobody touches the wheels.” Viola Bellafesta snatches the brass handbell from the trolley rail and marches in front anyway, ringing one bright, illegal note as she passes the scooter rack. Lidia reaches for her, but Viola ducks under her arm and raises the black balloon sausage-hearse like a funeral standard. “I am the front,” she announces.

Ortensia catches sight of the balloon and stiffens. “That object is not leading Ruggiero Bellafesta anywhere.” Enea keeps hauling, and the trolley rolls past her before she can block it; Lidia, still gripping the balloon string, is pulled into step beside Ortensia. The flags flutter behind the coffin, birthday balloons bounce above them, and the four of them climb toward Via dei Tribunali in a line nobody has agreed to call a procession.

Viola Bellafesta darts up the three chipped butcher-shop steps and shoves Ruggiero’s brass handbell into Ortensia Sorrentino’s black-gloved palm beneath the damp funeral awning. Enea Sorrentino braces the coffin trolley at the bottom step, his white shirt darkened at the back and his single red suspender bright against the black wood. “You have to do it,” Viola says, lifting the black balloon sausage-hearse like a flag. “You are the funeral lady.”

Ortensia tries to pass the bell back, but Viola folds both small hands over Ortensia’s and traps it there. Lidia Bellafesta catches a string of yellow balloons before it wraps around the trolley wheel, then freezes with the ribbon pulled tight across her coral sleeve. “One ring,” Enea says. “Then we get inside before somebody calls this a parade.”

Ortensia raises the bell. Its single bright note cuts through the lane, and the paper flags stop fluttering long enough to be seen beside the white lilies. Viola lowers the balloon hearse; Lidia loosens her grip on the balloons; Enea keeps both hands on the trolley as the brass bell hangs from Ortensia’s fist above the green door.

Ortensia Sorrentino snatches both folding chairs from Lidia Bellafesta’s hands and drags them across the black paving before Lidia can finish saying, “They are for Mirella.” Their metal feet shriek past fallen lily petals, stopping in the strip of street between the dark green door and the sun-faded blue one. Enea Sorrentino braces the coffin trolley with one scraped hand while the brass bell hangs from Ortensia’s other fist.

“We are not accepting chairs from number 16,” Ortensia says, yanking one chair open with a hard metallic snap. Lidia catches the second chair before it tips, her coral sleeve still tangled in yellow balloon ribbon. “Excellent,” Lidia says. “Because number 16 is not lending them.”

Viola Bellafesta climbs onto the lower butcher-shop step and points at the two chairs. “Those are for judges,” she declares, holding the black balloon sausage-hearse over her head. Ortensia sets the second chair beside the first, squarely in the middle of Via dei Tribunali, then steps back with her chin raised while Lidia lets go of the chair’s backrest at exactly the same time.

Ortensia Sorrentino seizes Enea Sorrentino’s waistcoat and yanks him backward from the two open folding chairs, her black-gloved fist bunching the fabric beneath the damp awning. “The hearse is double-parked,” she says, pointing past the lilies toward the glossy black van. “Drive it before somebody turns Ruggiero’s farewell into municipal furniture.”

Viola Bellafesta hooks both hands around Enea’s lone red suspender and pulls him toward the sun-faded blue door with all the force of a seven-year-old issuing a royal decree. “No,” she says. “He is the clown. He has the stripe.” The suspender stretches across Enea’s white shirt; one of its metal clips snaps loose and smacks against the coffin trolley.

Lidia Bellafesta catches the swinging clip before it scratches the polished wood, then tries to peel Viola’s fingers away without dislodging the balloon sausage-hearse from under her arm. Ortensia tightens her hold. Enea twists between them, waistcoat pulled toward number 14 and red strap pulled toward number 16, while the two ownerless chairs sit squarely in the middle of Via dei Tribunali like they have been appointed to judge him.

Enea Sorrentino jerks his waistcoat out of Ortensia Sorrentino’s black-gloved fist and slips his red suspender free of Viola Bellafesta’s hands, leaving the loose strap to snap against his white shirt between the two open chairs. The damp black awning hangs over the dark green door behind him, while yellow balloons tug toward number 16 and white lily petals cling to the black paving at his shoes. “Drive the hearse,” Ortensia says. “Be the clown,” Viola says at the same time.

Enea takes the black balloon sausage-hearse from Viola’s raised hands before either woman can pull him toward a doorway. Lidia Bellafesta catches the dangling red clip again as it swings toward the coffin trolley, then watches Enea plant himself in the strip of street nobody owns. He pinches the balloon’s four yellow wheels, twists its long black body into a crooked roof, and adds a tiny balloon knot for a driver’s cap. “It needs a proper roof,” Viola says, leaning close. “It has a roof,” Ortensia says. “It is a sausage.”

Enea folds the last length into a bow over the coffin-shaped balloon, and the rubber squeaks sharply in the hush beneath the balconies. Lidia points at it despite herself. “That bow makes it worse.” Ortensia raises Ruggiero’s brass handbell and rings it once; Viola laughs, and Enea holds the finished sausage-hearse between the green door and the blue one.