Luigi Ciotti was pacing by the open gates of a low concrete building in Turin. He had been waiting for an hour. In front of him was a wide street smelling of diesel and flanked by the bollards that keep Italians from parking where they shouldn’t. With his shrewd eyes, flowing white hair, untucked black shirt, and black pants, Ciotti could have been a theatre director waiting for his lead to show up. Rather, he was a priest. He chatted with three bodyguards, who stood just behind him, their eyes fixed on the road. Finally, a Fiat 500 approached. As soon as the car cleared the gates, the security detail slammed them shut. In the back of the vehicle was a young woman in a pink Converse sweatshirt and leopard-print leggings. On her lap sat a small boy with a pacifier. A teenage girl was next to them.
Ciotti opened the car door and said, in Italian, “Welcome! Are you tired? How was the trip?”
All three were exhausted, and got out cautiously. Ciotti declared that it was a joy to see them. The boy began crying, and Ciotti promised him un ottimo dolce—a wonderful pastry—if he’d follow him inside. The mother echoed the promise, and the boy consented.
The building was the headquarters of Gruppo Abele, a social-services organization that Ciotti founded in 1965. We sat around a dining-room table with a chintz tablecloth. Coffee, a hazelnut tart, and cheese awaited us. The girl spoke of liking sweets. “You should become a cake-maker!” Ciotti told her. He was getting her started on imagining a new life.
Diese Geschichte stammt aus der September 30, 2024-Ausgabe von The New Yorker.
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Diese Geschichte stammt aus der September 30, 2024-Ausgabe von The New Yorker.
Starten Sie Ihre 7-tägige kostenlose Testversion von Magzter GOLD, um auf Tausende kuratierte Premium-Storys sowie über 8.000 Zeitschriften und Zeitungen zuzugreifen.
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