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.
Esta historia es de la edición September 30, 2024 de The New Yorker.
Comience su prueba gratuita de Magzter GOLD de 7 días para acceder a miles de historias premium seleccionadas y a más de 9,000 revistas y periódicos.
Ya eres suscriptor ? Conectar
Esta historia es de la edición September 30, 2024 de The New Yorker.
Comience su prueba gratuita de Magzter GOLD de 7 días para acceder a miles de historias premium seleccionadas y a más de 9,000 revistas y periódicos.
Ya eres suscriptor? Conectar
YULE RULES
“Christmas Eve in Miller’s Point.”
COLLISION COURSE
In Devika Rege’ first novel, India enters a troubling new era.
NEW CHAPTER
Is the twentieth-century novel a genre unto itself?
STUCK ON YOU
Pain and pleasure at a tattoo convention.
HEAVY SNOW HAN KANG
Kyungha-ya. That was the entirety of Inseon’s message: my name.
REPRISE
Reckoning with Donald Trump's return to power.
WHAT'S YOUR PARENTING-FAILURE STYLE?
Whether you’re horrifying your teen with nauseating sex-ed analogies or watching TikToks while your toddler eats a bagel from the subway floor, face it: you’re flailing in the vast chasm of your child’s relentless needs.
COLOR INSTINCT
Jadé Fadojutimi, a British painter, sees the world through a prism.
THE FAMILY PLAN
The pro-life movement’ new playbook.
President for Sale - A survey of today's political ads.
On a mid-October Sunday not long ago sun high, wind cool-I was in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, for a book festival, and I took a stroll. There were few people on the streets-like the population of a lot of capital cities, Harrisburg's swells on weekdays with lawyers and lobbyists and legislative staffers, and dwindles on the weekends. But, on the façades of small businesses and in the doorways of private homes, I could see evidence of political activity. Across from the sparkling Susquehanna River, there was a row of Democratic lawn signs: Malcolm Kenyatta for auditor general, Bob Casey for U.S. Senate, and, most important, in white letters atop a periwinkle not unlike that of the sky, Kamala Harris for President.
