Irregular Russian verbs drove her crazy. She consoled herself that things could have been worse. Comrade Montefusco said that Polish, a close cousin to Russian, had separate masculine, feminine, and neuter forms for verbs. Annarita tried to imagine little children learning a language that complicated. They evidently could. She wondered how. When Gianfranco came into the kitchen, she was ready to put the Russian aside for his game. Her mother would cluck, but she didn’t care. Then she got a good look at his face. “What’s wrong?” she asked, adding, “You look like somebody who just saw a ghost.” “That’s not funny,” Gianfranco said. “Come out with me for a second, will you?” “All right.” Annarita closed the book and got up. “What’s going on? You don’t usually act this way.” He didn’t try to tell her it was nothing. She would have brained him with the Russian book if he had. It was big and square and heavy—she might have fractured his skull. All he said was, “You’ll see.”
