The Most Beautiful Gift (3 page)

“‘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.”

G
rampa 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.

A
t 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 father 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.

M
ark 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.

The boy headed for the kitchen. His parents
had left a bowl of Cheerios, a jug of milk, and a note: “We’ll be home at four.” Earlier than usual, Mark thought. On the
other hand, it was Christmas Eve, and offices closed early. Sitting in front of the window, Grampa Gus was examining the horizon.
In his hands, he held his thriller. As he became aware of his grandson’s presence, he whirled around. “Hey, Mark, did you
sleep well?”

The boy rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, then poured the milk into his cereal bowl. “Well enough. I dreamed about
an angel.”

The old man smiled. “That’s absolutely natural. After all, today is December twenty-fourth, even if the snow doesn’t want
to fall.” He sighed a long sigh. “I don’t know what I would give to see a white flake. I think I would stare at it as if it
were the most precious thing on earth. In fact, Christmas without snow isn’t a real Christmas. Let’s hope that Camolino remembers
to fulfill his duty.”

Mark’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. He swallowed his milk the wrong way. He
coughed for several seconds, then said, “What did you say you would do with the snowflake?”

Grampa Gus lifted his eyes toward the sky. “I just told you: I would stare at it as if it were the most precious thing in
my possession. Then I think I would throw it up high, so that it might be carried by the wind all the way to heaven, where
it would remind Camolino that it was time to roll up the sleeves of his tunic.”

The little boy didn’t make him repeat it a second time. In one leap, he was at the refrigerator. He opened the freezer door,
looked inside, and … the turkey was still in its place, still gigantic, and the cranberry sauce gleamed nearby, showing off
its bright red color. But the snowflake had disappeared. Actually, to tell the truth, there was only a trace of it left, a
minuscule point on top of an ice cube.

“Grampa!” Mark yelled. “My snowflake!”

The old man got up from his seat and went over to the refrigerator. The boy was nearly in tears. “What happened?” asked Grampa
Gus. “Did you lose something?”

“Yesterday, I caught a snowflake,” Mark said between sobs. “Then I put it inside here so that it wouldn’t melt. But now …”
He pointed to the ice cube with the pimple on top.

Grampa shook his head and began to pat his grandson. “How did such an idea get into your head?”

“I wanted to give it to the best person on earth,” continued Mark breathlessly. “So I went around asking everybody what they
would do with a snowflake. But their answers were completely wrong.” A tear streamed down his cheek. “And this morning, without
my even asking, you told me the most beautiful thing I have ever heard.”

The old man hugged his grandson. “Didn’t you know that the snowflake would become a chip of ice? Snow is, of course, only
water.”

“N-no,” stuttered the little boy.

“Oh well.” Grampa shook his head. “This whole thing makes me think of an old story. I think you’d better listen to it.”

Mark closed the freezer door, wiped his eyes,
and sat down at the kitchen table. His eyes still burned, but the tears had stopped falling. Grampa sat down in front of
him. His white hair was a freshly laundered cloud.

O
nce upon a time, in the age of princesses and dragons, there was a very skilled wizard named Buffello.

“Well, this wizard of ours had invented everything there was to invent: the philosopher’s stone, which could transform lead
into gold; the elixir of life—thanks to which, one could live three hundred or so years; Medusa’s eye, which turned flesh
into stone; and a hundred love potions, a thousand remedies for gout and toothaches, as well as many other marvels.
His fame extended from one end of the known earth to the other.

“One day, he was summoned before the king. The wizard hurried to the palace, where the sovereign asked him to devise a miraculous
invention: the spirit of Christmas. ‘During this season, everyone is a much better person,’ began the king. ‘The people love
one another. Evil and malice do not exist. I want you to come up with a potion that will make Christmas last three hundred
and sixty-five days a year.’