Lela, the Beggar Woman

Torino, Italy
Spring, 2012

The spring semester of my junior year of college Tyler and I (we were just dating then) studied abroad in Torino, Italy. During our four months there we fell hard for the under-appreciated city and northern Italy in general. The casual, unassuming beauty of the city entranced us–the rambling cobblestone streets and accordion men playing on the street corners stole our hearts. When we had to leave I cried over all of these beautiful things, but what broke my heart the most was saying good-bye to a tiny, hunched-over, beggar woman named Lela.

Something that took me off-guard in northern Italy was the homeless. In my experience with the homeless in the US the people on the streets are most often middle-aged men. All of them have sad stories as to how they ended up there–some are drug or alcohol addicts, veterans, or victims of depression and mental illness. It is always heart-breaking to see, but there is some amount of hope that with the right help these people could re-enter society, obtain jobs, make friends, perhaps even be reunited with family.

But here, amidst all the beauty of these ancient streets the beggars are themselves the ancient. Their lives have already been spent and what is left to them they will spend alone, on the streets. I do not know the reason for this difference in demographic, nor do I make claims or judgments about this society–all I know is that it was one of the most heart-rendering things I ever experienced.

We met Lela on one of our first days there–walking back from the train station after classes. The walk back from the train station was one of my favorite parts of the city. The wide boulevard plunged through the heart of the old city. Beautiful, sophisticated shops and restaurants lined the street under grand, arching arcades. The sidewalks under the arcades  were always crowded and bustling and, though my eyes lingered on the ornate cakes or expensive clothing in the windows in passing, I was continually pulled onward by the bustling crowd.

We were just passing Piazza San Carlo, a wide space in the center of the busy city where the sun shone brightly down and reflected off of white paving stones, when my eyes caught something ahead, amidst the throng of shuffling black coats. Un-moving in the center of current was a tiny, black-clad figure. As we approached I saw that it was woman’s figure–but small as a child–bundled against the cold, and hunched over a cane, one hand extended, holding a plastic cup. A glimpse of her bowed head showed us a faded and withered cheek. The shock of seeing such a frail, old woman out on the streets in the cold was like a punch in the stomach. I scrounged in my pocket for some change, but not finding anything I looked desperately at Tyler, who immediately produced some from his own. When the coins hit the bottom of the cup a small, scratchy voice came from the bowed, bundled head, “Grazie.” She didn’t even look up.

We walked back to our student apartments in silence–the image of the little figure in black burned into my mind.

The next morning we had classes early and the world was harsh and frost bitten as we shuffled hurriedly towards the train station. We were empty-handed when we found ourselves passing by the tiny figure again–we had not expected to see her again so early in the day. I wanted to cry imagining how cold she must be.

On our walk back from classes I proudly showed Tyler the clementine I had saved from my lunch to give to the beggar woman. He smiled and pulled one from his pocket as well. This time, when we reached her we stopped and held out the fruit to her. She slowly raised her head to look up at us. We saw her whole face for the first time. Her face was composed of a thousand lines, but set in them were two bright, black eyes. She was something from a fairy tale–the shriveled old crone who when shown kindness turns into a fairy and grants wishes. Her look was one of surprise and curiosity at our attention. In our broken Italian we attempted to introduce ourselves and ask her name. We were never sure whether our Italian was just too poor or if she simply wasn’t Italian, but she did not seem to understand anything we said. But we did eventually communicate to her our names and she told us her’s was Lela. Our words failed us, but through awkward shrugs, smiles and laughs we connected. As we waved and backed away she called after us, Grazie, mami, Grazie.

We continued in this way for the next few weeks–saving a pastry or a piece of fruit here or there to offer Lela on our way to or from school. One day I had an idea that thrilled me. I told Tyler that on our way home I wanted to ask Lela to go to tea with me at one of the shops near where she spent her days. When I asked her that afternoon (using our usual broken Italian and hand gestures) she smiled, but shook her head. “No, mami, no.” She said. She said some things that I didn’t understand, but eventually I gathered that she was saying that she would not be allowed in the shops. My American sensibilities were shocked as in the US we are almost always happy to take money from anyone who will give it to us.

I was sad and disappointed, but Lela’s smiles and reassuring gestures comforted me and I left with a new resolve to help her any way I could–though I had little to offer.

One particularly bitterly cold night Tyler and I were coming back from grocery shopping when we saw the familiar form illuminated under the lights of the shop windows. The wind was biting and a few flakes of snow were beginning to swirl down from the dark sky. I felt my stomach clench. She had been there all day, and now it was dark, and cold and the streets were nearly empty and yet here she stood silent and still as stone.

When we came to her we were both fretful and agitated. We tried to ask her where she lived, where she would stay that night, why she was still outside–but once again our words failed us. She looked at our anxious faces and with a tired smile patted my arm and said things in a tone that I knew meant she wanted us to know she was ok. Tears were welling in my eyes when Tyler asked if there were anything we could do for her or get for her. She hesitated and then held out her bare, gnarled hands–she wanted gloves. We smiled, and nodded our heads, eternally grateful that she had given us this gift of allowing us to help.

We hurried back to our housing and Tyler began digging in drawers for gloves while I put water on to boil. A minute later he appeared at my side with the gloves. “What are you doing?” He asked, looking at the pot of water. “Making her tea.” I said as my voice cracked. I found a jar to hold the tea and wrapped some pastries in a napkin.

We found her in the same place, but she looked up as we drew near–she had learned to recognize our approach and greeted us with a smile. She gladly accepted our meager gifts. We lingered for a few minutes, hating to leave her there in the cold, but we knew our presence made her less likely to receive the charity she was there to humbly accept. And so we left her there.

The weeks and months slipped by and the days grew longer and warmer. One day Tyler asked me to marry him and I accepted. The next day we stopped to excitedly communicate our news to Lela. Our happy faces and the ring on my hand easily communicated our story and she was delighted for us. Though I don’t know the meaning of her words, I know she gave us many blessings that day as she squeezed our hands and her whole wrinkled face beamed back at us.

Finally, the day I had dreaded since we first arrived was upon us–the day of our departure. When I decide to love, I love deeply. And Torino–its streets, its surrounding hills and mountains, its people–had captured my love. I cried over saying goodbye to my apartment, my street, the market, Piazza San Carlo, my favorite gelato shop. I cried softly as we walked through the streets, but when we came in sight of Lela I lost all control and began sobbing.

Lela looked at us in bewilderment–back and forth from Tyler’s sad face to my tear-soaked one. We handed her our bag of fare-well gifts and the laboriously translated card with our explanation of our departure. She looked at the gifts and the card and I don’t know whether she could read it or understand anything we were saying, or whether she simply deduced the truth from the gifts and the tears, but suddenly she understood. She looked sad at least, for our sakes, and took my hands to console me. After a few painful moments we said our tearful goodbyes and continued on our way.

I turned around one last time to look at the tiny figure–the same as ever–and in my memory so she will always be. It is rare that I dwell on my time in Torino without that image appearing before my eyes. We never learned her story–who she was or where she came from or how she came to live her days on the streets. But I often wonder if I were to return if she would still be there. Is she still alive? Would she remember us? Did we make a fraction of the impact on her that she left on us or were we just two of the hundreds of figures that swirl past her unnoticingly on a daily basis? Would those bright black eyes look up and see friends or strangers?