Quina Checks Twice

The tombola at the end of the journey was a big one, in a town square strung with lights. The players called their prizes by name: two in a line was an ambo, three a terno, and five in a line, the big one before the full card, was a cinquina.

At the next table sat a boy called Quina, about Ama’s age, with a pencil behind his ear and a clipboard on his knee and a very determined face.

“Fifty-five,” called the caller.

Quina pushed a lentil onto his card. He looked at it. His eyes went wide.

“Cinquina!” he shouted, jumping up so fast his chair scraped. “Cinquina!”

The whole square turned to look.

And then, before anyone could move, Quina sat back down, put his finger on the first number of his line, and said quietly, “Wait. I’m checking.”

Ama watched, fascinated. Quina read each number of his line and looked at the caller’s board where every called ball hung on a hook. Eight. Yes. Twenty. Yes. Thirty-four. Yes. Forty-seven. Yes. Fifty-five. Yes.

Then he did it all again, from the start.

Only when he’d checked twice did he stand back up and hold his card out to the caller. “Cinquina,” he said, and this time he was sure.

The caller checked it a third time, smiled, and rang a bell.

At the break, Ama couldn’t help asking. “Why did you check twice? You already shouted.”

Quina went a little pink. “Because of last year,” he said. “I shouted cinquina, and I didn’t check. I’d marked forty-one when they called forty-seven. Everybody waited, and then the caller said, ‘Not called,’ and I had to take it back. In front of the whole square.”

“That sounds awful,” said Tam.

“It was,” said Quina. “My face was as red as a tomato. But my nonna said something good afterwards. She said: shouting is for the moment you see it. Checking is for making it true.”

“So you still shout straight away?” asked Ama.

“Of course! If you wait, someone else might shout first. You claim it fast, then you check slow. Twice.” Quina tapped his pencil on the table. “The first check finds the mistake. The second check makes sure you didn’t make a mistake checking.”

Ama thought about the very first night, back at home, when Uncle Duc and Grandma had both shouted line. If they had both checked twice, they might not have needed the call book at all.

“You’d make a good caller,” Ama said.

Quina grinned. “I’d make a good checker. That’s better.”

On the last page of the trip, Ama wrote in the call book: Cinquina. Shout the moment you see it. Then check every number against the board. Then check again. And underneath, a small brass cage, and the word home.