Che bella goirnata!

Despite Estelle's having pink eye AGAIN, we carry on. Last night I started on my new year's resolution - to learn Italian. So far, so good. A background in Latin makes things surprisingly easier in Italian.
But let's get to the real story of the day: This guy:
Faithful readers may remember a post from way back, June I believe, when our "chaudiere" a.k.a. The Beast, went on the fritz. Well, here we are, a year after we officially took possession of this apt and thus time for the annual inspection of The beast. The appt was for 8:30 this morning. At 8:02 the buzzer rang. It was Mr. Beast-Inspector. Times like that are when I'm grateful we are 5 floors up, thus enabling me 2 minutes to get out of my pajamas and put on clothes before he gets to the door.
In he walks, kind of like Gene Kelley, broad shouldered, thin waisted, jeans pressed. He immediately begins to sing softly as he starts to dismantle The Beast. I smile. He sings a little bit louder and smiles and looks directly at me and Estelle occasionally whilst doing his work. This man, let me tell you, could sing. It was like Mario Lanza/Nat King Cole/Louis Prima was in my apartment. He sang so beautifully, all these old French love songs, some in Italian. He was so pleased to have an audience. Estelle, thru her pink-eye haze of the early morning, was enraptured. All his songs were either about walking around in Paris in love, or in Venice in love, or they all focused on the name of some girl. I just hugged my tea mug and enjoyed every second, watching him deftly whip The Beast into shape, hopping back and forth to his tool kit, occasionnally pausing to wave a wrench softly in the air as he hit a high note.
I said i hope their were people in his life who appreciated his talent - he said he was "alone on the Riviera" as his family was in Paris, but yes of course he had his "fans". When I said "why are you here if your family is all in Paris?" He answered with a song about the sun, the beach, and the blue of the sea. When it was all finished, I asked him the name of one of the songs he had sung, a long one, which I had loved. I said "you know, the one where you kept saying 'signore"?" He could not figure out which song I meant. He knows so many songs, has such a repetoire, that he couldn't even remember what he had just sung. He left and we shook hands. I shut the door behind him. I turned to Estelle and began my own warbled version of some song i made up. 5 seconds later my doorbell rang. It was him, Roné. "Was it this one?" he asked, and thus on my doorstep burst out into a song which was lovely, but not the one i wanted to know about. I smiled "nope". He shook his head "That's gonna bug me all morning." and off he went.
The old widow who lives across the elevator from us popped her head out the door "My goodness, who was that singing, was that your husband? My goodness. That makes me think of....." and I kid you not, her voice just trailed off and she stood in her houserobe, her hand on her heart. I said "no, it was the man who came to check our heater-thing." She sighed and closed her door.
It reminded me that he had said "When I retire, I am going to become a singer in nursing homes. I think I can bring joy into people's lives. Music can change your whole day."
Damn straight.