Читать книгу The Errant Child - Ozzie Logozzo - Страница 28

Tarquinia, central Italy City Streets

Emily makes me feel old and inadequate. Rather than affirm me, she tears me down. If my wife physically wanted only me, I think I could handle the rest of the world.

Tarquinia, my homeland, is the empowering antidote. Fundamentally, I feel caressed like the embrace of a mother’s arms having found her figlio errante (errant child). The city’s essence billows through my veins like an infusion of perfectly aged, sweet almond-flavored Amaretto liqueur. However, the mood that this town is not what it seems still swells within my gut. I sense it repeatedly but I am not yet able to understand why. Am I just being paranoid?

But how can I not treasure Tarquinia with all its archeological finds? There are more than six thousand Etruscan tombs. There are colorful Greek vases, paintings, frescoes, sculptures and catacombs, underground cemeteries that served as subterranean burial chambers of early Christians. Tarquinia’s medieval charms bring me peace and comfort as I stroll the narrow, pedestrian friendly, cobblestone streets lined with venerable, unique homes.

What was I thinking when I was a mere toddler and tried to run away from home? I remember that I packed a banker box of my preferred playthings and straight-lined out of our house towards the main entrance of the city.

Mamma watched me depart. I cannot remember where I imagined going. Beyond the entrance was sprawling open country fields, beautiful but sparsely populated. Of course, when mamma realized I was not turning back, she ran after me grasping me by my upper arm and whisked me back home before our neighbors had more spices to add to the gossip soup.

Refreshed by the summer breeze, my senses and appetite awaken to the cascading smells of azaleas, roses, brick oven pizza, Nutella, freshly baked bread and simmering tomato sauce. The main throughway, bathed in a rose-colored glow, is a feast of aromas and sights.

I would love another cappuccino, but it is the common practice to shun the breakfast beverage after 11 a.m. How quaint. I must confess that such unspoken rules bring me comfort. It is uplifting to so easily comply and belong. Laissez-faire Americanism is not all that it is cracked up to be. It lacks roots.

The same carabiniere as yesterday is watching me with more than just casual interest. I’d swear he resembles the waiter at the hotel or is it that Italian men are all beginning to look alike? His surveillance makes me self-conscious. Do I stand out because of my looks? My wardrobe? My slow- paced meandering? Perhaps I should approach him and resolve my inner doubts. Instead, I harness my imagination, my hat in hand, and head down the street where I once lived.

I pass by the chiesa di San Giovanni (St. John’s church). I was confirmed here.

Here, I received communion and confirmation by special clerical dispensation. I recall wearing white, head to toe: white shirt, white tie, white gloves, white jacket and pants. Only my shoes and socks were black. My Godfather, all dressed in navy blue, was my neighbor Giuseppe, who adopted me and brought me to America.

At that moment, a wedding party emerges from the main door amidst sounds of organ music and shouts of congratulations in, la frittata è fatta (the omelet is made).

One block of houses over, at the corner of Via Roma and Via XX Settembre, I stop to stare at a three-story stone structure. The building is under renovation and conversion into condominiums. Its heritage exterior is preserved.

This is my birthplace. I lived here for almost five years in a two-room flat that is no bigger than a catacomb with an entry tunnel.

The heat of the sun is getting to me. I raise my Tilley’s hat, dangling on my belt, to my head. My mind wanders to years past. I am a child again running through the byways.

“Buongiorno.”

I see an elderly man with an imposing Neapolitan Mastiff. He is talking to me.

“My name is Luigi.”

His dog is alarming with its massive, muscular body, striking head and powerful jaw with large teeth. The beast’s watchful and suspicious gaze suggests he is more than just a man’s best friend.

Luigi is short, squat, and balding. His biceps are almost as big as his girth. He is wearing shorts and a tee shirt exposing tattoos on all four limbs, including his prosthetic lower leg.

“Ciao.”

I respond. I feel grateful he interrupted my painful reminiscence.

“You’re new in town, but you carry a look of lost memories.”

“I was born here. As a boy, I played up and down these streets. Over there, the city wall was one of my most favorite jaunts. Every morning, I would race up Via XX Settembre and wind my way to

kindergarten in the Palazzo Comunale.”

“Sì, next to the fountain in the Piazza Tarquinia,” helps Luigi.

“Do you know my parents, Giuseppe and Esterina Salvo?” I ask.

“No,” Luigi snaps, abruptly turns, and strides

away.

I do not know what to make of this. I

conclude Luigi must be bipolar.

At the end of Via Roma, the ancient wall surrounding the city is visible.

I remember kicking my soccer ball against the barricade, waiting for Sebastiano to arrive, when two older kids challenged me.

They called me names, ‘bastardo’ mainly, and demanded I forfeit my ball. The taller one shoved me. I was trapped, my back against the wall. The sidekick prepared to punch me. Between them, I saw Giuseppe in the distance walking toward us. That is all the buffer I needed. I started swinging and kicking like a madman. My mamma was my role model. Giuseppe leaped in to save the bullies.

I left one in a fetal position on the ground grabbing his groin while the other stood stunned, trembling, as blood rushed out of his nose.

Continuing to retrace my bygone footsteps, I arrive at the Piazza Tarquinia. It all looks so familiar but my absence feels like an eternity. I recollect

D.H. Lawrence, who wrote ‘The living moment is

everything’. I have increased number of moments of being out-of-place, having roots in two different countries.

As I approach my old schoolhouse, the same carabiniere stands in front of the station house that is attached to the church that was once my kindergarten. Sister LaRosa is gone. There is a plaque in her honor fastened beside the door.

In onore di una signora santa, Sorella LaRosa

(In honor of a saintly lady, Sister LaRosa)

She is no longer here to offer me advice. Only the officer who is staring at me with unblinking eyes is present. I have rarely felt more uncomfortable.

I take a drink from the water fountain. Every drop of water releases more memories.

I remember the carabinieri escorting my mamma and I to the church beside my kindergarten.

In the end, all I remember is me and mamma crying together and then finding myself with Giuseppe, Esterina and Silvana on a ship to America.

I remember a bit of the crowded, noisy train station where mamma and I crossed some railway tracks to get to the right platform.

I remember the rough car ride to the port of Civitavecchia. Walking up the gangway,

I remember looking back: the city obscured by darkness and heavy rainfall.

From that time, onward, I could feel my thoughts starting to crumble within my skull like

tattered wallpaper.

The old man, Luigi, and his barking dog reappears across the street. Luigi is licking a gelato. He glares at me as if I offended him. I feel unwelcomed. Breaking eye contact, I hike upward to the hilltop. Solitary men sitting on stone benches are feeding the pigeons. Some are scrutinizing the young girls exiting the café on the corner. Beyond them rests an enchanting panorama of verdant fields speckled with patches of yellow cornfields. It is picture-perfect scenery fit for advertising or soothing the troubled soul.

When I turn around to view the many bell towers of the city. A chill overcomes me. The carabiniere and Luigi, with his drooling mongrel, have me under their surveillance even yet.

What is up their asses?