Who was really my father?
I never felt that she loved life if not by the family yesterday and that me and my sister recently. Never a fun or a moment for himself, the happiness was shared with loved ones. Antonio was certainly an eccentric old man, who had very little of the Calabrian and the Romans. It seemed to be born in a town in central Europe last century. Among the characters of the show that was like no doubt most would choose Raimondo Vianello, although much less smiling. His motto, never openly stated, was that of "washing dirty laundry in the family." In public he always praised the qualities of their children and the family in general, sometimes overdoing it a bit '. In the home setting rigid education - teacher was not by chance, at least on paper - bordered on the intransigence of the Calvinist mentality typical of the world. Recently, the public-private dichotomy of attitudes had become very bizarre, to the point of earning the nickname leader. His appeals to remain memorable evening return to the "eleven thirteen" and intolerance to my humor too. The only thing certain was his immense love for her grandchildren, which stand any gesture also the less educated. And got angry a lot, but she accepted the role play. Most of his thoughts was a mystery, now preserved for eternity. Often did not understand, in his eyes, what really thought. I can not mention the day of my graduation, when, at the end of the session, I asked: "How did you get?
"One hundred and ten. But no praise. "
That last definition must have ice cream. The praise, what a beautiful word ... Instead, nothing.
had not approved the choice of the option. He stravisto a child advocate, a shyster who could unravel amid a sea of \u200b\u200bscum of this fraudulent Italy and mediocre. Not to mention the doctor, a character worthy of the highest respect. Foreign languages, but it would be better to enter the bank? This had the least satisfaction. But to my sheer bad luck. When he was more
Young tried to enjoy the family, especially children, at any free moment. The return of work after leaving his mother loved him so much that the Bank, entered the house and, as a good Muslim - I did not say Calvinist? - Began his long bath in the evening. I remember that, like any little child with his dad, I watched spellbound as he shaved. Or as he smoked. Yes, for smoking! To me it was fake, like my mother on the other hand. Do not blow smoke, that is not sent "down". Light two or three cigarettes a day for maybe a tone, as did Alberto Sordi - and Vianello? No, he did not smoke - perhaps to distinguish themselves in their social status in small middle class who could afford to purchase a package. To fully understand this concept should identify themselves in the historical period of the seventies, where they still spoke of "misery." The package of cigarettes marked the border, as well as car bills and frigidaire (aka fridge) or TV with four channels, the sharp boundary between poverty and the quiet middle-class, no matter how "small" could be defined.
Saturday and especially on Sunday were the days devoted exclusively to children. The wife in the kitchen and the children loaded in cars to places all the same over the years. In fact, I remember only one: the lake of Castel Gandolfo. Go there every Sunday made me hate. Anthony was a bit 'obsessive in Travel: Same beach, same sea. I hated the famous beach "MGG", the Ministry of Justice. Too hot, boredom, sticky sand. And not just a beautiful sea, except when he was shaken by the "waves". With friends he always playing cards to "Beast". Shouts, insults and all the beach looked disgusted that this gambling consists of a dozen people who he said of all the colors under the sun. Only in a tornado has been able to stop them from playing for a good half hour. I believe that the cards were coming up in Sardinia! Yet Friends of the Sea they've got a bronze plaque for his diploma, so proud of so much hard work rewarded and pleased to have the table a new graduates from plucking. They see.
Holiday time was the greatest joy for us. Did not go to sea, but as a good Central Europe, in the mountains. How can we forget the departure at four in the morning with a car overloaded with luggage? And back at two in the afternoon of August, under a hot indescribable.
His enthusiasm for the activities of their children was burning. At one point it was impromptu gymnastics instructor at home in the corridor and, as a good Japanese - had not said or Calabria or Rome? - Began to explain the improbable stretching exercises before its time . He was not ashamed of almost anything and this could be a problem with small and large eccentricities with which they sometimes share his and our existence.
Antonio was living in his world, the little world of the petty bourgeois, with its small satisfactions, its small moments. Yet he lived a childhood terrible, war, hunger, misery . He witnessed the pain go away and two sisters by the same disease that would strike a much more violent. His life was a slight upward flight with gentle curves and up and down a steep descent towards the end. The average us the illusion that you're young at seventy. Not that he felt old, even in the last time dancing, walking, traveling, reading more than ever. His conduct was exemplary, however, in all his years. A house, a car, a cat for a few years, two children, the school, the grandchildren ... A normal life , almost flat, happy and serene. In a world that has accelerated during the day to day his follies.
A perfect life, until one of its cells has decided to change something in their lives. These small diseased parts of his body gave us a father scared, mad, blind, hallucinating, incoherent in thought and deed. A person living in a world rambling, luckily for him, and without full knowledge of what happens. How can I forget his anguished cries, terrified eyes, the heaviness of heart that relentlessly fought for the end? We will never know if the disease had clouded the first to kill him if he had mercy on him, making him unaware of the degeneration that stemmed from his brain. The sentient body par excellence that no longer understands what is happening right inside. The doctors might have deceived us by saying that he could see almost nothing? How do we explain the signs of the cross? The excitement at seeing his relatives around him? The suffering expressed as long as he managed to talk? The absolute panic requiring the close proximity of his wife and children? And terrible "last statement" that could not express myself? What he wanted to tell me?
of his being are the memories, regrets, satisfactions, certificates of consideration. And the abyss of those who are still alive. I dream so beautiful, the nightmares, his voice echoing in his ears, anxious awakenings from full awareness of the end. The photographs that have set the exact hundredth of a second in which all were there, laughing, joking, enjoying the life. What was the existence of Antonio is now printed in a negative, in a file, a printer, in fragment of a video. Remain the cards, the huge and unnecessary amount of documents that liked to collect in abundance. From ordering, cataloging, and, above all, disposable.
What will I tell my daughter to her grandfather? I'll start with the funniest episodes, I will describe the strict upbringing that she will be absurd even to conceive. Relive his moments of joy when I had her in his arms, tossed my daughter in my turn, his blue eyes gazing spellbound. We will go to a museum to see a "128", the incredible cars in which a family of four (to silence the cat) went on holiday .
I will not be for you as a friend Antonio never has been with us. But only a guide that suggests, advises, corrects, and especially instills confidence. This gave me
Antonio.
But the confidence and optimism are not for me, I leave them to him.
These days I just can not find it in me.
forgot one point: Antonio was not Muslim, neither Calvinist nor a devout Catholic. Maybe he did not believe in anything, but certainly we hoped, if only the latest sign of the cross that was made before slipping into a coma. The first gesture of this sort that I've seen made in my entire life.
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