by Cara Shaw
The quirk in their family lay with Gianni’s father, a well-known entertainer. Gianni often told stories about his unusual upbringing and the wandering ways of his father who was moderately famous. Nico had kept many of Roberto’s old vinyl’s, recordings of the old man’s songs and comedy routines from his cabaret and club days. He had a few of his show posters too, bright and richly coloured, framed and hung on his apartment walls. Nico sometimes studied the photographs of his grandfather with great intensity, trying to find a clue as to why both he and his father were such sedate men compared to him.
Roberto was also an incredible dancer, and Nico had seen footage of him performing in variety shows that were popular on Italian television in the sixties, flinging himself in the air, performing amazing tricks, spinning his partner around until the audience rose to their feet and clapped and roared their approval. Roberto Pallegrini was extraordinarily sure and swift for a man then in his forties. Gianni accompanied his father whenever he could, whenever Roberto could steal the lad away from school and sneak him into his shows. His wife was utterly exasperated by his wanderlust and crazy ways.
“Why on earth did you marry me Roberto?” Anjelica would pant after another one of their epic screaming matches, which would have their whole apartment building hanging out of their windows, smoking cigarettes and gossiping about the Pallegrini’s, who were surely going to kill each other this time.
“Because you are the most beautiful woman in the world, Anjelica, do you think I am stupid?” and Roberto would put on a record, usually one of his own and dance her around the apartment until she had calmed down, about the rent, about the grocer’s account, her suspicions that Roberto had other women. That was Roberto and his son Gianni loved him.
Nico knew him as a local legend who lived on in their lives as an enduring part of modern Italian culture. Roberto had died at seventy, suddenly, from an aneurism, and everyone agreed that his was a life well lived and to the fullest. Anjelica had stayed on in the apartment, cooking for her neighbours and playing the local lotto until she passed away a few years later. When Nico looked closely at the photographs something about Roberto’s appearance nagged at him. He was very dark, as dark as the most southern of Italians with a heavy brow, and a thick and slightly upturned nose. A good-looking man thought Nico. Gianni claimed that his father’s feet and hands were huge, and both he and Nico had inherited this characteristic. Nico’s feet were nearly a fourteen and he had to order away for his shoes; Italian men were not known for their large shoe size.
Neither Gianni or Nico had inherited Roberto’s capacity for enjoying la dolce vita and both were serious, considered men. Sometimes he wished he was more like his grandfather who, as the stories had it, could walk into a bar and within an hour have the whole place on their feet singing and dancing while he told jokes and flirted with the prettiest girl in the room. And although he appeared to be a whimsical man no one questioned his devotion to his son. Roberto worshipped him and Nico suspected that he was faithful to his wife, because as his Grandfather had often said, she was overwhelmingly beautiful. Any man would be mad to give her up. Gianni’s tumultuous and excitement infused childhood hadn’t affected him adversely at all. After he had met and married Annalise and moved into their small apartment in Rome, Roberto flitted in and out of their lives, dropping in to see them when he was touring or performing in clubs and bistros. He was ebullient, larger than life and a true song and dance man. Then when he left to return home to Anjelica, their lives settled down again and the conservative couple would continue working and caring for their child. After he died, Nico tried to find out more about his grandfather. Gianni told him that Roberto never spoke of his early life, just that he’d been raised on a vineyard by Maria and Vito Pallegrini as an only child.
When Nico was curious and wanted to know more, Gianni just shook his head, ‘I’m sorry Nico, Poppa didn’t like to speak of it. Perhaps he didn’t get along with his father.”
Nico couldn’t believe it, everyone loved his Poppa.
Not long after Nico helped to move his mother into the new villa, his life turned around completely. While he was shaving one morning he found a tiny lump on his jaw, he ignored it and went to work. By the end of the week the lump had increased in size and was painful to touch, so he made an appointment to see his doctor. He sat on the table while his doctor prodded the mass and examined it through a magnifier, and he was overcome with foreboding.
“Nico,” said the doctor grimly, “I don’t like the look of this.”
“Why?” said Nico, alarmed.
“The lump has grown too quickly and in too short a time. The flesh around it is displaying certain atypical signs…”
“Meaning?” said Nico urgently.
“I’m sorry. I think it’s a tumour, possibly malignant. We need to do some tests.”
Nico’s stomach sank. This could not be happening to him now, he was only thirty, his practice was showing a real profit – and there was a girl he was interested in. His life was on a trajectory. Over a short period of time things went from bad to worse. His doctor booked him in for a biopsy that afternoon at the hospital clinic, and he was sent home to wait for the results. As he unlocked the door to his apartment in Garbatella he felt a sense of doom hover around him. His mobile rang and he answered, it was Cecilia, the girl he’d been on a few dates with. She was vibrant and dynamic, and he could tell that she was interested in him.
“Nico, hi!” she said happily, “I’ve been trying to contact you all day.”
Nico didn’t know what to say. Cecilia worked at the council and was a part of the market restoration project, she was an urban planner and impressed by her direct personality he had asked her out. How could he tell her about today, about the sickening fear that lay in his bowels like a hot coal. They hadn’t even slept together, it was too soon, or too late he thought despondently.
“Hey bella,” he tried to sound cheerful. “Look, can I ring you later? I’ve just come in and I have to get a report in by tomorrow.”
“Oh,” she said, “I wanted to catch up.”
“Cecilia, we will, we will. Let me get this out of the way and I’ll ring you, okay?”
“Sure,” she said softly, “Later’s fine.” She sounded disappointed.
Nico put his mobile on the kitchen bench and unloaded his shoulder bag. He self-consciously touched his jaw, it ached. The procedure had been frightening and painful. He hadn’t been prepared for any of it, and the efficiency with which his doctor had organised the clinic visit alerted him to the seriousness of the situation. He had lain on the hard bed in a thin hospital issue gown, sweat pouring from his forehead. A clinic nurse had taken the biopsy using a long needle that she inserted directly into the centre of the mass on his jaw. The pain was excruciating and he nearly passed out. She withdrew it quickly and placed a dressing on the small wound.
“That’s it,” she said, “I’ll just label these up and get you to sign them, then you can go,” she gave him an encouraging smile.
Nico sat up and wave of nausea flooded through him.The nurse was alarmed and held his arm to steady him, “Do you have anyone to pick you up?”
“No,” said Nico, “No one,” and he got up to dress.
When he got home he poured himself a glass of wine and stood at the window to think. He loved this apartment and he had been incredibly lucky to acquire it. An old university friend had married a girl who wanted a villa with a garden, so they were leaving the city. He’d sent out a notice of interest on his social network, Nico was one of the first in, and when Tino showed him around he was regretful.
“You see? It’s beautiful, just way too small. Rosa wants four children at least…”
When Tino told him the price Nico swallowed hard, but resolved to take the place regardless. Why not? He was on excellent money, and when he purchased the lease he would be secure forever. He agreed and moved in soon after. Th
e Garbartella quarter sat in the eleventh municipo of Rome in the Ostiense section. His building, along with the others were grouped around communal spaces and gardens, built in the style of the garden city movement from the late 1800s. The idea at the time was that dwellings were to satellite around central green spaces. Nico thought the concept to be ground breaking and futuristic for the times, and the plan had worked exceedingly well. The place was stylish and quintessentially Italian in appearance and conception. The design factored in the innate desire of all Italians to mingle and socialise, and the communal spaces were excellent for that very purpose. The trees and garden beds that had been designed especially for the quarter and had matured over the years to make exotic and exclusive retreats. Older people played boule, and families brought down collapsible tables and chairs for coffee and pastry in the afternoons. It suited Nico, he lived a solitary life and the loneliness he often felt was eased by the sense of community around him.
Now this. He tried to think who he could call to express his fears and anxieties, not his mother certainly, the news would send her into a panic. Tino and Rosa had moved on and he had drifted from his university friends. It occurred to him that over the years he had been so absorbed by his work that he had neglected to form deep friendships. Depression settled over him, what use are your old buildings to you now Nico, he thought bitterly, and he went to bed to endure a restless night before the test results. It wasn’t until late the following afternoon that his doctor contacted him at the office.
“Nico”
Nico began to shake, “Yes?”
“It’s not good,” said the doctor.
“Just tell me,” he said shortly.
“Okay. It’s a tumour, malignant and a very progressive type. We do see it now again and it’s typically located in the jaw. You presented with all the classic symptoms, so time is of the essence,” the doctor spoke gently.
“Right,” said Nico, “what do we do next?”
He thought his head was going to explode, his surroundings felt surreal. Was he going to die? He hadn’t even begun to really live his life.
“I suggest you make arrangements and I’ll book you for surgery the day after tomorrow. I’m so sorry.”
“What do I have to look forward to?” Nico was incredulous.
There was a short silence on the other end.
“It’s pretty invasive, we’ll remove the tumour and then take a biopsy from the jaw. If the cancer’s spread into the bone, that means it’s metastasised and we’ll have to remove part of the bone. Then radiation for about six weeks”
“Will that cure it…?”
“Look Nico, it’s a start. You may be lucky. I’ll email you all the details.”
The doctor hung up and Nico stood in shock, still holding his mobile. He noticed a copper and white pigeon sitting on the windowsill staring at him intently, it ruffled its feathers and cooed and then flew away. Nico rang his mother.
The next six months were the worst of his life, he shut down his office and contacted all of his clients. He wrote a long letter to the council to withdraw from the market project, and they conveyed their sympathy. They also said, that regretfully, they had to engage another heritage architect to compete the job. Nico had to accept their decision. Luckily his health insurance was good, and he was able to get a private room and treatment at one of the better hospitals in central Rome. His mother travelled up from her villa to spend the week with him while he underwent surgery to remove the tumour. He was sedated and then wheeled down the corridor to the theatre, and he felt completely detached from everything around him. This is the kind of thing that happens to other people he thought, life turns in an instant. He moved his head to the side and saw a man sitting on a chair; he’s waiting for someone thought Nico. The man stood up and walked beside the gurney, he looked down at Nico and flashed him a cheeky grin. The man was dark – very dark, and he was wearing a tight-fitting suit with a narrow black tie. He was carrying a hat.
“Poppa?” murmured Nico.
The man did a quick spin and tossed the hat into the air, then he was gone, and Nico was wheeled into theatre.
When he came to his mother was beside the bed.
“Hi,” she said smiling in relief.
The whole side of his head was bandaged up, and a sling had been secured around his jaw and clipped to his scalp to hold the dressing in place. He couldn’t speak so he squeezed her hand instead.
“You were in for six hours,” she said softly through her tears. “I’ll get the doctor,” she returned a few minutes later with the surgeon, who sat down by the bed.
“Nico, it’s better you know now. The mass was malignant, it’s very common with this type of tumour and the cancer has spread to your jaw. We removed the tumour and the lymph nodes, and I’m sorry, we had to take part of the bone.” He looked at him with great sympathy.
Nico closed his eyes tightly, this was the worst news. He felt the surgeon pat him on the shoulder.
“It’s radical I know. You have another six weeks of treatment. Personally, I think we got it all.”
He spoke to Annalise for a moment and left, and Nico sank into a place from which he thought he would never return.
His radiation took place three times a week for the next six weeks. For the first three he remained in hospital, and then came into the clinic as an outpatient for the rest of the treatment. This gave him time to think about the strange occurrences he had experienced while still recovering from surgery. The pain was so severe that he existed in a morphine induced twilight, which was accompanied by hallucinations he could have sworn were real except he knew they were not possible. They were of Roberto, still young, dressed in the same snappy sixties style suit Nico had seen before. The first time his grandfather was sitting by the bed fiddling with his hat. He had always been a restless man, vibrating with energy and life, and when Nico saw him in a chair in the hospital room, it was a shock.
“Poppa?” he said.
Roberto looked at him and grinned, “Nico?” and he crossed his legs.
Nico couldn’t help admiring his snappy shoes, which were highly polished black leather with pointy toes. After that Nico saw Roberto often; standing at the window looking at the view, practising dance moves at the end of the bed, drumming on top of his hat and humming. Once he thought he felt Roberto’s hand on his brow, and he awoke suddenly. He didn’t mention it to any one, and when Annalise came to collect him to take him back to his apartment she handed him an envelope.
“I forgot to give you this. I thought you might be interested,” and she went to pack up his things.
He opened the envelope to find his grandfather’s birth certificate. Nico examined it closely, the name on the certificate was definitely Dalton – obviously his grandfather’s real name. He folded it and put the document into his bag. Roberto had also noticed that his poppa’s place of birth was France – not Italy.
After his final treatment, Nico sat in the surgeon’s office to discuss his case.
“You’ve come up clear for the time being Nico,” said the doctor. “You’ll have to get tested every six months for the next two years. More frequently if feel you anything unusual or experience any sensation or tenderness. How do you feel?”
Nico didn’t know how to answer this question. The diagnosis had revealed more about himself than he cared to know. During the six weeks he had suffered from severe depression, and came to the horrible realisation that he was quite alone. He didn’t have an extended family to rely on, and no broad social network. He couldn’t even name one person as his best friend. He had survived the cancer, and saw that now his challenge was to survive life.
“I feel as if I’ve recovered,” he answered honestly.
The surgeon examined the side of face. “Not too bad. You can see the scar under the jawline here, and your face has fallen in a little. You could always have reconstructive
surgery if you wish; have a titanium plate inserted, that way your teeth could be replaced with a permanent denture.”
Nico had lost all of his back teeth on the left side.
He shook his head, “No. I’ll manage. No more surgery for me.”
The surgeon smiled wryly, “Understandable,” he said.
They shook hands and as he was leaving Nico noticed a painting on the office wall. It was rough, simple in execution and displayed unique organic triangles that were inserted one within the other. The colours were rich and vibrant in earthy reds and dark cream. The shapes seemed to pulsate and give off a distinct energy, Nico stared at it for moment.
“What’s this?” he asked.
The surgeon came to stand beside him. “It’s Aboriginal art, from Australia. I understand that this is what they call a ‘men’s business’ painting. It was given to me by a grateful patient. Different isn’t it?”
Nico was deeply drawn to the naiveté of the work, and the power of it. This was a true contrast to the classical art he usually liked, it had a primal quality and felt – real. He had never taken an interest in Aboriginal art as it was outside his discipline. This painting was something else entirely – ancient, spiritual.
“Yes,” said Nico, “Very unusual.”
When Nico returned to his apartment he was at a loose end. It would be another few weeks before he could open up his practice again and start tendering for work, and still disconcerted by the visions he’d had of Roberto, he looked up the old vineyard where the old man was raised. He found it on the internet, the Pallegrini Estate, it was now a boutique hotel with a restaurant and even had a pool. Without even thinking he booked a week’s stay there. Why not, he thought, it would be good to see where Roberto had grown up, and an opportunity to put on some weight. He was rail thin, during the course of the treatment he had lost over ten kilos and he needed to restore his health if he was going to make any progress at all. The estate was in a small town called Avellino, inland from the west coast, of the Campania region south of Rome. Naples was the main city and Pompeii was south again. He had visited Pompeii many times over the years, and it was puzzling to him now that he had never bothered to take the detour to visit his grandfather’s hometown.