Farewell, My Loves

by Jen Tirone

  This book is intended for readers over the age of 18 due to explicit content.

  Copyright © 2016 JEN TIRONE.

  All rights reserved.

  Contact Information:

  author@jentibooks.com

  www.jentibooks.com

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  eBook ISBN: 978-0-9982108-0-3

  Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9982108-1-0

  Cover design: by Hang Le Designs

  Proofreading and interior formatting: Elaine York, Allusion Graphics LLC

  “Sway” English lyrics by Norman Gimbel. Original words and Music by Pablo Beltran Ruiz and Luis Demetrio Traconis Molina

  Copyright © 1954 by Promotora Hispano Americana de Musica, S.A.

  Administered by Peer International Corporation

  Copyright Renewed. Used by Permission.

  Sway (Quien Sera)

  English Words by Norman Gimbel

  Spanish Words and Music by Pablo Beltran Ruiz and Luis Demetrio Traconis Molina

  Copyright (c) 1954 by Editorial Mexicana De Musica Internacional, S.A. and Words West LLC (P.O. Box 15187,

  Beverly Hills, CA 90209, USA)

  Copyright Renewed

  All Rights for Editorial Mexicana De Musica Internacional, S.A. Administered by Peer International Corporation

  International Copyright Secured All Rights Reserved

  Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard LLC

  Dedication

  Prologo

  Part One

  Capitolo Uno [1]

  Capitolo Due [2]

  Capitolo Tre [3]

  Capitolo Quattro [4]

  Capitolo Cinque [5]

  Capitolo Sei [6]

  Capitolo Sette [7]

  Capitolo Otto [8]

  Capitolo Nove [9]

  Capitolo Dieci [10]

  Part Two

  Capitolo Undici [11]

  Capitolo Dodici [12]

  Capitolo Tredici [13]

  Capitolo Quattordici [14]

  Capitolo Quindici [15]

  Capitolo Seidici [16]

  Capitolo Diciasette [17]

  Capitolo Diciotto [18]

  Capitolo Diciannove [19]

  Capitolo Venti [20]

  Capitolo Ventuno [21]

  Capitolo Ventidue [22]

  Capitolo Ventitre’ [23]

  Part Three

  Capitolo Ventiquattro [24]

  Capitolo Venticinque [25]

  Epilogo

  Author’s Note

  Preview to upcoming novel

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  To my mother, who I miss every single day and wish she could see this.

  My father, who encourages and supports me to become anything I want in this life. Most, if not all of my accomplishments are attributed to you.

  To my husband, who does everything he possibly can to give me not only a happily ever after, but a happy present.

  My Italian grandparents whose tragic story made me realize I am a romantic at heart.

  And to my Lee Pie, for saying the magic words...

  Oh God, I can’t breathe.

  I see it in his eyes; it’s not him anymore.

  He’s lost all ability to reason, incapable of realizing what he’s doing with his own two hands.

  He’s not grasping the finality of this… there’s no coming back.

  I struggle as best I can against him, against the pain and the panic that’s rising. Imploring him, but it’s too late now.

  He’s so far gone and taking me with him.

  And with this realization, my mind eases as my struggle begins to fade… an eerie calm settles over me just then.

  “If I can’t have you, Gia, NOBODY FUCKIN’ WILL!” he bellows.

  It’s as if he doesn’t have a choice in this. His eyes now are not only frantic but in agony. They’re telling me everything there is to say: he can’t help himself.

  He won’t.

  I knew this could happen... I just refused to believe it would.

  I gasp a last time, trying to pull in the last breath of air before the darkness completely consumes me.

  The last thought I struggle to actualize... is my wish and my goodbye...

  Salerno, Italy

  In the beginning

  There isn’t a single memory I can reminisce that Giorgio wasn’t in.

  He met me the day I was born on June 16, 1941, in the beautiful town of Salerno, in the Amalfi coast of Italy.

  My first smile was for Gio, my first giggle coaxed by him. Even the first few steps I took were in his direction. Everything I did in life was with him or for him, loving that boy for as long as I could remember.

  See, my Giorgio could do anything. He wasn’t capable of being mediocre. He always needed to do something and no, it couldn’t be subpar either. Giorgio had to be the best at everything, and irritatingly, he always was. He swam the fastest, sang the nicest, jumped the highest, threw the farthest, and lifted the most. He was even the tallest of our group when that was something he had no control over.

  And as you can already imagine, Giorgio was the most handsome, too.

  Since he was a young boy he held an air of arrogance that somehow only made him more of a man’s man, and he was constantly surrounded by a flock of girls.

  Every mother doted on him and every father looked at him with a knowing smile. Everyone young and old was vying for his attention, yet I never had to fight for it. I guess that made him all the more perfect to me.

  The story about the bond we created on the day I was born had been recounted to me and to all in our town, hundreds of times.

  For many generations, the Moretti and Vitale families were inseparable. They were always, always, always together. They were like pasta and red sauce, bread and olive oil, espresso and biscotti… I’m sure you get it by now.

  The Morettis visited us at the hospital that morning and our fathers were outside smoking their cigars while our mothers yammered about my birth. I was nursing in my mother’s arms when Giorgio’s mother brought him over to meet me. With only just a glimpse of me, he was squirming out of his mother’s arms to reach me.

  When she didn’t let him go, he screamed at the top of his lungs to get his way, so my mama offered to let him sit in her free arm while I nursed in her other. Once he settled in, he laid a chubby little hand on me, and according to our mothers, hadn’t let go of me since.

  They couldn’t believe his fascination at just four years old with me, but I imagine as they did with every one of their tales, they exaggerated the story.

  I will admit though, it made me swoon every time I heard it, and I heard it plenty.

  Our love was quite beautiful. Solid and appassionato.

  Our families didn’t arrange our marriage, but they certainly fostered it from childhood.

  My babbo and mama, Alessandro and Apolognia Vitale, have been Domenico and Chiara Moretti’s friends since they were children. Their parents and grandparents were friends, and so on. The two families have probably been friends since the time of the Roman Empire.

  The Moretti boys: Domenico Jr., who we call Nico, Matteo, who was the second born, and my Giorgio, were raised together with my siblings and me.

  The first memory I could recall was on my third birthday in 1944. Mama, babbo, my sister Gabriella, my big brother Alessandro and the Morettis were all in presence for my celebration, la bambina’s birthday. They were our neighbors, but even then Giorgio wouldn’t have let them miss my party for anything.

  I can’t quite tell why my third birthday stood out other than it being my first memory of the day I knew I adored him. My parents hadn’t done anything too special for the celebration. They
were simple people, with humble tastes. My mama baked rosemary bread, Gabi helped her make a cannoli-filled cake, babbo doted on me all day, and Sandro played every game I wanted.

  When the Morettis came over, the house was even more boisterous and full of affection, tight hugs and loud kisses. But what had me over the moon was the purple bike Giorgio was escorting toward me. I must’ve played with this boy countless times, but never had I seen him so proud and excited to give me something, and what a something it was!

  We’re talking all the bells and whistles with a basket on the handlebar and matching training wheels!

  For any three year old, it was the best gift ever.

  Coming from my Gio, it was absolute and undeniable love.

  “Tanti auguri, Gia!” Happy birthday, he wished me.

  But I could care less what he was saying because all I could think about was getting on that bike and never getting off of it again. I remember even wondering if it could fit in the bathroom while I bathed, it was already my most prized possession.

  My childhood wasn’t lacking, considering we were in a war-stricken country at the time. Though, luxuries like a brand new purple bike were very unusual and even at my age I knew that was something you didn’t ordinarily get.

  I guess that explains how the memory of my third birthday was so clear.

  It could’ve been like any other, only I knew the social climate was uneasy and the Morettis had to have cashed in a favor, as they liked to call it, to be able to obtain something that indulgent.

  Favors for the Morettis always came at a steep price and I would learn of their family’s… livelihood, much later in life.

  “DIO MIO! I ALWAYS WANTED A BIKE!” I screeched, jumping up and down, as only a young child would do.

  I ran toward Giorgio and practically trampled him to get on it. He was laughing and his excitement was just as energetic as mine.

  “Gia, babbo got me a bike, too! We can ride together everyday! Here, let me teach you. I’m taking off my training wheels this week because I was practicing all day and I’m already a professional! We have to keep yours on still because you’re little and I don’t want you to get hurt,” my protector assured me.

  Of course, had I been paying attention to him, I would’ve argued I didn’t need training or his help, but I was too enthralled with the sparkling machinery.

  I felt like such a big kid now.

  “Gio, thank you! This is the best present!” I exclaimed, sealing it with a big kiss on the cheek he had been expectantly tapping with a finger. He then wrapped me up in his big boy hug.

  For most seven-year-old boys kisses from girls were gross and were immediately wiped off, but Giorgio had always been affectionate with me. Either always kissing me or demanding I give them to him, lots of innocent smooching went on, encouraged by the laughter and ‘awws’ our mothers seemed to always sing in unison.

  “Mama, Babbo, can I ride my new bike outside, please?” I asked my parents not caring about the cannoli cake anymore.

  Mama laughed and looked to babbo, who of course let me. Being la bambina of both families made me more spoiled than I would’ve normally been. I was the youngest of my family, but the Morettis indulged too, since they only had boys.

  Giorgio and I immediately ran out; he went to his house to get his bike and Nico and Gabi were helping me sit on mine, when Gio, like the professional he said he was, showed off by riding around me in smoothly performed circles.

  It only urged me to get moving already, but Nico insisted I learn the parts of the bike first. I might’ve listened better if Giorgio would’ve stopped riding his bike around us, causing me to become even more impatient.

  Finally, my impromptu lesson was over and like a bat out of hell, I took off only to topple right off the damn bike!

  Gabriella was bent over laughing and Nico, to his credit, really tried not to laugh, too, but failed.

  Giorgio immediately jumped off his bike and pushed them away to help me up himself.

  He did not find my fall funny.

  Giorgio’s devotion to me since I had been born never lessened over time. Stories about him wanting to always be the one to bathe me in a tin bucket were told with much warm-heartedness. Sure, it was a fun splash fest for the both of us, but the serious little boy would go over to my house everyday and ask my mother if he could bathe me like it was his responsibility.

  I was his little human toy.

  A trophy he showed off to everyone, telling all who would listen to him that I was his.

  It was so cute! Giorgio claimed me.

  It was so sweet! He always wanted me around.

  It was so romantic! Giorgio would tell everyone he was going to marry me one day.

  It didn’t help that I ate up all the attention from him, basking in all things Gio. Ever since I could remember, the sun rose and set with him and I didn’t want it any other way.

  He picked me up from the floor and dusted me off. Once he was sure I was fine, he told me to wait a second and brought his bike over next to mine.

  Cautiously, he helped me mount my seat and put his hand on my back to support me in case I fell over again. When he was sure I had the hang of it, he got back on his and we rode off together.

  Even as young as I was, I knew without a single doubt Giorgio and I would be forever.

  “Gianna, jump already! I’m right here to catch you,” he rushed me from below.

  “But I’m scared!” I told him still hovering at the edge, even though we’ve jumped the lower part of this cliff dozens of times.

  “When you’re with me, you shouldn’t be. Now quit being a bambina and jump!”

  “Fine!” I yelled.

  I took a deep breath, pinched my nose and closed my eyes before jumping off the boulder, about fourteen feet or so below into the warm sea where Giorgio was impatiently waiting for me.

  It wasn’t the water I was afraid of, but the rocks off the side of the beach. I always worried that one day we’d miscalculate. But that morning wasn’t the day our luck would run out. Instead, we would inadvertently discover our fates.

  I resurfaced and sputtered water from my mouth while trying to clear my eyes of the stinging seawater. The day was brilliant, the sun blinding me with its bright reflection. The water was just the right temperature and we’d been out here for hours.

  “See, bambina, you’re fine.”

  “Giorgio, stai zitto.”

  I told him to be quiet while trying to push him under water. Effortlessly, he swam away laughing at me for even trying.

  “Okay, andiamo. I’m hungry. I’ll race you to the shore and give you a two-minute head start. Avanti.”

  “I don’t want to. You’ll just win anyway,” I muttered.

  He smirked because he knows it’s true.

  He never lets me win. Sure, he was very protective of me and he was very attentive, but he couldn’t be bested.

  We leisurely swam to the beach where our towels and panini were waiting for us.

  After we dried off, we sat side by side on one towel eating our lunch and silently observed the ships anchored close to the shore, when Giorgio turned to me and proposed our adventure for the day.

  It was the summer of 1948. I was seven and Gio was eleven. Though still very young, he grew up quite sooner than he ought to have.

  The worst of the World War was behind us, but Italia was still picking up the pieces.

  Just as well as the Moretti family.

  In 1943 when allies invaded Sicilia, dismantling La Mafia was high on Italia’s agenda. Crime families were either imprisoned or fled to America before they were caught. Or, they went to prison, escaped, and then fled to America anyway.

  That meant Domenico was away some time after my third birthday, but I hadn’t known it then; the families sheltered me from the truth.

  I just remembered Chiara distraught beyond reason and Giorgio, well, something changed in him. He was already always a serious boy, but without his babbo around, it made him…
stonier. Never toward me, but just as a person.

  It seemed Gio would traipse the line between good and bad, unrepentantly leaning towards the wrong side more often than not.

  I always thought he was being the typical rascal at his age — boys being boys, and all of that.

  I hadn’t realized he was demonstrating illegitimate tendencies already because I was blind to it all, smitten with him, and then expectant of his competency.

  That’s all he’d ever shown me.

  It didn’t matter to him if he didn’t have the means; he made sure I got whatever I wanted and gave me whatever he wanted me to have.

  I was hungry? He’d steal bread from a bakery.

  I wanted to read a book? Gio would manipulate the store owner into thinking the novel was overpriced, and he was humoring them by giving them any money for it at all.

  He thought my shoes needed to be repaired; he’d barter a favor with the shoemaker.

  If I had wanted shade in a treeless, sunny field, Giorgio would probably lasso the sun just for me. And because he was always anticipating the next step ahead, he’d already have the moon in his hand waiting to shine it on me, too, should I care for it.

  He was that caring and that indulgent. It’s no wonder I couldn’t see that he may not have been very… moral.

  “Let’s go build a fire in that abandoned building behind the post office. We can roast the chestnuts I brought in my bag.”

  “Gio, I already saw what’s in your bag and you didn’t bring any chestnuts, you liar. You just want to set something on fire. Did you forget I’ve known you forever?” I reminded him.

  He laughed not sorry at all. “Okay, hurry up then so we can go,” he said standing up to put on his shorts.

  I took my time finishing up my sandwich not wanting to be rushed for his mischief. When I was good and ready, I put on my dress and took his hand. He carried our bags over his bare shoulder as we walked along the coast to the abandoned building he probably wanted to finish knocking down.

  I surveyed soldieri scattered about our town as we walked. Most of the time you wouldn’t notice them they’d become such a regular fixture, but democratic elections were being held for the first time since the end of the war. The country was still trying to assemble itself from the fascist regime it had suffered under.