mercredi, juin 28, 2006

memorie Genovesi, per la piú parte

I played alone a lot as a kid.
As far as I can remember, growing up (in Italy, that is—in Iran I had my beloved Niro, who was practically my appendage and I his) my only steady friends were those in the South—Marianna, Amalia, Luigi, and together we would all torment little Pasquale.

I remember looking down the sidewalk with tears blurring the vision that was supposed to be perfect now that I’d just acquired my first pair of glasses as I saluted my first-grade friend Denise for the last time. She had been my only friend that year; I was moving to a different part of Genova, and she was moving to South America—I think her mother was from Peru, or something to that extent, and the move stemmed from reasons thus related.

In second grade, there was Martina. And Luca. We were a strange bunch; it was always the three of us. Martina had short, blonde hair, and she was the only girl in the class who wore a white robe instead of a black one. Though she talked to Luca and me, she didn’t talk to many others. I remember her very well; she was a pianist. She was a pianist with sleepy eyes but definitely not a singer—her voice creaked in a low monotone. But she was friendly. My mother didn’t like her mother, and I didn’t care. Luca was the young Fonzie of the class. Martina and I were the top students of the class, and Luca never did his homework. He was intelligent. He wore a leather jacket and a small earring in one of his ears, maybe the right one. His smile was something between wryness and the warmest and most sincere smile I have ever known.
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An old man whom I’d never met before taught me how to skate at the park after his daughter grew impatient with my level of skating inability. Daddy and I went places on Sundays—and, after that man taught me how to skate, daddy read or walked while I skated. We really liked the harbor, the expo right next to the massive Genova aquarium.
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Why did I have few northern friends? Was it the distance of the Genovese? But then how do you account for me and my inability to keep quiet and mind my own business? I’m Genovese…

The Genovese are funny proud people, we are. Our defensiveness is all but fist-shaking-less. Last time I went to Santa Croce, grown-and-handsome Luigi called me “l’Americana.” Upon perceiving my prompt irritation, he smiled, told me to calm myself, and said, “You really are a Genovese.”

And Niro—aside from the awkward visit they rendered us when I was 9 years old, it’s been 15 years since I have seen him.

1 scoowamples>

Blogger Patrick cried,

je ne sais pas pour quoi, mais c'est belle

juillet 01, 2006 2:27 AM  

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