Being Melvin E-Book

Vittorio De Agrò

• Herausgeber: Cavinato Editore
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

BEING MELVIN The Thin Line between Fiction and Reality Synopsis Parents, school, friends, feelings, commitments trace a path along which Melvin, a young landowner of Sicilian origins, tries hard to venture. He has been in conflict with his family’s aspirations and projections since childhood. The use of his imagination, odd braggadocio, and lies seems to be an escape from a reality perceived as unsustainable. However, it merely drags him slowly into a dimension where the real world constantly slips into the imaginary one, producing relentlessly irreconcilable contrasts in personality development and emotional relationships with women despite being constantly surrounded by them. The virtual rites of the web and digital communications lead him to obsessively participate in a forum dedicated to the starlet of a television drama, the Diva. A genuine feeling grows between the two of them, only to magnify Melvin’s crisis, consequently creating a split personality and an increasingly dramatic, psychotic and self-destructive drift. He is forced to undergo a mandatory medical treatment. Melvin asks for help from the Gleam, a unique but lucid psychiatrist, to whom he runs when the weight of memories and the feeling of guilt for betraying someone’s trust will be unbearable, to the point of further restricting the already narrow margins of his psychic survival. His memory, having suddenly reappeared after prolonged amnesia, allows him to retrieve incidents and situations – which he calls files - and to explain them, with great detail, to his therapist. The result is a discussion between doctor and patient, in many ways fruitful and enlightening, but not at all a prelude, as one might expect, to a predictable and comforting ending. That is because we are not facing fiction, but an intensely experienced story on a person’s own skin and at the risk of his own life. Therefore, no invention, no artifice, no hypocritical censorship, no qualms to strip. It offers the reader testimony that a conformist reserve would prefer to bury in the basement of removal and modesty. Melvin is a true story. For real.

Leseprobe

Vittorio De Agrò

Being Melvin

the thin line between fiction and reality

Cavinato Editore International

© Copyright 2016 Cavinato Editore International

ISBN: 978-88-6982-242-1

I edizione 2016

Tutti i diritti letterari e artistici sono riservati. I diritti di traduzione, di memorizzazione elettronica, di riproduzione e di adattamento totale o parziale, con qualsiasi mezzo (compresi i microfilm e le copie fotostatiche) sono riservati per tutti i Paesi

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Indice

Foreword

The Burden of Words

Preview

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

Epilogue

Palagonia

Afterword

Acknowledgements

Biography

Foreword

By Guido Vitiello

When Melvin told me about the idea of writing his story, he described his character as measly, elusive, despicable, inconclusive and ultimately a coward. “A kind of Don Abbondio,” he said handing over the binder. Not always are the authors good connoisseurs of themselves, even when they’re writing their own biography. Actually, especially when they’re writing their own biography. In fact, while I was reading his story, other characters from literature came to mind. “You’re no Don Abbondio, you’re somewhere between Don Quixote and the Count of Monte Cristo,” I told him when we met. Melvin is a story about a fearless knight where reality is mutated by fiction. I’ll tell you more: this book is a gigantic retaliatory, not against someone specific, against frustrations and disappointment, against a life that doesn’t resemble the one he dreamt of. So is it an adventure novel? Yes it is, as long as the reader is warned that the lands to conquer are all within and that the hero was badly equipped to kill monsters, dragons, sorcerers and brigands that he didn’t expect to find in himself. The soul is a vast land, Schnitzler used to say. Who can blame him? The thing that often we forget is that not all of us are willing to explore them. Melvin descended in the underworld where Virgil was his psychiatrist, the Gleam, and during his journey he has spared nothing: he went along with madness, heard the demons in his head talking and he almost died. He is not a writer and if you try to contradict him about this, he gets upset. This book started out as a diary that his psychiatrist advised him to keep. But in his story there are so many fictional and romantic moments - the simulation of a deadly disease, his fake death announcement, a life on a TV set, a love story with a little diva from the small screen – that Melvin, a little kid turned thirty who got old too quickly, will conquer you as if he really was born from a writer’s imagination. We can say that his life has been his novel, and this is book is just a transcription. And, incredibile as it may sound, it’s all true.

To my nephew, so that he could be proud of his uncle,one day.To Miss Anna and her husband, Feroze, without them, today I wouldn’t be here.

Things work out over time.

The Burden of Words

“You’re an asshole!”

“You are done with this world, next time your bullshit should be a bit smaller!”

“You throw out the trash, please. Your cousin is a college graduate.”

“You’re insane! I created you and now I’ll destroy you!”

“I gave you a promotion, now you have to give me something back…” “What, you’re hanging out with men! Stay at home…”

“How do you think you can have a family one day, if you don't study?” “You’re a fence sitter…”

“I’m sorry but you didn't report the fact. You've proven yourself not to be appropriate to attend the corporal class…”

“I was wrong; I should have failed you in Italian. I will fix the score!”

“If you don't get treatment I won't let you date my daughter. If you keep on like this you will have neurological damage and you’ll go through hell.”

“I hope you find a woman that is half as good as your mother. Only she could bear a neurasthenic like me.”

“You are nothing, you're not worth anything.”

“Can’t you understand that your father’s money won’t last forever? What are you going to do?”

“You are immature. When are you going to grow up? Go and see a therapist!” I could go on forever…

My life has always been like this.

Everybody felt the need to say a kind word to me.

I've always thought that words hurt much more than swords.

I've played with words for a long time…

I've lied for a long time… I made up a life.

I thought I could manage my oddity.

I fell so many times but then I always got up again. Imagine being happy and then forgetting it.

Remembering and suffering.

Being tormented by guilt and shame.

Life is fiction.

Every day, a new page of a script is written. I died the 31st of July 2009.

I saw hell for real.

I fought against the emptiness. I talked to my own thoughts.

I’m back to tell you my story. I’m back for my wounded pride.

I’m back so that others won't make my same mistakes. I’m back and maybe somebody will be worried about it I’m Melvin.

Get ready to go on a trip.

The mind gives, the mind takes away.

Make yourself comfortable.

Preview

Sicily,

12thofSeptember2009

I feel dizzy and nauseous, I feel as if I were stuck in an air bubble. I've just left the countryside crying and I run to the only place where I can find a bit of peace and serenity. It's hot and in the boulevards there aren't many people. As usual I’ve bought some roses. With my head down and my heart full of desperation and anguish I head towards him. I look at his battered and desolated grave and I sigh. I try to get rid of all the grass that pops out everywhere and then I change the water in the flower pot. I start to feel my legs very weak and I just suddenly fall down on the grave. There is a deafening silence around me. I stare at my father’s grave and I'm about to cry.

I don't know where to start, Dad. I messed up everything. Please forgive me. I don't know what happened to me. I don't understand. I didn't want to hurt anybody I'm so ashamed. Sorry I've ruined your name, your memory and our entire family.Howcan I look Mom in the face? How can I tell her everything? Dad, I know that you are mad at me. I have disappointed you so many times. I've never been able to give you happiness. You and Mom have always told me to study for my future. I had to do it my way. I feel so bad because I know that I screwed everything up. I wish you were here. I need you. In these years I've always imagined that you were at my side.I always envisioned seeing you as a silent observer of my life. Who knows how many times you must have shaken your head, disgusted. I know, Dad, I could have thought about that before. How could I have told all these lies? How could I be so miserable?

I am disgusting, I evoked your illness, I made it grotesque. I insulted

thousands of people who suffer and struggle everyday. Dad, I feel

bad. I even confessed in church. It didn’t help at all. I imagine that you already know about Flavia, Caterina, Ambrosia and the other girls… I’m a moron, Dad. I’m falling down and I don’t know who I am anymore. I know I’ll have to pay for all my faults. I let a lot of people down. I feel like an asshole. I don’t even have the guts to look Mom in the eyes. I spent my life watching her suffer for my problems and lies. I am her constant concern. She sees me as a good-for-nothing. She wouldn’t say that even if she were being tortured, but her eyes speak. Dad, please, tell me something. Please, I need a sign from you. Help me understand. Who knows what my grandparents and uncle Angelo think. Please forgive me, it’s not my fault. I lost control.

I’ll start therapy. I can’t carry on running away. I’m not well. I have to get help before it’s too late. Every birthday I come here to take stock of my life. I seem to feelyour presence, Dad. Now how can I go back? I feel so ashamed.

Francesco gave me the name of a good therapist, the Gleam, all I can do is hope this strange will be able to help me. I’m desperate. I want to escape to the moon. I ruined everything. I’m afraid of what will happen when I get back to Rome. Please Dad, stay by my side, don’t leave me know that I need you the most. I have to go now.

I have to tell Mom the truth. She’s so worried about me. I love you Dad, see you soon. Staywithme…

I make the sign of the cross and then run away before I start crying.

I arrive home, Mom looks at me and tries to touch my face but I pull back. “Please Mom, let’s have a seat outside. I have to tell you a few things…”

Rome,

15thofSeptember2009

It’s possible for a man to lose his way and to find himself in a damn forest. Once you're in, it's difficult to get out of it. You have to have courage, cold-heartedness and willpower. Those who don't have these qualities are forced to ask for help. You have to be humble enough to recognize it and rely on a stranger. It's the first step, but the most difficult to achieve. This is my story.

I'm Melvin and after having wandered for 32 years inside that damn forest, on July 31st, 2009, I understood that I could never be able to get out of there by myself. I spent a whole summer crying with despair for my actions, so I decided to contact a specialist. I chose "Mr. Gleam", recommended by my brother Francesco. I won't say his real name for privacy. I chose the pseudonym "Gleam" for him for many reasons: first of all because he's a rising star in the world of psychiatry – with a distinguished pedigree – who set up a new therapeutic system that has been followed by many people including myself. Secondly, he was able to develop a very fruitful and patient relationship with me based on a direct and easy-going language of sharp and specific observations on the origins and dynamics of my malaise, with an approach of rare and radiant lucidity, a hot glow of fraternal understanding and sparkling flashes of paternal authority.

When I arrived at his office, I sat down in the waiting room. I tried to be strong and tidy up all my ideas. I anxiously looked at that door. I thought that behind it there was an unknown man that was supposed to save my life. Finally the door opened and the Gleam nodded at me to come in. Those few meters seemed to be endless. I shook his hand and he told me to have a seat. I keeled over under the weight of my faults. The moment has arrived, I thought, I can't escape anymore.

Good evening Melvin, what brings you here? I smile and answer:

“Doctor I really don't know where to start. My life is very odd. I've done so many things I'm not proud of. I'll start telling you that I'm a liar. I’m somewhat of a pimp. I'm ashamed of myself.”

The Gleam takes note of something and then he stares at me.

“Hang on, Mel, don't be so hasty. What do you do? What about your family? How old are you?”

“I'm 32 years old and I run my family's farm in Sicily. We cultivate citrus fruit. I live between Sicily and Rome. I still have my mother and I have two brothers, Francesco and Piero. My father passed away in 1996 of a non Hodgkin's lymphoma. I have a diploma from a humanistics studies high school.”

“Sicily is wonderful and the citrus fruit is delicious. I know about your father, Francesco told me. You look a bit agitated. Relax, we have plenty of time.”

“Doctor, for me being here, is the equivalent of being sentenced to life imprisonment or death. But I have no choice. My head is killing me. I don't feel good. I really don't know where to start. Please help me, I want to get better. I have to kill the monster who made me do bad things. I'm ashamed of myself. Tell me what to do.”

Gleam watches me and says,

“Mel, we aren't in a courtroom. Let's leave moral judgments to others.”

“I feel so confused. I haven't been able to sleep well in weeks. I struggle to understand my actions. These past few days I've tried to make a list of the things to say to you. But now everything seems useless. I fooled a lot of people. I made up ridiculous things. I betrayed the values my parents taught me. I'm here 'cos I have to take responsibility for my actions. I feel overwhelmed by the events. Forgive me, Doctor, but I'm distressed. My cousin is a neurologist and she prescribed some Xanax just to keep me relaxed and an antidepressant, Zoloft. But I don't think they are working.”

“Keep taking those meds for now. We'll see how it's going later on. In the meantime, why don't you try to sum up what happened to you?”

I set the scene of my situation. As soon as I finished he smiled at me and said,

“Mel, your story is quite strange but I believe you. There is a lot of work to do. You have two big problems: the first concerns your relationship with women; the second concerns the relationship with yourself. It will take at least two and a half years. You'll have to come once a week. Then once a month. If you like, we can begin starting next week.”

I'm a bit dazed. The Gleam's words sound like a death sentence. My worst nightmare has become reality. I choke back my tears.

“Doctor, what about the farm? Can't we talk on the phone?”

“I'm sorry but the therapy must be done in person. You have to choose where you want to do the therapy. A pupil of mine works in Sicily. But it's only fair to say that your health is at stake here.”

“Ok, Doctor I'll come here. I hope to make it.”

I can hardly stand up. I'm shaking and my head is burning. I have to reach my mother, who is waiting for me in the car. I say goodbye to him and I leave the office. I get in the car and I'm exhausted. My mother looks at me and says,

"Mel, how did the visit go? You're pale. What did he say?"

“It will take at least two and a half years, Mom. I'm alone now.”

CHAPTER 1

Now I realize how sailors must feel in the middle of a storm. Unable to stand up. Desperate and at the mercy of the sea. I'm scared of my thoughts. I'm losing my mind. Mom took me to the Gleam again. My head is spinning. I feel like I'm inside a dark and cold well. I don't know what to expect from this therapy.

For years I've heard a lot of people say they were satisfied with this therapy. I feel like a mouse in a trap. I have no choice. I want to cry here in this cold a silent waiting room. The blonde secretary smiled at me. The other patients wait for their turn. I anxiously stare at the closed door. I try to make sense of my thoughts. I don't know what to say. I don't know what to think of the Gleam. Finally the door opens, I can't get up. The Gleam smiles and invites me in. I gather all my strength and I drag myself in. I feel like dying. I fall into the chair. I feel the blood pulsing in my temples. The silence fills the room.

“Hi, Melvin how are you? Are you taking the Zyprexa that I prescribed for you?”

“Yes, Doctor, I am. I feel so dazed. My head is killing me. But I came back. I don't know where to start. I'm ashamed. I made a mess.”

“Mel, like I've told before nobody will judge you here. We are here to reconstruct your identity and to figure out how to start a new chapter of your life. Let's take one step at a time. We'll start a journey through your memories. Tell me who Melvin really is. For each person there is a beginning. Tell me something about your childhood, your first love, your family. Do you feel up to it?”

“I was born in Sicily. My family was ordinary and simple. My father was an engineer and Mom was a housewife. We had a big house in the center of town that I used to call magic castle. Me and my brothers used to play in the big garden or in our room for entire days. I was cooped up in the house or at a relative's house. When I started primary school I began being in contact with other kids but my parents preferred to keep us at home. We couldn't go out much. The city where I was born wasn't safe in the eighties. After 8 o'clock there was a sort of curfew. For me my house was like a magic castle from where I could control the city. I was so happy when I could go out and visit my relatives; I thought it was a special occasion. My parents made sure I had everything I needed. I have good memories of my childhood.”

“It seems to me that you lived like a prisoners even if it was a golden prison. You mentioned your grandparents. Tell me something about them.”

“Unfortunately, only my maternal grandmother is still alive. We have a close relationship and she has been like a second mother to me. She raised me. Every afternoon she came to the house and brought us pastries. In the evening she made me eat. She literally fed me. You know, I've always been a bit a fussy.I lived at her house in Sicily until May 2008. She is always informed about my life. She always asks me if I have a girlfriend and if the farm job is a safe one. Vittorio, my grandpa died in 1944. He had a degree in literature but he worked in the field of alcoholic beverages. I saw him in a couple of pictures. He was intelligent, creative and steady. I can't remember much about the other two grandparents. I see my grandmother Elisa busy at sewing machine or cooking with her apron. She had such a serious look. She was very stiff, a bit bigoted, so they told me. She was very elegant, he liked to dress well. She lost her husband and a son within fifty days. I remember Grandpa Walter took me to eat granita at the seaside or for a walk in the mountains. I also see him in pain, lying on the bed after his brain surgery, trying to call me, or the day of his death lying

in a coffin. He, too, was very quiet, serious, precise. Both of them died of cancer.”

The Gleam takes notes.

“Why don't we talk about your parents?”

“It's not easy, Doctor, it's never easy to talk about your parents. Anyway, I'll try. My father's name was Andrea. A lymphoma took him away in '96, in less than a year, when he was 65. Our relationship was prettyd complicated. We used to have heated arguments over how to behave with women. We didn't see eye to eye. This situation always made me suffer. It's not fair to mention only the negatives. He was cheerful, creative, outgoing, intelligent, generous and kind. He was always present and careful. He loved spending time with younger people. He was shaken by his brother Angelo's death at the age of eleven. He burnt alive in a storehouse where there were tanks of gas that my grandfather had placed there. He saw his brother running like a human torch on the grass. At that time my father was only thirteen but he was already able to drive the car and so he took his brother to the hospital in vain. After that, my grandpa died of guilt. My father suffered greatly. He no longer had a father figure and his relationship with his mother was problematic. My mother told me that they fought hard. He was keen on academic studies but the jealousy and envies stopped his career. He was into politics. I remember the meetings at my house until late at night. But even then he was unable to succeed because he wasn't tough enough. He worked hard and others got all the credit. He loved cars and was even a test pilot for Ferrari. He had a very troubled youth and he never found serenity. He suffered from bipolar disorder. He was always in a bad mood and he became worse and worse. A neurologist cured him for about three years. He got married for the first time when he was thirty six. It was a bad choice. His wife and her family were crooks. He left her and after that he met my mother and finally he found some happiness. They got married when he was fourty three and my mother twenty three. When we talked about women to marry he used to say, 'II hope you find a woman that is half as good as your mother. Only she could bear such a neurasthenic like me.' My mother's name is Elena. She's the second of three children. She's always been quiet and studious. She spent her youth with her nose in her books. She rarely went to parties because she didn't like chaos. She is proud, stubborn and honest. She has no fear. I've never seen her back down in front of anything or anybody. Her moral integrity is unbelievable. She looks deep in your eyes. She rarely speaks, but when she does, her words are like stones. It was really love at first sight. Despite the difference in age, they complemented each other. My father was a volcano that my mother always tried to calm down. My grandmother often told me this anecdote, 'After officially meeting your father, there was a bit of concern. Your grandfather was skeptical about the wedding. We thought the age difference would be a problem. Even the whole story about the failed first marriage. So the conditions were not the best. Your grandfather faced your mother and tried to reason with her, but she cut him off by saying that she would marry Andrea or no one else.' My mother sacrificed everything for the family. She was supposed to defend her thesis, but never did because I was born. All of my life she has been close to me, especially during my school years. She saw me as a slacker so she worried about me. She always tried to stimulate me. We used to do my homework together. She gave me freedom for all the rest. The only reason my parents argued was over me. My mother wanted my father to reprimand me because I didn't put enough effort into school. My father was more worried about the fact that I didn't have a girlfriend yet. Often Dad told me, 'Mel, I never used to have a fight with your mother and I can't divorce because you don't like to study. So, please, make her happy and study, because I'm sick of hearing her complain.' But apart from this, their love story was like a beautiful film. They loved each other despite their differences. Often I wonder what love is. I could look for famous quotes and many examples in literature or history, but they wouldn't be as strong as the memory that I keep. In the autumn of 1996 I was in Acireale at my grandmother's house. My father was still and no longer talked; he was on his deathbed. I couldn't stay in the room and see him in that state. I convinced myself to go in but I stopped at the door because I saw my mother in his room holding his hand. It was so quiet. I couldn't understand if she was crying or not, I decided to leave them alone. I will never ever forget that moment.”

“I'm sure that your parents influenced your personality: your father with the story of the girls and your mother concerning your studies. We'll talk about this later on. How is your relationship with your brothers?”

“It's always been pretty good, even if we are all different. I'm the second son. Francesco has always been the reflective scholar while Pietro has always been the quiet stickler, and I was the dreamer. We never talked much about our problems but we were there for each other. I've never been envious of them and if you ask me who's my favorite I couldn't respond. I slept in the same room as Pietro for twelve years. He was the victim of my jokes. I forced him to be a competitor for imaginary broadcasts in which I pretended to be a brilliant presenter. Francesco is more distant, colder. I just know that I can't imagine different brothers. My life without them would be surely much more empty.”

“Fine, Mel, I have an idea about your family. Now I would like you to tell me something about your first experiences with love in Sicily. If there were any, and what happened.”

“We're going into a minefield here, Doctor. As I said before I always had an odd relationship with my father. He always wanted to see me on top of the world, especially with women. Starting from elementary school he pushed me to get a girlfriend. I was probably less interested toward the fairer sex than other boys and I still looked at them with innocent eyes. I remember that in my class there was a girl called Sara. She had blue eyes and blond hair and she had a beautiful smile. I used to enjoy looking at her during lessons and sometimes I went to talk to her. I don't know how but my father found out that I liked her and he decided to get involved. He started to show up at my school and tried to get us to talk. I was so embarrassed, I didn't know how to react. I couldn't understand his behavior. He said to Sara, 'My son is a little shy, but he's interested in you, so would you play with him?' Obviously these interventions produced the opposite effect. Sara ran away as soon as she saw me. At that time I had a really good friend called Gianpiero. We used to see each other after school, too. He was the closest and my first friend outside of my family. My father used to tell me to invite girls and not only Gianpiero. He was convinced that it would be more normal that way. By the time I'd finished elementary school I'd never kissed a girl and the transition to middle school was by far worse. I was in the same school as Francesco who was considered one the brightest students of the school. Obviously, I couldn't hold a candle to him. And even then I didn't pay attention to the girls and my father couldn't believe it. I remember a girl named Charlotte. She was nice, cheerful, and energetic. We used to joke around. As you can imagine my dad ruined everything again. He tried in every way to shake me, only to make me close up even more. I was beginning to feel his behavior as an invasion of my space. I could feel the pressure growing on me.

Later on I liked other girls: Valentina, Rosanna, Valeria, and all were older than me. But I didn't know how to go about i. I was twelve and no one had explained to me how

to behave with a woman. The more time passed and more Dad became pressing. He asked me every day if I liked someone. He said it was not possible for me at my age

to not bee intersted. When, tired of being interrogated, I mentioned a name, it was worse. The girl in question was made the subject of attention and invitations. The whole family was to examine the problem. It became a riddle to be solved at the table and at family gatherings. Dad and Mom argued and I was in the middle, listening in silence. Dad often said to my mother, 'Mel isn't doing well because you sent him to school a year early. He was not ready. But he will make up for it in time. The real problem are the girls. Elena, he isn't growing right, don't you understand?' Mom replied: "Let him be, he is young, let him grow up in peace! Instead we have to insist on his education, which will decide his future.' I listened and then I shut myself in my room and cried because I was disappointing my parents.”

“Without doubt it's tough to grow up with that kind of father, but now I want to analyze your precocious lack of interest towards school.”

“Surely studying was never a priority for me. I went to class unenthusiastic and bored. I couldn't wait to get home and play. I always preferred to watch television especially series and cartoons. I hardly ever read anything. My teachers weren't very good, so I never had a solid foundation. I loved watching and reading about soccer but my family didn't think it was suitable for my future.”

“Did you have friends at that time?”

“My world was a bit closed. I got close to Vincenzo who was the son of a family of seven lived above us. We spent a lot of time together and had an album of picture cards. He was older than me. I really enjoyed his company. I also had friends from school. I invited them to my house to do homework or for lunch. There was no close friend in particular. It was a better in summer when we used to go to my family's beach house. It's beautiful and has a fantastic view. I consider it my pleasant retreat. Every summer I had a group of friends. Even then my father couldn't stay away from my private life. He couldn't stay home with Mom. He'd come down to the beach and look for us. He talked to the guys and offered everyone ice cream. He used to push me and my brothers to talk to girls. I almost forgot to tell you about my father's hobby: boats. He often went to the annual boat show in Genua. No one else in my family liked boats but he forced us to go. Obviously, we weren't enough. There had to be guests, preferably women. There would be huge scenes over it. It was grotesque.

The Gleam nods and says, “I would like to know the reason behind your move to Rome in 1989.”

“There were different reasons. The first was because my father was such a good engineer that he became the technical manager of an important construction company. He intervened when there were disagreements with the Ministry of Work, so his presence in Rome was necessary. The second reason was for his political disappointment. My father felt betrayed by the other party members, so he decided to have a change of scenery. Another reason was the decline of the farm he started where he spent a lot of his time, money and passion. He didn't want to run it anymore. Maybe the most important was that he wanted to ensure us a better life. He hoped for an environment with more opportunity. He was disgusted by Sicily and its inhabitants. To be honest, crime was at its worst. It was like the Far West. But the straw that broke the camel's back was when somebody tried to set fire to my house but fortunately the flames only burned the front door. We never found out who made the orders. A few days later, my dad told us that we would move to Rome in September. I protested, 'But Dad, I don't know anyone there. Don't make me leave my home, please… '. Dad beat a blow on the table and bellowed, 'I said that we move to Rome, Mel, that's all.' I cried all night. On the day we left, after packing the suitcases, I walked around the house with a heavy heart. I entered my playroom.

I wanted to bring everything with me, but I couldn't. My wolf-dog Rex,

seeing us go, howled in despair. It was the 18th of September 1989.”

“Very well, Mel, that's enough for today. We'll go back to this subject next time.” I leave thinking who knows what he thinks about me.

CHAPTER 2

Rome

A new week has gone by. Talk to understand. Where will this journey take me? I've been thinking about my life and how the people in it have influenced it. It's like seeing my life in a movie and it's helping me to understand what happened to me. I'm once again in the waiting room, but this time my heart is relaxed and my mind is more carefree. Finally the Gleam opens the door, smiles and calls me in.

“Hi, Melvin, how was your week?”

“It was better than usual.”

“Great. Let's talk about your arrival in Rome. How was it at the beginning? Did you have trouble adaptating?”

“We arrived in Rome on September 18, 1989, on Piero's birthday. In the new house I finally had my own room, after 12 years. I looked out of the window and looked at the street: it was a whole different scenario compared to my old magic castle. The day after I landed in Rome I had to begin the third year of middle school. I was emotional and worried about this new life. Just to make things easier my alarm clock didn't go off and I arrived half an hour late at my first day of school. I knocked on the door and I stepped in the classroom. I felt like everyone was staring. I walked towards the teacher's desk. The teacher was a very big man, grouchy and not very communicative. I introduced myself and, without raising his eyes from the register, he said, 'What do you want? Where are you from? Find you a seat and don't bother me.' The whole class started laughing while I was searching for a seat. The only vacant seat was next to Mario. After a few words I discovered that he lived near me. During recess the other kids came near me and asked questions. One of them said, out of the blue, 'Now you live in Rome. You have to support Lazio!' I told him that I was sorry but I didn't really like that team. During the day I met all of my other teachers. I thought I had passed the test. I went home with Mario. I was very wrong. After the initial curiosity, I became a target for my Sicilian accent and my clothes that weren't fashionable enough. No one talked to me. Actually, it would be fair to say that I didn't know how to start a conversation with them. I felt like they were from another world. Everyone was lightyears away from what I knew. Besides the environment, my education problems started to emerge. My Math teacher once said, 'Do you study Math in Sicily?' And the Italian teacher threw her hands up in the air after reading a composition and said, 'Son, you don't know the first thing about grammar or sentence structure.' The English teacher, after hearing my pronunciation and testing my knowledge of grammar, even wrote a letter to my mother. Finally, the Music teacher one day called me out in front of everyone and said, 'You're nothing, you're less than nothing. Do you understand?' At the end of the first semester my report was awful the only subjects where I was good at where geography and history. My mother was worried. The teachers were already convinced that I wasn't ready for the end of year exams. I felt lost and lonely. I spent my days watching TV and talking with Mario. I used to go to Villa Borghese to find other kids I could play soccer with. As usual, my father did what he always did: he got involved. On day my father noticed a girl called Francesca and he insisted: 'That's a very pretty girl. Is she one of your classmates?' I told him that I didn't know her, I had to lie because I was scared. Once he invited a girl called Piera over for lunch without telling me. She was impolite and gross. It was a horrible day. After that he convinced himself that I should date Anna. 'She's good and nice and she can help you study. Why don't you invite her over some time?' We started arguing and I tried to contain him, but it didn't work. One evening we fought because he wanted to throw a party at my house but I begged him not to. I didn't feel comfortable. There was no way to convince him otherwise. It was a fun night for him, while I was uneasy playing host and being forced to smile. In the second semester, thanks to my mother and some private lessons, I was able to raise my grades and have a chance to pass the exam. Despite everything, the teachers were convinced that I would not have passed the obstacle. Instead, as has often happened in my life when everyone gives up on me, I my reaction impresses. I passed my oral exam with flying colors. The same Math teacher had to admit it. The Italian teacher, who over time would become a family friend, confessed to my parents, 'Now I can say it, we admitted Mel to exams as an act of generosity, but then we were really surprised. Clearly, the kid has so much potential. Too bad for his weaknesses.' The first year went well. I passed the obstacle, but I felt really alone. I couldn't wait to go back to Sicily for my vacation.”