Giovanni and I enter through the main door and make our way into the living room, where he sets down his backpack and I follow suit. He then walks across the white oak floors, going past the fireplace to the left and toward the back of the home. He tells me, “Just wait here.”
I watch him silently disappear around the corner in the silent home and assume he’s going to see his parents who are still out back. While he’s gone I wait uncomfortably, standing alone and noting the strange, foreign artifacts on the shelves that line each wall from floor to ceiling. There are small statues and tall djembe drums, and a wealth of other oddities. I guess the furniture is modern, but I’m not sure if that’s the right description. It’s downright weird looking, straight out of the film Beetlejuice. A curved chair with only one armrest is covered in a black-and-white tiger fur pattern. It looks like a throne for Cruella de Vil.
After standing awkwardly for a full minute, and with the coast clear, I slowly make my way around the living room, continuing to note the strange furniture, strewn about seemingly randomly. Gothic artwork lines the walls, with images of death such as a skull being cradled by a beautiful woman, and other pieces suggesting the contrast between good and evil. I am drawn to one particular item, a long handmade wooden pipe that has bright Mediterranean-colored feathers tied to and hanging off of it. I pick it up and examine it closely. I can tell that it’s functional.
I sit in the only normal looking chair in the room. It’s in the corner and is a soft, deep red, cushioned leather chair with a very high back. A half-second later, a sharp, heavily accented voice says, “That is mine.” Startled, I looked up and see a dark figure peering around the corner at me, quietly drawing closer as I hurriedly stand up and back away from the item. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” he says, “Welcome to my home.” No hand is extended with this greeting, but the man, who is surely Giovanni’s father, continues, “We are enjoying the spring sun, step onto my veranda.” The man has the thickest Italian accent I’ve ever heard and emanates a palpable confidence as well as a callous indifference. I’ve never been afraid of anyone, but this man intimidates me—and it’s made worse by the fact that I’m in his home, his space.
I follow the man out of the living room, walking around a large fireplace composed of gray and black stones, seemingly made out of mortar, and enter a room lined with deep red and violet hues mixed with a theme similar to that of the pipe I am for some reason still holding. Bright Mediterranean colors and decor decorate the area. The bright white oak floors continue on into the kitchen, which is furnished with a thick, dark brown walnut table. Its chairs are cushioned with dark red backing and their dark wooden trim is shiny, clearly well polished. On the fireplace mantle, which divides the living room and kitchen, is the giant skull of some large beast, maybe an ox. It has two long curvy horns. Lying horizontally in front of the skull is a very long, winding shofar.
Directly adjacent to the table are two glass sliding doors that make up the wall. When we approach, Giovanni opens them and I step out onto a dark brown deck with black iron chairs surrounding a large black iron table. The table has gargoyle heads woven into its design. On top it is a large and thick glass ashtray with a burning cigarette resting on its edge. There is a crude bench that appears handmade and lines the entirety of the railing that Giovanni’s father was leaning on earlier, and Giovanni goes to sit on it.
The man looks at me and says, “I am Francesco Russo.” You have met my son, Giovanni.” I nod as he refers to himself and then Giovanni with a wave of his hand. “And that is my wife, Greta.” He points and I see a woman rounding the corner of the deck, which seems to surround the whole house. She’s the one who called out to Giovanni right before I was going to sucker punch him; it is clearly his mom. Up close I see how gorgeous she is. She’s full bodied and has sandy blonde hair that waves down just past her shoulders. She wears white sunglasses and a fancy red dress, and as she comes closer I see that she has matching red nail polish on the toes of her bare feet.
When she approaches, she smiles at me and says, “Welcome home, Nicholas.” The words flow from her mouth like syrup from a jar held high, and I melt. Never before have I been so thoroughly and instantly seduced by a woman, and in front of her husband and son! Did she say, “home”? I ask myself. We talk and somehow I stop acting like myself. With her I feel childlike, like a polite little boy.
Francesco points to a chair by the veranda table and says, “Please,” and the three of us sit at the table together. Greta smokes cigarettes and Francesco uses shining silver cutlery to eat from a plate of thinly sliced meat. The meat is decorated with a few olives and accompanied by a large glass of red wine. Giovanni sits off to the side, peering out over the park and into what seems to be the entire neighborhood through the trees beyond.
Somehow, unlike my usual self, I push the conversation at first. I’m not one for conversation and yet now the words have a life of their own. “So, where are you from?” “Are you guys married?” (an odd question). And “How long have you lived in the neighborhood?” The Russos’ attitude is hard to read: a mix of aloof, yet thoughtful, as Giovanni was with me in the park, and somewhat stoic, but kind. Francesco says he is from Naples, Italy, and met Greta in Chicago, which I believe is where she’s from. They had their children, Giovanni and his sister, before their recent move to my neighborhood.
Greta is polite and graceful in all of her answers and although I’m trying to be polite too, I begin to wonder if I’m coming across as overly inquisitive. I slow my questions and then my mind goes blank and I am left with nothing else to say. Moments of silence pass, each one more awkward than the last. Finally, after the moments turn to minutes, I give up trying to catch a glimpse of Greta’s eyes, which I’m sure are beautiful, through her lenses, which are too dark for me to see through.
“So, Mr. Russo . . .”
“Call me Francesco.”
“Sorry, Mr. Francesco, what brings you to the neighborhood? I mean, what exactly do you do?”
Francesco’s fork drops and hits the plate with a clack. He wipes his lips with a white cloth napkin, rests his forearms with their rolled-up sleeves on the table, and leans close to me. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Greta turning her neck, looking away. They’ve answered all my questions up to now, but this time they don’t answer. Instead Greta elaborates on her answer to a different question. She says they don’t believe in marriage and instead have a civil union.
When Francesco speaks again, he also doesn’t answer. Instead he says once again that he knows all about me. In fact, he knows not just about the incident with his son, but much more. He knows my last name, where I currently live, and that I’m from the inner city. He describes me, or at least my actions and persona: flaunting authority, believing myself to be street-smart and untouchable, trying to express a carefree vibe.
And then he says something that hits hard, that he knows I have a troubled home life. This feels like a step too far. I go from uncomfortable to nervous to scared, a part of me even petrified because I can’t figure out how on earth he would know what happens in my home. Again I fall silent, this time because I’m too shocked to ask how he knows so much about me. Francesco continues on and even though I’m entranced, his accent is so thick that at times it’s impossible to decipher his words without having to think really hard about what he’s trying to say. What comes through loud and clear though is his telling me that he and I are at a crossroads, a focal point, and that he wants to make a deal. At one point, he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a key, and tosses it in my direction. It makes a ringing noise as it hits the table.
“You can have the girl of my son if you accept this key of friendship.”
My