We are heading home, back to London for a holiday. I’m so excited and the kids are too. They look so cute as they walk ahead of us towards the plane. We’ve taken them since they were babies so they’re used to travelling but now they’re older it’s more fun and definitely easier. They are seated altogether, watching different movies, as I catch Kevin’s eye and we smile at each other.
My mother is beaming, so happy to have us all around to fuss over – it’s nice for the children too. It’s unusually warm in London, which is always at its best in the sunshine.
It turns out that there’s an Italian festival being held outside St Peter’s Church on Clerkenwell Road. It’s a ridiculously long shot, but a girl who knows I’ve been looking for my father emailed me the information. I want to see if anyone knows my birth father so I made flyers to hand out. Kevin was supportive and happy to come along with the kids. I put a photo of myself on them as I look now and a picture of me as a baby. It’s silly, as he didn’t even see me as a baby but I’ve got to try.
I’ve typed up all the information I know: he worked as a waiter in Piccadilly, he met my mum Patricia at Les Enfants Terribles and he was about twenty-two years old in 1964. A friend of mine helps me write it all out in Italian as well.
I don’t tell my mother what I’m doing. The only time we ever talked about him was when I told her that I had found Pat. I felt her judgement on him, on both my birth parents for their behaviour. She won’t even let me be excited about being Italian as to her somehow that denies my Jewishness. Even Pat was negative about him – ‘He was good-looking, but probably from a poor fishing village.’
‘Fishing village?’ I asked.
‘Well, he said he was from Rome, but they probably all said that.’
I’m thrilled that I’m Italian. It feels exotic to me. I hope he’s a Casanova, a real charmer.
We jump on a double decker bus. The children are so excited as they had never been on one before. We get off where the streets are crowded with people, Italian accents filling the air. A live musician smiles as he plays the accordion. Kevin follows me with all the children. I notice how the Italians have badges pinned to their clothes with different coloured ribbons, representing where they were from in Italy and where they now live in England. There are booths with people selling food and a stand with flyers but I decide to take a peek in the church first – I’ve always loved churches and here the pews are filled to the brim. I notice a handsome man with a little boy perched on his lap, many old women dressed in black, with wrinkled faces and scarves on their heads. I stand in the doorway, watching, thinking that somewhere out there I have a biological grandmother, possibly looking just like these women. I see them line up to take their bread and wine. I’ve been raised Jewish, so it feels a little odd to think that this could have been my religion too.
‘I can definitely get a Christmas tree without feeling guilty.’ I mutter to Kevin as we walk back outside into the crowd.
I’m holding the flyers out in my hand, feeling rather awkward. How do I start? Do I just thrust them into men’s passing hands? Do I stop them? I wonder for a second if I actually have the courage to do this. Then I spy a group of three men who look like they could be his age.
‘Excuse me, sir, so sorry to bother you…’ I have gone all polite and British. ‘Would you look at these flyers? I’m trying to find an Italian man.’
A very tall man takes the flyer and looks with interest, reading slowly. He pauses for a moment then looks at me.
‘You’re trying to find an Italian man? Lucky him!’
I start blushing.
‘No, not like that.’ I pause and then decide to just tell the truth. He listens curiously. ‘I was adopted, I’m looking for my birth father.’
Straight away, his reaction is emotional.
‘Aw, you are looking for your papa. That is so very sad.’
I smile, unsure how to respond. He starts yelling to the men he has been with, who have wandered away.
‘Mario, Franco, come back here! This lady, she is looking for her father.’
I’m immediately surrounded by all three, showing the flyer to one another.
‘We all went to this club, Les Enfants Terribles. It was wonderful – we had drinks, we danced, we met the ladies,’ the first man says to me.
‘We always came in pairs,’ adds a shorter man with a very thick accent. ‘Someone here knows him, I guarantee. We’re going to help you.’
They ask me more questions about my life, my adoption.
‘You look Italian.’ The tall man pinches my cheeks. ‘You are a lovely lady.’
‘Thank you.’
They have taken a few flyers and the tall man has my phone number – he promises to let me know if he has any news. He talks to a lady at a booth, who looks up at me and takes a flyer. She says I should go and talk to the priest.
I find Kevin standing in the shade with the kids. They all have ice cream and seem content. I explain what I was doing but it’s hard for them to really understand. As we head back towards the church, I spy a man leaning against the fence all by himself; he is dressed in a lovely suit, a silk scarf around his neck. We catch each other’s eye and he smiles at me.
‘Wait here just a minute,’ I tell Kevin and the kids.
‘Excuse me, sir, would you mind reading my flyer? I was adopted and I’m searching for my father.’ I decide to say it straight away, as it seems to get people more interested. He reads it slowly, then looks up at me.
‘My name is Antonio.’ The blood rushes to my head. ‘But,’ he pauses, ‘I did not come to London until 1967, so too late for it to be me. And I’m rather short.’
We laugh. He is very good-looking – I wouldn’t have minded if he were my father.
‘My wife of many years died just a few months ago.’ His eyes are full of tears.
‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ I tell him.
He looks me directly in the eye.
‘I wish it were me, I wish it were true. I would be very proud to be your father.’
I’m completely taken aback by his words and my eyes fill like his.
‘Are those your children?’
We both look over at the kids and Kevin.
‘Yes,’ I say proudly.
‘Oh!’ he sighs. ‘So beautiful. Your father, he is missing so much.’
I bribe the kids with fizzy drinks, saying that I just need to pop in and talk to the priest. They don’t know what a priest is, but they’re thrilled – I never give them fizzy drinks normally. I’m led into a small, round room. The priest is a heavyset man, encased in his robes and seated behind a large dark wooden table. He is very high up in the Italian Church, I was told, a very kind and helpful man.
I sit opposite him, feeling small and shy.
‘How can I help you?’ His voice is full and loud.
‘I was adopted. I know my father is Italian and his name is Antonio.’ I feel silly saying it out loud, and then a wave of shame comes over me for not knowing more.
He is serious and calm.
‘Do you know his last name?’
‘No, I don’t.’ I’m sinking in my seat, hating how many times I have had to tell people my truth. He looks thoughtful but doesn’t say anything.
What I really want to say is, No, I don’t know his name. My mother was young and she fucked a man she barely knew. We’ve all behaved like that at some point in our lives, haven’t we? So, Mr Priest, I’m not pure at all. I came into this world shameful, a secret. So that makes me bad. I know that’s what you’re thinking.
But I don’t, of course. We both stay quiet for a moment as I see him considering the situation.
‘I’m sorry, I really do not know how I can help.’
‘May I give you my flyers?’ I ask, disappointed.
He shakes his head. ‘No, I have nowhere to put them. I suggest the community centre downstairs.’
I come back into the daylight, cloaked with melancholy. He wasn’t that kind, I think to myself, or compassionate. I kiss the children, wondering how many other women like me have visited the priest with a similar story.
* * *
‘Zara,’ she told me on the phone tearfully, ‘I may as well just let myself die. They want me on dialysis and I can’t do that – there’s no going back. I just want to die, I’ve had enough.’
I’m cautious, unsure of what to say.
‘Mum, we want you alive as long as possible, but obviously, it’s your choice. I know it will be hard, but please think about it.’
She has decided to give it a go. On Monday, Wednesday and Friday she will go and sit for three hours on a machine while they filter her blood. She has adapted as best she can, watching movies and reading to pass the time. She always arrives in a nice dress and lipstick.
‘There’s an old lady there,’ my mother tells me proudly, ‘who tells me that she likes to see what I’m wearing when I come in. She says I always look so lovely.’
I laugh out loud and tell her how much I admire her for making such an effort.
We always seem to get along better when she is vulnerable and sick, I think to myself as I close the door to my brother’s old bedroom. I lie down on his small bed. The room has been repainted since he lived here, but to me it still has a tinge of the old energy. Even paint wasn’t able to eradicate that altogether. I feel a pang of longing for the children, but I knew it was easier for me to come alone: Mum doesn’t have the same energy that she used to. She is suffering with a raw red rash all over her body. I had applied cream earlier to try and help ease the itching – I don’t like seeing her this way.
I turn off the light and try to sleep, but the memories are flooding my mind. They do whenever I’m back in this house. But this one is something I thought I’d forgotten. I had never talked about this to anyone.
It’s 1981. My mum and dad have just left the house. I wait patiently as they pack up the car. I know not to start smoking the moment they leave because they always forget something so I wait ten minutes after they leave and sure enough, they are back, my mother running into the house before running out to the car again. Then I know they are gone for the weekend.
Out come the cigarettes and the pot. I roll myself a joint, turn up the music and dance around my bedroom. The freedom I feel when they’re not around me is always liberating.
The phone rings: it’s my girlfriend, Mimi.
‘Can I bring Adam to stay at your place tonight?’
‘Yes, that’s fine, but can you not be kissing in front of me?’ my seventeen-year-old self says.
They go to their room pretty quickly after they arrive, desperate to be alone. I don’t mind – I’m just glad to know they’re in the house with me. I love my parents being away but I still get scared on my own. I must have fallen asleep eventually, as I’m woken with a jump. The light from the hallway is bright and my book has fallen to the floor. I look at the clock: it’s 3am and my brother is back with some friends.
The Grateful Dead has been turned on at full volume. I can hear some muffled talking. I’m so angry; this happens a lot. I lie for at least an hour, trying to fall asleep but the music is so loud, it’s impossible. I pluck up the courage and walk sleepily into his room, opening the door to a couple of familiar faces. I know in an instant that my brother is out of it – I’ve been gauging his moods for years.
‘Gary, it’s past 3am. Turn the music down, please – I was asleep. Turn it down.’ I hear the pleading in my voice.
He sneers at me from his bed, his friends on the floor next to him: ‘You are such a selfish bitch! I have people over.’
‘It’s the middle of the night,’ I try to reason, ‘how can you say I’m selfish? Turn it down.’
I leave the room quickly and go back to lie on my bed, my fear rising. I hear him coming, my body aware of his presence before my mind. My door is swung open. He grabs me, both hands around my neck, his face contorted with rage. His large body moves in and out of the shadows, the light from the corridor spilling into my room.
‘Have I told you how sick I am of you?’ he begins. ‘You are the most selfish bitch and cunt that I’ve ever met.’ He’s pulling me up and down by my neck as he spits words of venom into my face. My head is being pushed down into my pillow. ‘You are a slag, a slut. That’s what you are, nothing but a bastard, a total bastard. I have people over!’ His yelling is louder, his hands grow tighter about my neck. ‘Your mother didn’t want you, because you’re so selfish. It’s no surprise she gave you away.’
His hands are still holding my neck – he won’t stop pulling me up and down. I try to yell out, but I can’t move my mouth. I try to fight, but I’m too weak. Up and down, up and down, until I’m sure my neck will break. I can feel myself going dizzy, his face now blurred. I can’t make out his words. Was he truly going to kill me and end up in prison for the rest of his life? Does he realise that I can’t breathe, can’t he tell that he needs to stop? Then I hear Adam coming up behind my brother, wrestling with him. He tries for a moment to unlock Gary’s hands. I hear him yell; I try to open my eyes.
‘Stop, you have to stop!’
But my brother holds on tight. Adam is still yelling. I can feel his hands as he tries to pry Gary off me. When I feel a sudden release, I choke in a big gasp of air. I fall back onto the bed. My heart beats rapidly, the oxygen flowing back into my body. My brother has left, laughing at Adam.
Adam peers at me from the shadows, his eyes full of concern: ‘Are you okay?’
I feel myself nod automatically. That’s what I always did – I said I was okay even when I wasn’t. My insides are shaken with terror.
‘Are you sure?’ He looks at me kindly for a moment but we know that this situation is way too big for either of us.
I don’t cry that night – I think I’m in too much shock – but I feel a wrap go around my heart in a way that it never has before. I feel myself sink deeper and deeper, further away from everyone.