Milady Filacia

4: Pity Evil

As the winter months became mild and tepid, dad gave me a new book to read. This book was American and called Grendel, and he said it was fantastic. "It's about a monster who ends up terrorizing a Scandinavian village," he explained, before handing off the book. "It's a book told from the point of view of someone who's evil. Read it in a week's time, then tell me what you think." I read the book during late nights, after exhausting days at school. Sometimes, I'd have to read the same page three or four times before I understood what it meant, and found myself drifting off between chapters. When I'd finally finished, I was relieved, elated, and confused. 

"Even Grendel, an evil monster, is moved by the Shaper's tales," my dad told me. "It shows that evil things can have compassion as well, but we mustn't forget that they're evil. But in a way, Grendel is like a young teenager - easily influenced by multiple worldviews. For example, the dragon he meets persuades him into violence."

"I thought the dragon was trying the help him," I said. 

"Grendel thinks the dragon is helping him, I'm sure. But he's only corrupting him. Maybe you should read Huckleberry Finn next."

I fell ill the following day, and mum forced me to stay in bed. Filacia brought me my meals, and by lunchtime she'd spotted the book on the foot of my bed and addressed it. 

"It's a stupid American book my dad made me read," I told her. 

"What's it about?"

"This monster who's corrupted by a dragon and kills a bunch of people."

Instead of nodding and leaving, like the last kitchen maid would have, Filacia put her hands on the metal rungs of my footboard and lingered. "That's an awfully one-sided synopsis," she claimed. "Grendel has a lot more potential than that. He's not a monster. He's just an innocent child who's curious about the world."

"But - "

"He loves his mamma just like you love yours, and just like I loved mine. He's heartbroken when she dies, and he's stupid and playful and terrified of the world. The dragon gets Grendel to become a nihilist - that's someone who believes there's no point to life. That's the reason Grendel goes to war with the humans. Not because he's evil."

"But dad told me - "

"Each chapter is based on a different philosophy, and a different astrological sign," she continued. "Do some research. Try to understand the book on your own, instead of listening to your papa."

When dad arrived home later that week with a new book bought from the store, I turned him down. "I don't want to read anymore," I said. "I have too much homework."

"Ai. More like too much videogames," mum snapped, poised with a glass of wine in the sitting room.

"I'll put it on your bookshelf," said dad. "Mark Twain is an American literary expert. You'll learn to love him."

But Filacia had promised me I wouldn't. She'd served me the dish of hesitance in the words of, "It's overrated and bland." I didn't want to read something that was overrated and bland, when I really thought about it. I wanted to read exciting novels, understated novels, novels by impoverished authors, and novels that don't fail to push the boundaries. At least, that's what Filacia told me.

I forgot about Silver's cork oak grave during my fourteenth year, and I stopped reading dad's recommendations. Once the snow cleared enough to avoid danger I took my bike and rode it down to Anselmo's house near the goat pen to retrieve a video game I had lent to him earlier that winter. I approached his house reluctantly, knowing that he might ask me for help with maths, then knocked on the withered wooden door. But a man whom I did not know answered, donned in a white long-sleeved polo shirt and cotton trousers, his hair a mixture between brown and grey. "Ciao. Is Anselmo home?" I asked the unknown man. "He has my video game."

"Ah, so sorry agnello, Anselmo and his family moved away weeks ago." 

"No, he didn't. Anselmo would have told me if he was moving away. He's my friend. And he has my video game."

The man gave the threshold a wider berth. "I'm sorry il bambino, your Anselmo is no longer here. You've made friends with a thief."

"Then why are you here?" I asked, getting angry. "I've never seen you anywhere before. Mum never invited you for tea, and she invites all the new people to tea."

The man looked playful and patronal. "I come to tea tomorrow," he assured me. "You'll be seeing me there. My name is Dolorio." Dolorio closed the door slowly, until it severed our eye contact. 

At first I felt angry at Anselmo for being so careless. How could he leave without returning my video game? It was one of the year's best productions, and my uncle had went out of his way to buy it for me. Then the winds blew the smells of the goat pen into my direction and I lost my train of thought. I decided to bike the long way back home, to avoid passing it. 

Filacia was getting no better at cooking, but after word had gotten out that Father Jacopo was sleeping in our cellars no other woman would take up the post. My red-haired friend stayed on longer than mum approved of, but she played a clever song. 

"Don't you have aspirations?" my mum asked her, outside on the veranda. The spring was pungent that day, as everything was growing large and green. 

"None at the moment, m'lady," replied Filacia, setting the table clumsily. 

"Don't you wish to finish school? Or go to college? Or you can get a fine job on a farm."

"I'm no farmer. I frighten animals, and every crop I touch dies. My mama and papa, may they rest in peace, said my best luck is here, setting tables and cleaning your dishes."

"And giving us food poisoning," mum muttered to my dad as Filacia  hurried back into the house, a coy look on her face. They snickered behind their hands. 

Dolorio arrived in a rusty white 1950s Porsche convertible, two frayed red leather seats soaking up the sun. He pulled into the backyard, wheels bouncing on uneven ground, and emerged with a tentative smile on his face. Mum screeched and ran to him with open arms, ending in an embrace that made my father frown. Dolorio gave me a rub on my back as he stepped onto the veranda. He took his place at the outdoor dining table, speaking of local politics with my parents as Filacia poured us all iced tea. 

Later on, after a bang from inside the house caused mum and dad to apologize and hurry indoors, Dolorio slipped me another strawberry cake. "What do you think that could be?" he asked me. 

"It might have been Father Jacopo, or the nurse." Most likely Filacia, though. "Father Jacopo is always dropping things."

"You aren't a very religious boy, though," he observed. He was leaning in, a fox in the mid-afternoon sunlight with shallow lines in a tan brown face. 

"Papa says all boys are religious, even if they don't think they are. When something bad or scary happens, we're always praying to God on the inside. We're always talking to Him."

"Yes," he allowed, "but that is because fear makes people do strange things." Dolorio leaned back in his metal wire chair, looking well-fed and knowing. "Humans desire comfort. Some are sad enough that their only comfort comes from God - who may or may not exist. You understand me?"

I tried very hard to. "Yes, I do."

Dolorio rubbed my knee. "I live alone, but I make surrogate families wherever I go. You and your parents, for example, have become my surrogate family. That is how I don't need God. All I need is the comfort of people."

I wondered if I had the comfort of people. Ever since Silver had died, I realized I've been very lonely. I kept to myself during school, and Filacia was a nagging yelp in the back of my head. Anselmo had gone without so much as a good-bye. Who, besides my parents and Father Jacopo, was comforting enough that I didn't need God after all?

Dolorio and I spoke for a long time after that. He took me for a ride in his old Porsche, over the hills and through villages that didn't interest me. We laughed together in the wind, snagging boughs crushed to pieces by the wheels of his speeding car. And when he dropped me off back home, Filacia, standing on the front porch, was shooting him the coldest of stares.