The Arthouse

Stefano

My mother never realized the cliché she put me in. Fine. Whatever. I can create something new out of the old, the overused, and the cliché. My mother decided that she had had enough with Italy. With Europe in general. But how could you be? Each city is its own art museum. We could go anywhere, and she chooses the middle of nowhere.

New Mexico. She chose New Mexico. Nothing happens in New Mexico!

It's fine, I guess. She's trying to make it enjoyable, but I just can't get into it. I love Venezia. The buildings are as old as the paintings in museums. Water flows between the buildings like blood through veins. Light dances off the ripples made by passing gondolas, the waves giving to the illusion that the city itself is breathing, a living organism sleeping while the fleas on its stomach run wild through its fur. There are two halves of the city: the part that we all see, the sun beaten and vibrant side that has withstood all the elements; and the part underwater, cold and wet and dark. Fish dart in and out of holes in the structures while starfish and barnacles lounge lazily on walls and windowsills.

Why would I ever want to leave? The city itself is art.

I wish I had a say in the matter; somehow be able to argue my side, convince her to not make us leave. I've begged and pleaded in every way I can think of. I've told her that there's all the art here, asked her not to leave. I even argued in what little English I know. Debating in Italian wouldn't help prove my point.

Despite all of this, the day arrives when we leave this sunken city and board a plane to the States. The day before we leave, my mom gives me a camera, telling me to take pictures of my city.

I ran out of film in thirty minutes.

This isn't the first time I've moved. When I was really young, my mother and I moved from Florence to Venezia. Whenever I ask why, she replies with two words full of hatred, more hatred and anger and sadness then I ever thought could fit into two words.

"Your father."

I can only assume he left us. Or hurt us and I just don't remember. All I know is that my mother uses her maiden name. I sport the same last name as her. Stefano Valentini. Sounds like a drink someone would order at a bar. But it does have a nice ring to it.

The tiles in the airport are stunning, light being refracted into dazzling hues beneath my feet. My carry-on suitcase bounces behind me, hitting every single dip in the floor. My mother holds my hand as we walk through the airport. She knows I'll do anything to stay in the city I love. I hold her hand back, because she keeps me tethered to rationality. If I let go, there's no doubt in my mind I'll run until I can see the gondolas.

We find our flight and board the plane. I feel like I'm in a dream.

And I'd do anything to wake up.

Once the plane takes off, I look out the window. I don't know why, but I feel like it's the last time I'll see Italy. I start to cry at the thought. I don't want to go. My mother must have seen the tears spill down my cheeks because she pulls out some travel tissues. Tenderly, she wipes away my tears.

"I'm so sorry, Stefano. I didn't want to leave either," she whispers.

"Then why did we leave?" I sniff.

She doesn't respond.

"It's Dad, isn't it."

She nods, struggling to hold back tears. White hot rage fills me up like molten lead, but I keep composure. I swear, if I ever find that man, I will kill him. I won't hesitate. He hurt my mother to the point that she can't even speak his name. If I find him, I'll hurt him to the point that he won't even be able to speak mine.

Cause he'll be dead.

The flight lands and the lady says something about Detroit. Is Detroit a place? Are we in Detroit? What is Detroit?

My mother ushers me off the plane.

"What's Detroit?" I ask her.

She doesn't reply, just continues walking to the next gate. We make it in time, but up ahead, there seems to be a problem. My mother walks up to one of the employees and (forgetting that we're now in America) asks what is going on in Italian.