My father, and my grandfather too. Because if my father is the murderer, my grandfather is the one who buried the body.
Let me explain. At sixteen, you start to gain some autonomy. Thanks to this, I was able to play football instead of golf. The problem? Golf matches are very long; they last for hours. A football practice, on the other hand, lasts an hour at most. So, to make the story believable, I would play for an hour and then wander around town, avoiding the areas near my house so I wouldn't risk bumping into my parents. In fact, if I could, I would push on to the next town over. And it was precisely in that "free" hour, in a nearby town, that I understood what a marquis does all day.
I was just walking through the town center when I saw a man and a woman strolling hand in hand. They were happy. What a beautiful couple! I thought. Then, I looked closer: she was young, blonde, a beautiful girl between 25 and 30, classily dressed and covered in jewelry. She had the air of a rich woman, or at least she wanted to—I say woman on purpose because her appearance aged her. He, however, was much older, with slicked-back, salt-and-pepper hair, and very elegantly dressed, perhaps too much so for a man in a small town. I stopped. Wait a minute. I looked at him more closely. I waited for him to turn. And yes, it was Dad. Dad was holding hands with a woman who wasn't my mother. A much younger woman.
In a moment of clarity, I made sure they didn't see me. I followed them. Today's golf game was going to last a very long time. I was furious, but I had to understand. I didn't want to judge my father just for walking with another woman. I wanted to fully understand what was happening. They walked through the center, exchanging tender gestures, but nothing that would make me think of running to my mom and saying, "Look what Dad is doing! Dad is cheating on you!"
Then, at a certain point, they entered a house. A single-family home, not an apartment building. I looked at the doorbell to see whose it was and, alas, the nasty surprise was the name: Ancinol. So my father had a house here? Had he bought it for this woman? Or did he live here too? I stood outside and tried to look through the window: I could see the living room with the table set for two. The situation seemed perfectly normal, like a little family coming home to eat together. Quite absurd, considering that in the evening he never finds the time to eat with us. Too busy, obviously. His friends, the hunting club, cricket... you know how it is, a marquis has other priorities. His family? That can wait. Now, however, I understand that the problem wasn't his family, it wasn't the club, it wasn't anything. My father had two lives and a house in another town. Unbelievable!
But who was this girl? Maybe she could be my sister. What if my father had another relationship that ended tragically, leaving him with a daughter, about my age, to care for? And he had bought her a house so she wouldn't be left on the street? Could it be that my father, all of a sudden, had discovered altruism? No, I'd say not. In fact, I'd say that hypothesis is laughable. Because my father takes the girl, sweeps the plates off the table, and does things that, at 16, I had only seen in certain magazines. Now I sincerely hope she isn't my sister, but the hypothesis was already flimsy before; now I would discard it completely.
Furious with the world, I headed back home. My father, I figured, would be busy for a while. I wasn't sure if I should find my mother and tell her. My instinct told me to do it, but I decided to take the long way. I needed advice. I went to a person I have little trust in, but there aren't many others in the house. In our villa, on the floor above, lives my grandfather, the Grand Marquis. From his high perch, he must see the whole picture. I go up to his rooms, where, as usual, he is sitting on the sofa with his pipe, dressing gown, and slippers, in full marquis attire. I tell my grandfather what I saw and that I need his help, but his response chilled me to the bone.
"I know everything, Ascanio," he said with a self-satisfied air. "We marquises need to live the good life. We can't tie ourselves to one person, stay at home with the children... because we are special. We are better than others, and we cannot have constraints on what we do. We must be free."
I listen to him, petrified.
"I used that house myself, back in the day, exactly as your father is using it now. Then, when I no longer needed it, I left it to him and explained what marquises do." He lights his pipe and, with the tone of someone doing me a favor, adds: "You found out early, but you should be happy, because one day that house will be yours. And there, finally, you'll get to be a marquis, so to speak."
My grandfather's answer had destroyed me. This whole marquis business was not only ridiculous, but it was getting worse every day. I had to talk to my mother. She deserved to know; she has always been a good person. Perhaps because she wasn't born a marquise, although she too was from a noble family. She was a countess, but of a kind whose name was passed down within the Vatican State, closely linked to the papacy. No longer having great importance in the papal state, her title had been decommissioned. She truly deserved to know, but I didn't have the courage. I still think about it. Maybe she wouldn't have thought I just wanted to get my nose pierced or drink a bottle of beer, but I just couldn't do it.
Now, however, she's here. She came to pick me up at a supermarket where I'd pulled another stupid stunt. And as angry as she is, I can see she's happy to have me back in her arms. The problem is, afterward, we go home, and when we go home, he's there too. How can I possibly be in the same room with the man I discovered cheating on my mother? And without saying anything to her? I can't do it. I have to run away. I have to find a way to escape.
So I do the most despicable thing in the world. Mom pays the bill and apologizes for me, then we leave. She scolds me, but I tell her I understand I was wrong and that I'm ready to come back. I tell her about what happened to me and the difficulties that led me to steal something. She understands, and this hurts me even more because I'm actually deceiving her, looking for the right moment to leave her alone again. With that evil man. With that evil man's father. In an evil family.
But I can't do it. In my sixteen-year-old head, I think: Can I get even more drunk? Tell her that her life is meaningless? Or stay silent and disappear, leaving her with the illusion that everything is fine?
We are heading home. I look at her, and a word is about to escape my lips, but I can't get it out. We arrive at the entrance to the villa.
"Go to your room, take a shower, and clean yourself up. You stink," she tells me. She even manages a smile because, in the end, she's truly happy that I was found, that she was called, and that today I am home again. But in my head, the plan is clear. These last words I will say to her are a goodbye. I can't say "goodbye" directly, or she would lock me in a room. So, in a mix of indecision but also fear of saying nothing, a sentence comes out: "Mom, you have to know that Dad is evil. And Grandpa is evil too. You have to know because it's important."
She gives a start of surprise, looking at me. "I know many more things than you think. But I believe that evil people need to be helped. I'll explain it to you one day. In any case, you should know that your father..." I saw her hesitate on this word, as if she were undecided on how to finish the sentence, "...your real father... is a good man."
At that moment, I don't really understand this sentence, and I go upstairs. For me, it was a farewell; I wasn't listening, I was trying to figure out what to say. I take a shower and go to my room. From there, I put a couple of things back in my backpack and climb out the window. I run away again.
Only later that evening do I realize that my mother wanted to tell me something. That pause could have contained so many things, but I lost my chance and now I'm gone. She will be disappointed and will go on living in that fake reality she's forced to endure. I'm selfish; I'm leaving her behind. After gathering a few things, I find a place to spend the night: a train station. But tomorrow, something will have to change. The fact is, this evening I am furious. It's a bit like that time when I was a child. The only thing I can think is that it's the fault of someone who isn't there. If my mother says my father isn't evil, but I see him as evil, then someone is wrong. But above all, there is someone who should punish the people who deserve to be punished. And who could do that, if not God?
So, in a fit of rage, I take it out on Him. I don't know who else to take it out on. Maybe myself, but I'm 16, I'm tired and disillusioned. The only one I can blame is Him.
Now the screen goes dark. I'm still in the little room, though my mind has traveled through a thousand memories. Damn, I was such an idiot back then! I think. I cursed at God, putting all the blame on Him. But in reality, it would have taken so little: I could have told my mother what my father was doing, confronted him and told him he was a bastard. I could have done so many better things. Instead, I hid behind the only one who wasn't physically there and couldn't answer me. I blamed an abstract entity, someone to whom great powers are attributed. And as Uncle Ben says: "With great power comes great responsibility." The problem is that I was giving Him responsibilities that weren't His. I understand now that I was wrong. Maybe this strange video has been useful.
But now I get up; I'm tired. I've wrung myself out with these memories. I hear the door click, as if my effort was what was needed for me to get out of here. I open it and walk out. I head towards the exit, tired of this situation. I don't want the job anymore.
At that moment, Mr. Threeheaded appears before me again. He's going to lock me in a room again! I have to escape! Maybe he's not as decent a person as I thought. In reality, the scene is quite absurd: he approaches me and extends his hand.
"Good morning, I'm Mr. Threeheaded."
He seems to have no memory of having spoken to me before, of putting me in a room, of owing me answers. Is this a nervous breakdown? I'm not sure if it's mine or his anymore, but it's time to leave. I open the door, thank him, and say I don't need anything. I close it and, of course, more stairs...