Chapter 32 Alessia #2
“Since you didn’t tell me you’re sick, it won’t be me.”
He laughs. “Read me a poem, Alessia, will you?”
“Yes.” I turn to look at Nico. His eyes are moist as well, and he smiles tightly at me, giving me strength to not fold because Matteo deserves more from me than a total collapse.
Matteo gives me a smile like a sigh—quiet and full of old weight. “Don’t give me Dante. I’m not ascending anywhere just yet.”
I huff out a soft breath. “You never got Dante anyway. Beyond your limited intellect.” It’s an old argument between us—well-worn, affectionate.
He snorts. “I get him. I just don’t like him. Too self-righteous. Too eager to sort the world into circles and condemn half of it. Was it Nietzsche who called him a mystical sadist? I’m inclined to agree.”
“And I told you then, you, like good old Friedrich, were being dramatic.” I hold up another spoon of soup, and he takes a small sip.
“Dante wasn’t a sadist,” I go on. “He was a poet trying to make sense of justice. Of mercy. Of exile.”
Matteo’s eyes soften. “You always defend him like he’s family.”
“We do share a last name,” I reply. “I like him because he believed love is what moves everything, even the stars.”
He waves a hand. “Ah, I never trusted a man who needed three books to make his point.”
I smile despite the ache in my chest. “Then how about Leopardi?” I know he has a soft spot for the Italian philosopher, poet, essayist, and philologist from Recanati—the same small provincial town as Matteo’s family.
His eyes light up—just a little. “L’infinito? The Infinite?”
“Certamente! Of course.”
He settles back into a pillow. “That poem tells us something about limits.”
“It was written two hundred years ago,” I tease. “By a man who barely left his village.”
“And yet,” Matteo counters, amused, “Giacomo understood the vastness better than anyone who ever crossed an ocean. You like the poem—don’t pretend you don’t.”
“How can I not?”
I try again to feed him, but he shakes his head.
I set the bowl down. Three spoonfuls. That was all he ate.
And now he’s done. I can’t bear it. I want to scream at him to stay alive, to be with me, but I know that my visible pain will hurt him, so I put my hand on his forehead and stroke.
“Leopardi wrote about imagination, about what we can’t see, what we can feel. ”
“What do you think, Nico?” Matteo asks.
“I agree with Alessia. L’infinito is about the power of the mind to transcend physical boundaries.” Nico sits on the chair by Matteo’s bed, close to me.
“The siepe didn’t let him see,” Matteo mumbles sleepily.
Leopardi’s famous poem centers on a hedge that blocks his view.
“And good old Giacomo didn’t see it as a limitation, that physical barrier forced him to use his imagination to see what’s beyond it,” Nico continues.
Matteo hums approvingly. “Exactly. Not heaven. Not hell. Just…what lies beyond the hedge.” His gaze softens.
I swallow. “You always said wine was like that. You have to imagine what the grape will become long before it ever gets there.”
He smiles. “I did. Bambina mia, I’m ready, you understand that, don’t you?”
I shake my head and purse my lips as emotion threatens to debilitate me.
Nico’s arm wraps around me and I lean into him because I can hardly sit straight. I can’t stand this. I can’t lose my father.
Oh God! Oh God!
Matteo’s gaze drifts upward. “I’ve been waiting to see her.”
“Who?” I ask, though my chest already knows.
“Isabella.” His lips curve. “Never in a hurry, that one.”
I swallow. Nico shifts slightly so he can hold me better. I let him. I need him.
“You remember the first time you tasted a barrel sample?” he asks.
“I was twelve.”
“You corrected my nose,” he says, smiling faintly. “Said the finish wasn’t ready.”
“I was insufferable.”
“You were brilliant.” He lifts his hand, and I lean forward so he can touch my cheek. “And you still are.”
His hands are rough like mine—a farmer’s hands.
“Matteo…I….” I look down because grief is gripping me hard, stealing my words.
“You should forgive him,” he tells me as he drops his hand. “He only did what I asked.”
I take a deep breath, center. “I’ll think about it,” I say with exaggerated hauteur. “And you should be worried about me not forgiving you for hiding your illness from me.”
His laugh is short but full—as if that one splutter took all his energy. He turns somber a moment later. “Fear doesn’t excuse a man but it explains him. The question isn’t whether he’s afraid. It’s whether he learns.”
“And if he doesn’t?” I ask softly, aware that we’re talking about Nico as if he isn’t here.
“Then you outgrow him. But whatever happens, don’t make yourself smaller.” His eyes close for a moment, and I wonder if he’s fallen asleep.
A moment later, he opens his eyes and looks at Nico. “You love her with all your heart, okay? She deserves that.”
“Lo Prometto. I promise,” my husband whispers.
“Va bene. That’s good,” he murmurs so softly that we have to lean close to him to hear his words.
Matteo falls asleep after that.
We sit with him for a while, neither of us ready to leave, as we’re both aware that this may be the last time we see him or the next time will be the last time, or the next, because Matteo isn’t going to be with us for long.