MAY 1980
Aged eight, I like the sensation of my upper body dangling free, the contact of my knees hooked over metal. I like the moment when I close my eyes tight, let go of the bar with my hands, and feel the giddiness thrill through me. When my hands are flat on the black asphalt, that means I’ve overcome my fear. And that’s when I picture my favorite gymnast, Nadia Comăneci. She has her arms spread wide. Victory.
I adopt this hanging position whenever we have recess or I’m waiting for Ana, my sister. When she left me this morning she said, See you back here on time, okay? Or I’ll go home alone. “Here” is at the foot of the steps, near the metal rail that separates the parking lot from the schoolyard.
Ilaria! Get down from there! We’re going to Chez Léon. Come on, move it!
I recognize Dad’s voice. Surprised, I lift the bottom of my dress that’s blocking my view. Those are definitely the tips of his shoes, that’s definitely his impatient voice. I swivel 1 around the bar, land on my feet, and smooth down my dress.
Ana’s about to show up.
No, no. Change of plan. Mom’s picking her up from school and we’re meeting at Chez Léon. Come on!
I take his hand, it’s clammy.
Since our parents separated and Dad moved to Turin, we meet at a restaurant once a month. It was Mom who came up with the idea. She prefers neutral territory. She says they fight too much at home. And it’s true, they do hold back at Chez Léon. Even if Dad does clench his jaw and Mom stares into space, pretending not to care.
No, Dad still hasn’t found a job. When he says “Nope no-work” his voice is always sad, tired. Mom turns away slightly to hide her smile and Dad gets mad. He uses the word “humiliation” a lot. Luckily, the waiter comes over and puts down plates of perch fillet or bowls of meringue with whipped cream. Thanks.
After dessert, Ana and I get up from the table and go out to the small beach where we choose pebbles. We practice skipping stones.
Did you see?
What?
Dad took Mom’s hand.
To get to Chez Léon we go through the village of Hermance, cross the French-Swiss border, and keep going along the road to Yvoire. Dad has a navy blue BMW, a 320 coupe.
Tell me if you see a phone booth. He lights a cigarette. There! He stops, gets out, and produces some coins from his pants pocket. His back pressed to the glass, the creases in his shirt making v and w shapes. I wait, lower my window to let in some air. The leather seat no longer burns the backs of my thighs, it even feels soft when I stroke it.
Inside the phone booth, Dad’s talking loudly. He raises his voice some more and turns around. His eyes meet mine. I can tell he’s upset from the way he’s moving his hands. He’s bolt upright. That’s worrying.
When he comes back, he says Mom changed her mind and doesn’t have time for lunch. We’re going to spend the weekend together. What about school? You can skip school for just a few days . . . It’s not that big of a deal.
Dad’s voice is sharp. I count on my fingers: Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday. Four days. What about Ana? I want to protest, but when Dad’s cranky it’s best not to say anything.
He starts up the car with a lurch and stabs out his cigarette. His forehead is covered in sweat.
Mont Blanc Tunnel, French-Italian border, arched ceilings in the tunnels, hairpin bends in the Valle d’Aosta, carsick ness. We stop under a sky weighed down by a layer of gray. The landscape is metallic. I throw up by the side of the road and Dad hands me a white cotton handkerchief. Let’s go get a drink, it’ll do you good. A few kilometers farther down the mountainside, in the gas station’s bar, Dad’s face is pale. It must be the neon lights. He pays the woman at the checkout for two slices of Margherita pizza, a whiskey, a coffee, and a lemonade. I hate lemonade but don’t say anything, my mouth is dry.
Do you sell tokens for the phone?
How many?
Maybe twenty.
The checkout assistant carefully counts out the yellowish tokens and hands them to Dad.
The booth is outside, on the left.
Her nails are very long and covered in very red varnish. I follow Dad.
What are those tokens?
I need them to make calls. You can’t put actual money in phone booths in Italy.
Between Geneva and Turin, Dad makes several calls. Five in all. Whenever he sees a gas station he stops. Are you glad you’re spending the weekend with me? Did you lose your tongue? What are you thinking about?
Nothing.
Turin. We drive around for a long time looking for somewhere to park and when Dad nudges open the door to his building with his shoulder, he looks relieved. I launch myself up the stairs. What floor is it? The fourth. Up on his landing, he looks for his keys. You’re going to see your bedroom. Are you happy? I say yes. Yes, I’m happy. Listen, Ila ria, he turns the key in the lock, I need to introduce you to someone I haven’t yet mentioned, her name’s Geneviève. Who is she? The lady of the house. Dad opens up and points at a lifeless dummy in a black dress with a white lace collar and a hat. He roars with laughter. Geneviève’s face is made of white polystyrene, with no eyes. Go on! In you go. Your room’s down at the end, past the bathroom.
Impatient to see it, I glance quickly at the other rooms, then turn on the light in my bedroom. The space is crammed with two beds and two chests of drawers. I go over to a Topolino poster. Mickey Mouse looks at me with his tunnel eyes. Dad is hanging back in the doorway.
I haven’t yet found any pretty bedside lamps. We could buy some together tomorrow, couldn’t we? If you like. I run my hand over the fabric and ask if these are the sheets we had in Florence.
Do you remember it?
I think so, yes. When was Florence?
Two years ago.
The orangey sunflower shapes jump out at me from the sheets. They bring back the hazy images I still have of those days. Two years but it feels like centuries ago that Mom, Ana, and I moved to Switzerland.
We wake early the next day and head out for un giro, a car trip around Turin. Dad tells me all about the FIAT kingdom, the workers’ strikes, the influx of immigrants from the south. He says the locals hate them.
He points things out through the windshield, the palazzi, the River Po, the Basilica of Superga, statues. You see those kids in between the cars over there, they’re posteggiatori. T That’s how they make money, helping people park.
When we walk under the arches along the Corso Vittorio Emanuele II, Dad holds my hand firmly. His is still clammy and I don’t dare pull mine away until we’re outside the Al Sogno toy store, then I let go.
The window display looks like a zoo of harmless animals. Even the snakes look friendly. Dad checks out where I’m looking. Did that teddy bear catch your eye? Come, we’ll buy him. The store is full of wooden toys, mobiles, and dolls in sparkly dresses. I’m dazzled. What about Ana? What should we get for her? Yes, a doll . . . Ana loves them. The one I choose has very long eyelashes and she closes her eyes when she lies down. While we wait for the sales assistant to gift wrap her in fancy paper, Dad hands me the teddy bear. What shall we call him? How about Birillo? Yes. I look at Birillo and instantly adopt his shiny, milk-chocolate-colored eyes, his creamy belly and soft fur. Dad pinches my cheek between his first two fingers with a soppy look in his eyes.
That pinch of my cheek is like his signature. He’ll keep doing it for two whole years and I’ll end up hating it.
Are you happy?
Aged eight, I’m quiet, submissive, kind of skinny. I don’t complain when Dad leaves me on my own in the apartment to go make phone calls at Carmelo’s, the bar downstairs. He doesn’t have his own phone. I’ll be back real soon. He always promises he’ll be “two minutes.” Left alone, lying on my bed, I draw or put Sarah Kay figurine stickers into my new sticker book. Dad bought it for me at the kiosk. And when I’m bored of waiting for him, I know where to find him: at the bar. My landmark is the big coffee machine that gives off this smell of burned caramel.
Workmen from the neighborhood come to Carmelo’s for a sandwich at lunchtime or a drink before heading home. T hey all go by their first names and always order the same thing. Una birra alla spina per Emilio e due tramezzini per Marco. Gianna runs the place. She punches down the big keys on the register so quickly. Sei mila lire. Perched on her little podium, she smiles, hands out packs of cigarettes and the scontrini, the receipts. When the place is empty, she sweeps the floor. Carmelo himself wipes the counter, serves coffees, dries glasses with a cloth, and levels out the sugar in the sugar casters.
When I walk into the café the place is buzzing. The work men are all singing along to a song on the radio. Vorrei essere libero, libero come un uomo. I wend my way through them to reach the bar and haul myself onto a high stool. Listen, listen! It’s a Giorgio Gaber song, “La libertà.” Carmelo laughs and I can see flashes of metal at the back of his mouth. How many fillings? I don’t have time to count them. Are you looking for Fulvio? He points toward the phone booth with a hand covered in soap suds.
Dad appears later. His legs are very stiff. He has a weird look on his face and leans toward my ear. We’re leaving this evening. His breath feels like a draft. Hurry. We need to go pack our bags.
Say goodbye and thank you to Carmelo and Gianna like a good girl.
I’m in the backseat of the car, having trouble breathing.
Where are we going? To the seaside. What about Ana? And Mom? When are we meeting up with them? Stop sniffing. We’re going back to Geneva in a month. A month isn’t long. What about the end-of-year party? You said we were just spending the weekend together . . . You can go next year. Enough already with the questions.
I can picture the pretty dress I chose with Mom for the parade. I think about Sarah, my best friend, about my teacher and the little flag we made in class, and Ana. My head feels heavy. I bend my legs and bring my knees up under my chin, and hug Birillo close. I fall into a cold, restless sleep.
I want to hear your voice STOP The kid is fine STOP She wants to talk to you STOP I’m waiting for you STOP Wait for me STOP
Your husband
Here! Put that in the glove compartment.
Now we don’t pull over just at phone booths but at post offices too. Dad sends a whole bunch of telegrams and keeps copies of them. I don’t dare read them when he passes them to me, but being curious, I handle them slowly so I can catch a few words.
Zzaaack, zzzaaack. A family, a lone man, a woman. Two mops of white hair going along at thirty kilometers an hour in the right-hand lane. Dad’s losing his patience, he lets go of the steering wheel and lights a cigarette. Come on!!! Let me through. He slaloms between the vehicles. Are you scared? A little. He notices my hand clinging tightly to the door handle. The traffic heading into Genoa is heavy, there are lots of tunnels. Shade-light, shade-light. The lanes are clogged with cars and long trucks. I can’t take any more of this road. Get the map, Ilaria.
Genoa, Milan, Brescia, Alessandria. Yes, Brescia, then we’ll go to Alessandria. I follow our route with the tip of my fin ger. But there’s no seaside at Alessandria! That doesn’t matter. I’m showing you around your country. Dad says this playfully. He’s very close to winking at me.
He downshifts and takes the exit lane for the gas station.
I need to make a call, go to the bar.
No, I’m staying here.
While I wait for him, I hop around the phone booth. Dad feeds tokens into the slot on the phone and lights a cigarette. Pronto? The conversation goes on and on.
I sit in the car with the door open, swinging my legs. The sky’s filled with trails of white, the clouds are like balls of wool. It’s muggy, I’m thirsty and hot. Other cars come, then leave, reversing in the parking lot. Kids run around. Watch out, look before you cross! their mothers cry. The families that pass me look perfect, washed, combed, ironed, heading somewhere specific. Where are we going?
Roads, phone booths, post offices, small hotels, bars. The days are racking up. We often stop at Autogrill roadside restaurants to get gas, eat sandwiches, and use the restrooms. I like them. Everything inside is colorful: the piles of candy, the baskets of food wrapped in squeaky paper, the tubs of music cassettes, the games, the plushies. And while I roam around the aisles, Dad chats with customers at the bar.
He loves to talk.
He can’t help himself, he has to talk to someone. Anyone. And he’s very good at striking up a conversation. It always starts with a comment about the traffic or the weather, or with a joke. Dad can make even the shiest people feel comfortable. He looks so at home, it’s the way he leans on the bar, how he speaks to the bartender. When he clowns around he’s soon surrounded by smiling faces. I like it better when he’s like that, happy with a cheerful twinkle in his eye, instead of having to listen to his theories about people.
Yes, yes, we’re leaving. Always one last slurp. He drinks very quickly and when he snatches up his glass, I’m convinced that he’d be just as sure of himself if he were blind. His lips would quiver in exactly the same way. It’s like he’s scared he won’t have time to finish his whiskey.
He once told me it was a medication for him, and he pinched my cheek.
Say thank you. I thank the bartender, say goodbye to the others individually.
On the road again. That’s how we leave these bars, abruptly. The show’s over, thank you and goodbye.
Vroom, vroom.
What do you want to eat?
I don’t know.
You don’t eat anything.
Where are we going next?
Maybe Trieste. I don’t know yet. We’ll find somewhere. Are we staying in a hotel?
I don’t like sleeping in rooms over small-town bars. I don’t know if it’s the cold, impersonal bedrooms that I hate most or the never-ending evenings in the bars themselves. I sit at the bar half listening to what Dad’s describing—his exploits at horse shows, his adventures as a young soldier. And I don’t understand anything he says about politics.
Sitting there with my elbows on the zinc countertop, I pre fer watching the other customers, the ones playing cards or the slightly isolated ones staring sadly into the mirror behind the bottles. What are they thinking about? Are they shy? I make up tons of stories. I think that maybe this guy’s alone because he had a fight with his wife. Or that one’s sad because his dog died. I’m scared of making eye contact with them, but I still want them to know that I see them, that we’re part of the same family, the silent ones. When it does happen, I look away, jump down from the stool, and go slip some coins into the jukebox or play pinball. Dad gives me as many coins as I like, especially so long as I leave him in peace.
Bang, boom, bing. I’ve gotten skilled with these colorful balls shut inside their brightly lit box.
Another game. One last one.
These games delay the moment when he sends me off to bed.
I don’t like the bedrooms. I feel lonely in them. The barmen always say they’re just there to help people out of a tight spot. The beds have saggy mattresses. Before picking a bed, I jump on them and choose the less wrecked one. The floor tiles are cold, the sheets questionable. Once I’m upstairs, I don’t waste any time, I brush my teeth and go to bed, with Birillo tight against my stomach. I wait for sleep, listen for Dad’s footsteps, for when he comes through the door and collapses onto his bed fully clothed. After just a few seconds his breathing gets heavy. He’s fast asleep. The world no longer exists. A smell of tobacco and alcohol in the air. I open the window, untie his shoelaces, take off his shoes, peel off his socks, and put a glass of water on the nightstand. Dad always goes to sleep on his back with his hands crossed over his chest. I get back into my own bed. My body perched on the edge of the mattress. I fall asleep like that, on the brink of a precipice.
We leave these rooms early in the morning. Coffee. Brioche. Spremuta d’arancia for me.
We only skim through, dip briefly into people’s lives.
We leave no trace, maybe a few memories for the customers the night before.
Once we’re settled in the car, Dad turns on the radio.
I’ve stopped asking, Where are we going?
The radio announcer says: The weather for July 19. Unsettled conditions are expected over central Italy in the next twenty four hours. This bad weather has come up from Tunisia and is moving toward Eastern Europe. It will be followed by better conditions.
Passing on your daughter’s disappointment for not talking to you STOP I reject all accusations of abduction STOP Le bugie hanno le gambe corte Lies have short legs STOP Do you think you’ll get far like this STOP
We live in profile, Dad and me. I know the outline of his nose really well, the oval shape of his ears, the hairs that stick out from his eyebrows, just above his glasses frame. I can even identify his mood from the way he sighs and groans and moves. When he gnaws the thick skin around his thumbnail that means he’s thinking and will soon want to make una telefonata. If we’re a long way from a gas station, he’ll smoke to wait it out. He’ll open a soft pack of cigarettes by catching the tab between his lips and pulling it. He’ll use his index finger to force a gap in the silvery paper and then tap-tap the pack against the steering wheel to get a cigarette out.
How many phone calls since we left? Hundreds. How many days has it been?
The next exit is in three kilometers. Dad points to the sign by the side of the road. We’ll fill up with gas too.
Phone booths are cages on the frontier between three worlds. When Dad starts talking, I see all three dancing around inside that little box: Mom’s world, Dad’s world, and the world of the freeway. Even if I can’t hear what he’s saying, I get the feeling he’s playing ping-pong. His words go flying, bouncing off the glass walls. Cigarette, cigarette, cigarette. There’s smoke everywhere. Dad opens the door, wedges it with his right foot, slips tokens into the slot. When he’s in this comical position, his body morphs. His neck gets stiff, red, and swollen, his hands shake. He does this nervous laugh. He gesticulates, points his finger in the air. It’s going to go on for hours still and he’ll come back in a terrible mood.
Before he puts the phone down, I hear Dad cry, Don’t hang up!
I breathe once, twice, then hold my breath.
I make myself as small as possible.
I’ll put you on with Mom next time.
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Excerpted from Ilaria, or the Conquest of Disobedience by Gabriella Zalapì and translated by Adriana Hunter, published by Other Press on November 25, 2025. Copyright © Gabriella Zalapì and translated by Adriana Hunter. Reprinted by permission of Other Press.
