Of course. Here is the professional translation of the text, maintaining its original tone and content.
Well, more stairs. Who knows what will be on the next floor. At least I know there aren't a thousand to go, and I haven't hurt myself on the last ones. I wonder what the person who designed this palace had in mind. Sure, the rooms are beautiful, but there's a strange mix, as if each floor was conceived on its own.
I'm about to enter the door with the number 5, but the memories of my mother and of what happened have brought to mind something even more remote, something that happened before I woke up here.
As I was saying, in a desperate attempt to get the money back and appease Tito's possible anger, I had gone to visit my parents after fourteen years of absence. Upon my arrival, I was surprised to find a very dirty home, an unkempt garden, and a living room, once used for trophies, completely empty except for some IKEA furniture. My mother was clearly at home—I knew because she had answered the intercom—but she was taking her time coming down. Maybe she was with my grandfather, or maybe Dad was still having breakfast and she was waiting for him to finish.
When I finally saw her come down, I was struck: she was still beautiful, a splendid woman. The fact that my father cheated on her seemed absurd to me, especially now that I was no longer 16 and could judge with greater clarity. Objectively, he was missing out on an extraordinary woman: cultured, of noble origins, and always careful to take care of us. A fool, my father.
I found her fascinating, but very thin. She wore glasses she didn't have before. She looked a bit worn… of course, fourteen years had passed, old age comes for everyone, but hers seemed more like a sign of stress or discomfort.
She looked at me with a stern gaze. The smile from that time she came to pick me up at the supermarket was gone. By now, I had disappointed her too much. In a dry tone, she said: "What do you want?"
The truth? I should have said "money," but she's my mother, and I haven't seen her in so many years. So I tried to soften the moment—maybe also to cover my ass a bit: "Mom, I wanted to see you. It's been many years, and I've realized I was wrong. I wanted to see you… but also Grandpa and Dad, even if my feelings toward them are very different."
She made a grimace that was almost a smile, but she was stiff. And rightfully angry. Besides, something must have happened, because the house has changed. She has changed.
She didn't run to hug me, although I had hoped that would be her reaction, but I could understand it. Stiffening, she said: "You're a little late to say hello to Grandpa and Dad, you know?"
"What do you mean?" I replied, confused.
"Grandpa died a year after you left. It seemed like he didn't care about Grandma, but when she was gone, he lost all his support. Being a marquis doesn't give you any stability, but the presence of a woman by your side does. He lasted a year, then he collapsed. Not just physically, but especially mentally. He would shout ideas of omnipotence, saying that he, the Great Marquis, would bring his wife back to earth, that not even God could stop him."
"Let's just say we found ourselves in a situation of madness. Then, over time, the madness was followed by physical weakening: he stopped eating and, when his liver problems worsened, he was gone in a short time."
Damn, if I had known, maybe I would have come to visit him, I would have come to talk to him, and maybe I would have at least attended the funeral.
I feel guilty, but I don't dwell on it much, because the other part of the sentence alarmed me: I'm late for my father. You want to bet that bastard left home with the other woman and never came back? Maybe he was only coming back to keep up appearances for my sake, and as soon as I left, he had a clear path?
So I asked my mother: "And what happened to Dad?"
She remained rigid.
"Tell me what you want instead."
I looked at her, sincere this time, my eyes welling up a bit.
"Please, tell me what happened to Dad."
She agreed to tell me the truth. It didn't seem like she was opening up completely, but maybe she had been thinking for a long time about how to tell me. She explained that after I ran away from home, my father had indeed disappeared. Disappeared in "quotation marks," because I knew exactly where he would have gone. Apparently, however, she knew too. They kept it a secret because my mother had received some form of help from him and, in return, had promised eternal love. In eternal love, there's also a bit of submission. There shouldn't be, but it can happen. I don't know what my mom had done to deserve this punishment, but the fact is that she knew about that affair, that house, and the alternative life. She simply avoided thinking about it.
She told me about how he had left, about the trips to get his clothes, about the complete freedom she gave him to leave. This happened more or less when I was 17, shortly after I ran away and Grandpa passed away. Maybe we had taken away his only two ties to that house. My mother, evidently, was not one of them.
The fact is that she was there alone for years. She didn't look for a new partner. And, despite being a beautiful woman, she remained there, maintaining that house on her own. With the marquis's money, of course. But then, about four years ago, the unpredictable happened: Dad showed up at the door. With a face full of regret, he told her: "I'd like to come home."
She initially refused, but he, with a broken voice, confessed that he was terminally ill. A tumor with metastases. In the space between fun and lightheartedness, he had never found the time for a check-up. So he had, perhaps, a year to live.
My mother, with a shred of pride, replied: "And why do you want to come back now that you're terminally ill?"
And my father, very bluntly, told her: "Because my partner left me. I'm alone, and I can't make it on my own. Please, help me."
She had made a promise. A wedding vow, sure, but I think also something deeper. Now I would understand why.
The fact is, she explained that she had taken him back in, caring for him day after day. The young woman with whom he had lived for lavish years had abandoned him at the first sign of trouble. So, from then on, she was the one who took care of him. Every day, however, he got worse and worse: she had to change him, feed him, assist him as one would a child, but she never backed down, because she had promised.
What a woman.
But then, a year ago, my father passed away. He was terminally ill, as I said, so you couldn't expect much time.
She had no way of contacting me, and I had no way of knowing, so I left her alone, in her hardship and also in her sadness.
After his death, she finally gained access to the accounts and properties, and from there came the ugly discovery: he had spent everything in the years he was away from home. He had sold properties and squandered every penny on a life of luxury and holidays in Cortina and Sardinia, without restraint, amidst oysters and champagne. He had lived the life of a marquis, but left only disaster behind him.
Now I understand the IKEA furniture in the trophy room. Now I understand why the trophies are gone, why the garden isn't tended to, and why the walls seem older and older. My mother has no money. She's getting by selling things; she probably does some odd jobs too.
I guess I can just avoid the main topic of my visit.
I hug her. She is stiff, and you can see that she wants to, but can't. Then, after a few seconds, her arms tighten around me too.
She's still my mother, and I'm still her son. She can't help it.
I tell her I'm so sorry, that I shouldn't have left her alone, that I was a fool.
At this point, however, to avoid the risk of her having another funeral today, I'd better get a move on and try to solve the 100,000-euro situation.
I promise her I'll be back, that I won't disappear again.
I'm at the gate and about to close it when she pokes her head out: "There's one thing your father left you."
I listen with disinterest. I'm honestly not looking for money.
She explains that the apartment where he lived with the woman had belonged to the marquis's family for generations and that, before he died, he had already signed it over to me. There was nothing she could do about it, but if I needed it—as much as that place is full of bad memories—it's mine. She, on the other hand, doesn't want to set foot in it.
I thank her for the information and leave, not immediately grasping the importance that news could have. Only as I'm walking do I realize that, objectively, I now own an apartment downtown, with multiple floors and a garden. A luxury property, which could be worth at least 300,000 euros.
Well, not bad for solving my situation.
I run back inside and ask Mom for the documents. Honestly, I've lost interest in everything she told me. Now I see a solution to my problems, and it's the only thing I can think about.
Selfish.
I take the documents and go. I barely say goodbye to my mom.
Thinking about it now, I was a real asshole.
But now, what do I do with these documents? I have to solve the situation by the end of the day.
I remember running to the bank. My trusted bank. Or at least, the one I trust, even if they probably have very little trust in me.
I show the documents, convinced I can withdraw practically the whole amount right away. The clerk, rightly so, tells me there's paperwork to be done. It will take time.
For me, time is 24 hours. Even less.
I explain that it's urgent, but he shakes his head: no matter how urgent it is, bureaucracy has its rules. There's nothing to be done; it will take a month or two to take possession of the inheritance.
My world came crashing down.
Stupidly, I thought I had found a solution to my problems, but maybe it wasn't that simple.
Agitation rises in me and, not knowing who to vent on, I take it out on that poor clerk, unleashing all the anger I have inside me. I insult him, tell him he doesn't realize what he's doing, that he's insensitive, that he'll have me on his conscience. But I don't stop there. I vent everything that I probably haven't processed yet.
My grandfather's death. My father's death. The never-revealed betrayals. The fact that I got scammed out of a lot of money. My frustration, my pain, my failure.
All my anger explodes in a river of words, but I solve nothing.
Except for the fact that, in the end, the bank's security escorts me out.
All I have are some nice documents that, in a few months, might save my life...