My old house lies on the southwest corner of Ascot and Nairn Avenues. It is two stories tall, with red brick on the lower and white paneling on the upper. A neatly manicured hedge surrounds the property, and at the front is a covered porch with windows and a screen door. To most people, this would be a perfectly normal home in Corso Italia. To me, this house is a nightmare.
I shiver whenever I think of that house. I have been known to become physically ill at the sheer mention of the words “Ascot” and “Nairn”. Whenever I am in Corso Italia, I have to steel myself whenever I am within 100 feet of that intersection. Even though the intersection lies in the western end of Corso Italia, and just a stone’s throw from Prospect Cemetery, I still am creeped out.
Sure enough, I found myself in the neighbourhood Wednesday morning. It had snowed overnight, and everything had a thick cover of the stuff on it. What was I doing here in the first place? I could have been at home, playing with Britney or working on a few other things. But I had woken up with this strange urge to head back. It was as if something from my old stomping grounds was saying to me, “Come back, even for a while.”
I took the subway and got off at St. Clair West Station. The streetcar was out of commission, as the tracks were being repaired. I hopped on the bus and rode along St. Clair Avenue West. I hadn’t been in the neighbourhood proper for some time, but it still looked familiar. Even in the snow, life was happening. A few kids, off on a snow-day, were building a snowman in front of the Oakwood Collegiate Institute. Further on, at the intersection with Dufferin, I saw two old men have a lively conversation in Portuguese, and a few feet away, two old women were having a similar conversation in Italian. I think a few swear words were on the menu.
I got off at Earlscourt Avenue, and immediately, I began to tense up. I’m used to the cold weather in Canada. I’m an all-weather person, with a special reverence for snow and ice. However, that wasn’t what tensed me up. Nairn Avenue was around the corner. I sucked it up and slowly walked up the street.
I was going at a slow pace, but it felt like a glacial one. I passed by children who were playing in the street, parents who were keeping an eye on children playing in the street, and others who were shoveling their driveways and sidewalks. Five minutes later, I stood face to face with the house at Ascot and Nairn.
I just stood there. Outside, I was stoic, but inside, my body was shaking like a vibrator. I could feel my heart beat rapidly, my pulse beat rapidly… everything was beating rapidly. This was the house that I had grown up in, and also the house that played host to a cavalcade of horrors. I could still hear myself screaming to get away from Joseph, Nadine, or Charlotte. I could still hear my cries as I hid in the closet. And then…
“Scusi?”
An old man came out of the house. “Scusi? Cosa fa?”
I shook myself out of it. The old man looked like Giorgio Armani on crack, with an extremely weather-beaten tan. His hair was whiter than the snow. A relatively younger woman with black hair rushed out and grabbed him. “Papa!” she exclaimed, dragging him towards the house. She looked at me and asked, “Can I help you?”
“I used to live here,” I said.
“How long ago?”
“Until 2000.”
“Is your last name Buonfiglio?”
I nodded. “I’m Nadine and Joseph’s son.”
“Ryan?”
Shit. They didn’t know about me. “No. I’m Graziano.”
“They didn’t tell me about you,” she said. She managed to bring her father back indoors. “Ti prendo del tè!” she exclaimed. Turning back to me, she said, “They didn’t tell me anything about another child. They told me about Ryan and Charlotte though. Are you really their son?”
“Yeah. They don’t want to admit it, though. We’re estranged.”
“I’m Carolina,” she said, extending her hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
I shook her hand back.
“I’d invite you in to look around, but my father doesn’t like people he doesn’t know. It’s the Alzheimer’s.”
I nodded. “I should be going.”
Carolina nodded back and said, “Can I have your contact information?”
I took out a card from my wallet. It had my e-mail, home address, and phone numbers on them. Handing it to Carolina, I said, “If Nadine and Joseph come by, don’t say that you have this.”
She nodded. “I should get inside. Have a nice day.”
“Have a nice day.” I waved back as she headed inside the house. Carolina seemed like a nice woman.
I turned around and walked down Nairn Avenue for the last time. I had no intention of being in the neighbourhood again. Once again, I passed by kids playing in the snow and parents watching over them. I played in the snow lots of times as a kid, but usually alone.
I walked along St. Clair Avenue West for ten minutes, and then I happened upon my paternal grandparents’ old deli. Back in the day, it used to be known as Buonfiglio’s Delicatessen. Now, it was Scavotto’s Fine Italian Meats and Cheeses. Even in the frigid weather, I could still smell the delicate flavour of prosciutto as it was being sliced. It warmed my heart.
I dropped by the deli at least once a week as a kid. Nonno Pietro would be the first to greet me, even as he sliced a ham. He always worked hard, but was never too busy to extend a warm welcome to anyone who came in, family or not. I never did learn how to process meats. I was always scared of blood. But I did develop an appreciation for the process, even though as I grew older, I preferred organically and ethically grown and processed foods. Nonna Annunziata was the cashier and an expert on cheeses. She too welcomed me whenever I stopped by, and I was usually the first person she enlisted to taste-test a new acquisition or recipe. German potato salad, Jarlsberg cheese, tripe… I hated and still hate tripe, but I enjoyed the bulk of the foods there.
This time, however, I couldn’t bear to walk in. Too many memories. But that was nothing compared to what happened a few minutes later, when I found myself at the foot of A Confeitaria Betancourt (The Betancourt Pastry Shop). Why was this important? Because the confeitaria used to be La Libreria Italiana Alighieri (The Alighieri Italian Bookstore), which my maternal grandparents ran. It was also the place where they were murdered. This was the first time in nine years that I had set foot even near the place.
I learned to read in this place. While Italian children’s books were relatively scarce at the bookstore (my grandparents dealt mostly with contemporary and classical literature), I was never bored here. As Nonna Maria Grazia attended to customers, Nonno Pietro would sit me on his lap and read me a variety of books, from the works of the bookstore’s namesake Dante Alighieri, to Italo Calvino, one of the most prolific Italian authors of recent times. Admittedly, a lot of the material went over my head, and it wasn’t until I majored in Italian Studies that I began to grasp it. But at that point, I simply enjoyed being in the bookstore.
After Nonno Pietro and Nonna Maria Grazia were murdered, it took me a while for me to even step foot in a bookstore, or even a library. I almost didn’t get my textbooks because of this.
What was once filled with books and bookcases was now a showroom for Portuguese delicacies. The walls from which posters of great Italian luminaries hung, were now dotted with pictures of Fatima and blown-up shots of cakes and cookies. The very spot where my maternal grandparents were found dead, was now the cashier’s spot.
It was too much for me to bear. I turned in the opposite direction and ran, the tears pouring down my face and freezing as they came in contact with the bitter cold. I bawled as I ran westward on St. Clair Avenue West, only to stop at the foot of Centro Trattoria & Formaggi. I let out a few deep breaths and wiped my face with a towel. I let out a sigh and entered the trattoria. It was 11:30am. I was sad and depressed, and only some pasta al forno would even temporarily calm my nerves.
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