Chapter 53

The old man

One morning in June I entered the Basilica of San Marco and stopped in front of the altar of the Nicopeia where in the half-light shone the gold and the gems of the dark Virgin, patron saint of Venice.

Next to me, on the lips of an old woman, the rhythmic repetition of Ave Marie. A group of tourists passed by, noses in the air to admire the mosaics of the domes.

"I'm sorry I didn't know before the date of your father's death to be able to honor him with prayer." Papa had written to me once. Since he was buried under a marble slab engraved with "Lord forgive them because they do not know what they do" I hardly ever spoke of my father. Yet, after eight years, I still dreamed of him every night. But the great light from which he came out to come towards me was getting further and further away and sometimes he did not come towards me but looked at me smiling, without moving, and I understood that he was about to leave me because I was grown up and had to go into life alone.

"I joke too much about religion. But May 30 is the day we honor our dead and I prayed in this room, the door closed, for the dead of the VIII Infantry Regiment, XII Infantry Regiment, XXII Infantry Regiment , of the LXX Corzzato Battalion, of the spare parts and artillery of the IV Infantry Division,...