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~December 31st, 1969~
Parties, parties, parties. Marilyn was sick of parties. They were going to a New Year’s Party that she knew she’d hate because it’d be just adults who were getting drunk on adult juice. But for some reason, Papa was more stressed than usual. He probably changed her appearance over twenty times as he tried to find the right outfit to meet “very important people.” But he says that all the time. He told her that if all goes well, then they’d have more connections. I don’t have any idea what that means. As he examined the dress she was wearing, he coached her on how to behave and what to say.
“Only speak in Italian and speak submissively, shyly. The polite society we’ll be with tonight doesn’t like loud little girls. Smile but don’t show your teeth.”
“What’s wrong with my teeth?” she asked nervously, using her tongue to lick over them as if to find a flaw.
“Nothing, but high society doesn’t appreciate toothy smiles. And if they ask about your hobbies, say that you are learning the violin and piano. If they ask you to play something, choose the piano. That’s what you’re best at,” Papa said as he tied the bow behind her back.
“Papa-,” she tried to interject before he cut her off again.
Rude. “If they ask about your mother, do you remember what you say?”
“Mia mamma è morta in un incidente d'auto. Fa male a ricordare. Per favore non farmi parlare di esso,” she replied fluently.
“Right,” he said as he led her into the bathroom to do her hair, “Remember your commandments, Vittoria. Demonstrate that you’re a good Catholic and a good girl. Speak when spoken to.”
He’s giving me too many rules! Vittoria began to pout, “I’m already tired.”
“Vittoria,” Papa’s voice dropped as he turned her to face him, “This is very important to me. Please don’t disappoint me.”
Papa’s different...He wasn’t begging her per se, but his demeanor was stressed and worried, bordering on insecurity. “I promise Papa,” she said with determination, “I won’t let you down.”
***
Even in the car, her Papa didn't stop lecturing her on how to behave. “Our hosts were very generous to allow me to have you attend, Vittoria. Children usually aren’t invited,” he reminded her for the sixtieth time, “Our traditions are different. Any food you don’t like, don’t pull a face. Keep your thoughts to yourself. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Papa,” she said, her voice shaky, “Who-who are the hosts?”
“Conte Casciani. We...were acquaintances a few years ago,” he said slowly.
Marilyn practiced saying the name so she could get it right. If I screw up, I’ll die. The beads of her rosary slipped between her fingers as she said the name like a prayer. And she didn’t stop praying until they arrived.
The estate was grand, guarded, and gated and it was a...a... “Castle! Papa, that’s a castle!”
“The ones up North are grander, but it’s still incredible, no?”
Her eyes were starry as she took in the tall glowing structure, made of white stone with a serrated top. The moat and front gardens were illuminated by tall ancient lampposts and the windows shined with yellow light from the chandeliers inside. Behind the castle were hills so high that they looked like they were touching the moon, which looked so close, it was as if it wanted to see what was happening at the party. I’m a princess going into a castle!
The reflection of flames and the moon cast down into the water, as partygoers walked across the bridge. “Papa...are we royalty?” she gasped, not really looking at him as she still took in her surroundings.
She didn’t notice his pause, but his answer saddened her. “No.”
Disappointing but it didn’t spoil her mood. I’ll find a prince to marry here and then I’ll become royalty! Papa parked and opened the door for her, adjusting her fur coat to warm her from the winter chill. The stars sparkled freely, away from the bright lights of cities and civilizations that would have sapped their glamor. Marilyn smelled a faint trace of honeysuckle, and as she looked back she saw there was nothing but the road they drove here on and trees guarding the lush forests that bordered the castle.
This is a castle. An actual castle! Mama, oh my gosh! I’m at a castle! She wore a periwinkle dress, her very favorite dress because it had pockets sewn in, courtesy of her Papa so she could keep her rosary in there. A sterling silver cross sat lightly on her neck, reflecting the glow of her surroundings. Her eyes drifted to the water as her Papa pulled her across the bridge and into the courtyard of the castle where security stood, checking guests and their invitations. Among the guests were women wearing furs and long gowns with jewels embedded in them. She would have observed the men, but Marilyn couldn’t care less what they were wearing.
Papa spoke in Italian and showed their invitation before he stood with her before the wide-open doors, his hand feeling somewhat clammy in hers. That’s weird. Papa never gets nervous. The anxiousness in his hand didn’t meet his face, however, as it remained the ever so perfect image of sculpted confidence and grace. “Ready, principessa?” He smiled at her.
She squeezed his hand comfortingly, “Always, Papa.”
When they entered, nothing could have prepared her for the interior of the castle. The Mediterranean influence was obvious, the colors vibrant, and the architecture archaic. The melody of a string quartet was mere background noise to the myriad of posh Italian voices filling the space. When Marilyn’s awe finally dissipated, she noticed her father eyeing the room, looking for familiar faces. Thankfully, their host was nearby greeting all of his guests, “Quello è Conte Casciani. È il nostro ospite stasera.”
Conte Casciani. He is our host tonight. By the time she had translated his words, they were in front of the Conte. He was a thin elderly man, grey-haired and grey-eyed. He sported a mustache, trimmed and clean, that moved when he talked. “Signore Borghese,” he said formerly, greeting him in a posh manner.
“Conte Casciani, grazie per l'invito di questa sera,” Papa said in his politician’s voice.
Oftentimes, she noticed he spoke with the charm and charisma of Bobby Kennedy. Mama didn’t like him, but Marilyn was smitten with him, even if he was a boy. She felt an appropriate amount of sadness when he died, but it hurt a little more when she noticed Papa carried himself like the late politician. They spoke briefly before her Papa guided her in front of him to meet the Conte.
Marilyn knew she was adorable, after being told and pinched constantly, it was an undeniable fact. Kisses and hugs were dispensed upon first meetings, but when her Papa introduced her to Conte Casciani, all she received was a “Nice to meet you” in Italian and then promptly ignored. She was unused to the coldness because, from her brief experience in the new country, everyone was warm and welcoming. Did I do something wrong?
She hardly had time to think about it as she and Papa excused themselves so the Conte could greet the rest of his guests. The people they talked to, or rather her father talked to, were unlike the others she met. They were cold and had no jolliness or goodwill to them in the way the Bianchi's had. I liked their party a lot better. At least they talked to me. A part of her was relieved though that they most likely wouldn’t ask her to play an instrument.
Her Papa talked and schmoozed as he always did. Part of her was amazed that he could make friends with anyone he met, a talent that she nor her mother possessed. But tonight was different. Perhaps it was because she couldn’t understand what people were saying so she was more attentive to their body language, but some of the people looked uncomfortable talking with him. Her father was a charmer, especially with women which bothered her because she wanted to be the only girl in her Papa’s life, but the women tonight were especially callous and snooty. Even the married ones, whose husbands wrapped their arms a little tighter around their waist.
Papa’s a good man! He won’t steal anyone’s wife! The warmest looks she received were from some of the women who looked at her in concern to the point where when she excused herself to the bathroom, one red-headed woman came in and asked her if she was alright and needed help. Marilyn smiled and told her that she was a big girl and could use the bathroom and wash her hands by herself before leaving the woman there with a confused look. By the time she had returned, it was time for supper and she was in brighter spirits now that someone had talked to her. Maybe this won’t be so bad.
***
The seats were assigned, not that she knew anyone she wanted to sit by, but apparently, her Papa had made more of an impression than she had thought. There were a few guests who looked over at him while he was distracted with a conversation; their eyes and lips carrying a similar nosiness that the fishwives had. Marilyn grew uncomfortable when the eyes of the woman from earlier remained on her, especially when she whispered to her female friends next to her. That feeling was nothing compared to the brief looks she received from the woman’s husband, whom her Papa must’ve known.
It seemed he was placed far away from the person he wanted to talk to because he kept glancing over at the older gentleman with graying blonde hair that resembled their own. In fact, his eyes that were enlarged by his square wire-framed glasses were the same shade as hers. He could be an older version of Papa! But anytime he caught them looking at him, he looked away towards his wife and took a big sip of his wine.
I don’t care if these people are royal or not! They’re being rude. It was a lonely experience, even for her father, who was always talking and smiling with someone, was mainly left out of the conversation even though he took every chance to contribute.
“Papa,” she whispered, tugging on his sleeve.
He looked at her, his brows furrowed in slight annoyance. “Che cos'è?”
Marilyn gave him a soft smile, “Ti amo.”
The irritation melted away and he smiled, appearing to be grateful that he had someone on his side, “Ti amo anch'io amore mio.”
Whenever she noticed her Papa being ignored, she’d try and grab his attention and talk with him in Italian. It was hard to come up with complex conversations, but she tried her hardest, and really that was what mattered. Marilyn was extremely impressed with herself for carrying on a discussion for the long duration of the dinner, which she felt went on way too long. My hair is probably graying. Like that old guy. When she looked back towards him, she caught the man staring at her analytically again but with a soul that was far away. Why is he being weird? Her eyes shifted back to her dinner, bowing her head submissively in a brief concern that she was acting inappropriately.
If I ruin this for Papa, I’ll never forgive myself. “Papa, sto facendo le cose bene?” she asked in worry.
He frowned at her, “Sì. Perché me lo chiedi?”
Her eyes looked back at the man, “Lui continue a guardarmi.”
His blue eyes followed hers before smiling, “Probabilmente pensa che tu sio davvero carina.”
Probably...pensa means think...you pretty….probably thinks you’re pretty! “Oh,” she said quietly.
His gaze made Marilyn uncomfortable, but for some reason, it pleased Papa. That’s what matters.
***
Marilyn had always wanted to stay up past eight, but she preferred that she did things she thought were interesting rather than attend parties where no one talked to her, not that she could understand them if they did. Her eight-year-old mind refused to admit defeat, but she'd be lying to herself if she said she didn’t feel a little tired at 1 AM. Papa made her stay by his side, not allowing her to sit down and refusing to pick her up! “Papa, can we go now?” she whispered.
“Solo italiano,” he chastised, causing her courage to shrink, “E no. Ho qualcuno che voglio farti conoscere.”
Marilyn understood only part of that. A pout was tugging at her lips as she became more mindful that her little legs were aching and her dress was getting scratchier. I wanna go home. And she wished he had taken her home because it would’ve saved her a whole ordeal of cruelty. “Be good,” he said in a sharp whisper, breaking his Italian-only rule.
He spotted the blond gentleman like a fox, his posture alert and ready to pounce, full of nerves. The man himself looked like a rabbit, realizing its fate and that he had been caught. An unpleasant shade of white spread across his face and his mouth became stiff, especially when her Papa spoke. “Conte Gagliardi,” Papa smiled in the way he did when he greeted important people.
“Signore Borghese,” the man said, stressing the word signore.
Papa led the conversation, and whatever he was saying, Marilyn could tell that the Conte was listening out of mandatory politeness. He barely contributed and looked like he wanted to flee. She would never admit this, but she felt second-hand embarrassment for her Papa. He doesn't want to speak with us. He’s rude. Can’t we forget him? Marilyn kept her mask on, but it was getting increasingly uncomfortable watching the basically one-sided conversation unfold.
Pity and relief washed over, taking the tension out of her shoulders and heat out of her face that she hadn’t even known was there when the man spotted (from what she understood) his wife and began to bid farewell. Before he left, her Papa stalled.
“Prima che tu vada, vorrei presentarvi mia figlia,” Papa smiled at the frowning man, “Vittoria.”
He took her shoulders and pushed her forward, proudly putting her on display. This is it. She smiled softly, her mouth closed. No teethy smiles. “Ciao, signore.”
The color returned to Conte Gagliardi’s face in the shade of scarlet. Anger radiated off of him and his green eyes burned in a way that Marilyn was sure her own never could. He looked positively hateful.
“Vieni qui e hai l'audacia di chiamare quel bastarda come mia sorella?!” the man spat with such disgust in his tone.
Her heart shattered, her esteem fractured in an incomparable way as tears filled her eyes. He...what did I do wrong? Her brain could only process one word, bastarda. He called me a bastard. “Mi dispiace,” she apologized quickly, her voice breaking but she was ignored.
That was even worse to her, that her apology didn’t mean a thing. He decidedly hated her and she had embarrassed her Papa. Marilyn wanted to tuck into herself and die right then and there. And her Papa was no better.
Papa’s face turned several shades whiter, his jaw clenched and his posture bristled. Papa began to speak in her defense but was promptly cut off by the angry man gesturing angrily to him and then to her. “Non sei il benvenuto. Il tuo bastarda non è il benvenuto e non farai mai parte di questa famiglia che hai fratturato dalla tua maledetta nascita,” the man’s tone grew impossibly darker, “Partire. Non sei più il benvenuto qui.”
The conversation around them stilled, judgmental eyes turning their attention towards them and her. Some of them were directed in sympathy that a nobleman made a little girl cry, was so impolite as to disturb the party with his volume and bringing private family matters into a public space. Others were drawn in by the scandal. Bastards from the Gagliardi family? Their eyes were too much for her, but it was even worse when she saw her father.
A flurry of emotions passed her Papa’s face and it broke her heart because he didn’t seem angry. He seemed sad, maybe even embarrassed. So she forgave him for not saying a word in her defense, not that she was able to understand the situation. The man’s wife, hazel-eyed and red-haired that held as much grey as her husband’s, stormed up in a way Ms. Sagesse would disapprove. “Cos'hai che non va ?! Come osi fare una scenata e umiliare quella bambina!” she hissed, pointing to Marilyn.
“La chiamò Vittoria,” he hissed back.
Marilyn’s cries were full-on sobs now. She didn't understand the language enough to know that the woman was trying to defend her, and believing that the one person who had shown her kindness that evening hated her, broke her to pieces. There was so much her father wanted to say, but he said none of it, too shocked by the outcome of the meeting. Looking at her miserable state, her Papa gripped her hand tighter, painfully hard and after a moment of deep breathing, wordlessly turned on his heel and led her out of the castle as the couple fought and she cried. What did I do? What did I do?
The music and lights blurred and her line of sight dimmed as they left. Papa was silent as he strapped her into the car and didn't say a single comforting word as they drove, as he himself was trying to process the venomous words that cruel man had spat their way. She hadn’t known how much it had affected him, so she took his silence as his displeasure and resentment with her behavior. I thought I was being good! She apologized profusely, but he maintained an air of quietness. He hates me! “Please don’t hate me!” she begged.
When they finally parked in their driveway and turned the ignition off, he broke the silence with a sigh. “Vittoria…” he began, “I’m so sorry.”
“What did I do wrong?” she wept.
He began yelling when he saw me. I’m the problem. What’s wrong with me?
Papa grimaced, his eyes showing something resembling pain. “Nothing. You did nothing wrong,” he said softly, apologetically.
“I know...I know they called me a bastarda…a bastard,” she sobbed.
“You’re not. That was an awful thing for them to say,” he said angrily, “I never should’ve introduced you to them. They’re terrible people for making you cry.”
“Am...am I a bastard?” she asked.
She had always assumed and hoped that her parents had married. Being a bastard was something she never wanted to consider. “No,” he said firmly, “And I never want you to refer to yourself as such again.”
She sniffled but agreed. Marilyn wasn’t sure if she wholeheartedly believed him, but she needed to and decided she would. “Who were they?”
Her eyes were wide and owlish, and for a moment her Papa’s blue ones looked delicate and fragile after having been ripped apart by his last remaining family outside of his daughter. But no, they weren’t family to him anymore. They never were and they never would be. Marilyn wouldn’t know it, but at that moment he admitted defeat. The rejection was painful and humiliating, the anger welled in him at their audacity to embarrass him and his daughter by calling them bastards in public, threatening their image and esteem.
The utter despair on his daughter’s face after being yelled at took him back to the day he met his mother, a day he never wanted to relive. It wasn’t worth even trying to make amends, not that it would do any good.
His eyes lost their vulnerability and hardened like steel. “No one worth wasting our time and tears over,” he said darkly, “We’ll never see them again.”
Marilyn nodded sadly, still reeling from the hurt they caused her. “Why don’t we go and draw together, hm? I can make you hot chocolate. Does that sound nice?” he offered.
His voice was raw and his smile weak but genuine. He’s trying to make me feel better, or maybe for him. Marilyn was sure nothing could soothe her from the trauma but if it did so for her father, she’d agree to it. She returned a smile and nodded, “Okay,” she whispered.
Her Papa picked her up and settled her on his hip, giving her a kiss on her cheek. She snuggled into his neck and gave him a kiss back. “I’m very happy that you’re my family,” he said softly as he carried her to the beacon of light coming from their home.
“I’m happy you’re my family too,” she whispered.
***
Leonardo sat there watching her eyelashes flutter as her breaths grew soft and even. He supposed he should be concerned that she had regressed to sucking her thumb, but he learned that some problems could be tabled until the morning. He couldn't understand how anyone could be cruel to her or treat her so poorly. She’s so beautiful and sweet. Leonardo spent his life convincing people to love him with his charm and he wanted that for Vittoria as well.
He wanted to provide her with everything and he very well could. The nature of his work made him worried that she’d be left alone if something happened, so it was more important than ever to reach out. I’m not a money seeker. I’m wealthy myself. He grew bitter inside. I’m not slow, crippled, or deformed. He racked his brain searching for a reason why his family hated him, but he couldn't come up with a good one. All he wanted was a connection for him and his daughter, but life liked to deny them family apparently.
The raw anger from his uncle, the look of absolute hatred took him back to that day with his mother. He had been broken, angry that she denied him. That the one person who was supposed to love and save him wanted him gone. Later, he tried to bargain with himself that it was her family’s doing. If they hadn’t locked her away, she’d still love him. There were times he could almost convince himself of it.
His blonde and green-eyed family hated him. All except for the small sleeping child in his arms. He could never stomach it if she looked at him the way his maternal family had, but no. She doesn’t have a hateful bone in her body. He looked down at his peaceful child. You’re worthy of her name. How dare they say she’s not? When they cast their own daughter and sister out! His daughter could be insane but he never would do what his grandfather did to his mother. It ruined her love for me.
Leonardo had one person in the world who loved him, who saw him as her world, and he’d never let her go.