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Being born is the first and foremost accomplishment in a person's life. One is conceived without knowing it , sometimes in an anxious expectation of the advent of a desired life, other times in a twisted accident, to be interpreted from the virtue of the one who, unintentionally, engenders life. One is born without knowing how or why, floating inert in the limbo of an existence impossible for human beings to explain. The pot of creation harbors a blurred power of something that will be without knowing what it is.
From this first diffuse fact the virtues of the child begin to emerge, because every action is a sign of virtue in the merciful eye of the creator, who seeks nothing more than a kind reflection. As porridge overflows Leopold's mouth, his eyes and consciousness lost, his father, grasping the spoon with a half-smile, affirms that the boy will be a master of abstractions, perhaps a physicist. Great minds deal with that which far transcends a triviality such as basic needs. It was still more than thirty years before Maslow published his Theory of Human Motivation, which could have been the product of any optimistic parent's thinking looking at their child.
However, the delicious primal soup seems to give some more letters than others, who knows why it is. Vincent was, of all his siblings, the one who spoke at a younger age. It was very lat at night, his mother cradling him in her arms in the hope that he would shut up. At that time Amanda, Leslie and Thomas were not yet born and Arthur, as usual, was lost in some alley in Providence. Illuminating the child a thin line of moon, he stopped screaming and blurted out an 'Me', with his eyes wide open. Grace did not understand the significance of this fact, too distracted by the astonished occurrence that the child had said his first word before he was even twelve months old.
What she didn't know was that, from that moment on, an unconscious glow had awakened in Vincent; The gift of referentialism. Can a perfect polymorph, part of the metaphysical realm of tubes, comprehend centuries of philosophical discussions about theory of knowledge? Perhaps for some the answers come naturally. Neither Platonic concealment nor the crowing of the rooster of logical positivism, jumping directly to the culminating moment of humanity, adorned with a certain narcissistic eccentricity, but who are we to judge it? God does not exist, nothing mediates between Me and the World in a certain way, everything I know is inevitably contained in the Self, so what is wrong with thinking a little about oneself? The beginning and the end of everything is the Self; the beginning and the end of all is the Self.
The keen talent of such a potential prodigy was not lost on his mother, who kindly invited her son, Vinny, to explore his full potential from an early age. Playing chess, reading, music, art. That last one…couldn’t say he was a protent in that real. All this subject, of course, to the Fashion Boutique, the pride and main sustenance of the family. Vincent went to school in a little suit of envy, which could have cost the family almost a whole month's wage; white bermuda shorts with blue stripes, sailor jacket, scarf, long translucent socks and loafers. Sometimes he would bring a hat, for sunny or rainy days, made of the same fabric as his trousers. The virtue of taking advantage of scraps in the most exquisite way possible.
His appearance was adorable, like a stamp of baby Jesus or a clipping from a magazine that you keep as inspiration, hoping to copy the accessories cheaply with materials from around the house. Grace picked him and his siblings up from school every day. The little ones, Amanda, Leslie and Thomas were sent to spend the afternoon with their grandparents, the youngest of the three still in a stroller. Leopold and Vincent accompanied her to the boutique. Without a doubt, Vinny had a creative vision that far transcended the tasks entrusted to him, which were to help with the loom and bless his mother with those little hands, which fit without problem where Grace's did not reach.
They saw their father much less, but there was a good reason, it is that he was a very important guy. He worked in the cinema and couldn't spend much time at home, but when he did, he was the most fascinating creature in the eyes of his children, who swarmed the door when he arrived. Of course, his kindness, humble and carefree character, contrasted greatly with Grace's bad temper, which brought the children in a row. Probably, if either of them had to decide whether to stay with their mother or father, they would have taken the second option. Ah, but justified absence decides the opposite path to desire.
Vincent was, he was sure of it and found no reason to believe otherwise, the favorite of both. Grace embalmed him with layers of fabric, meringue hat, piping sleeves with buttons and cufflinks and little ties. She always told him that he was destined to be something big, like her, who owned a major boutique. That's why he had to work hard. Natural talent is nothing without a good dose of militaristic repetition.
But Vincent's heart was with his father. Cinema was the avant-garde, a brief experiment full of potential. One afternoon in June, Arthur took his son to the studio to see all those amazing knick-knacks, the lights, the glasses that rose like bubbles. Those people, smiling in front of the camera, illuminated, unreal, perfect. A prolonged sleep from which he never wanted to wake up and of which his father, moreover, was the center and consciousness. I want to be a movie star, any egomaniac would think, for the art of the Self, would second the motion.
Arthur brought the children posters with stars, aptly named, from the movies. From time to time. Sometimes they smelled of carpet and disinfectant. Everyone thanked him with emotion, except Grace, who would probably be envious that her husband was everyone's favorite.
Several Junes later, when Vincent was already seven, he saw his father come home late. His mother walked around the kitchen in a satin camisole, a gnawed pink, curls planted in the dark soil of her hair. She was extinguishing a cigarette inside the wine butt of a scarlet glass. Arthur had a new poster, but Vincent didn't have time to jump and greet his father. He listened behind the door, looking at the reflections in the elongated glass. He managed to see the image of the poster, an unpleasant looking guy, an attempt at exacerbated patriotism. "Leopold is very ill, Arthur." "It's stupid, Arthur." "Are you really planning to enlist and leave your wife and five children here, Arthur?" "I must serve the country, Grace." "Don't you consider yourself a patriot, Grace?" "My life is ruined, Grace." "I have nothing left, Grace." "You're a real failure, Arthur." "Get out of my sight, Arthur." "I'll come and say goodbye to the kids, I love them, Grace." "You never did, Arthur."
Vincent remained in his hiding place, stunned. He ran to watch Leopolod, to check how sick he was, "Is he going to die, mom?" The poster ended up in the trash, where he found it the next morning, with cigarette butt burns. Vincent rescued it and made an effort to read what it said. In wars people die. Although outside of them too, look at Leopold. That day he realized that he had vision problems and after a visit to the eye doctor, he ended up with somewhat grotesque glasses and a circumstantial tape over his left eye. Looking in the mirror, he didn't like what he saw at all. Perhaps it was a first symptom that would lead him to war or to bed.
On the day Arthur left for Europe, Amanda, Leslie, Thomas, and Vinny said goodbye to him in Newport. He rode on a very large boat, with American flags. On the ground women and children said goodbye, waving handkerchiefs in the air, with letters and roses swaying in the early morning wind. The sky was a cold blue, almost white. He felt a certain envy and sadness. The image of a brilliant, acclaimed hero, sent to die in a distant land. His sister Leslie asked him if Arthur was going to die, just as he had asked his mother about Leopolod. "Don't be silly, Americans are winners by nature. Now let's go home," he replied.
Leopold was bedridden, with Grace supervising him. It took them all day to get back to Providence; the train ride was long. When they entered the house it was night and the doctor had already left. In the little room the light was off, and the ashtray was filled again, overflowing on the threadbare tiles. There was a jar with two or three leeches inside. Vincent came back from the kitchen with a fork and stuck it in one of them. He put it in his mouth and chewed, feeling a gag. A law of nature, he did not intend to die.
Ever since Arthur left for the war, things began to get especially weird. His absence was not as noticeable as Grace's decline, which left a more prominent trail in her wake every day. The corridors looked like esoteric canals, of spills and cigarette butts. In October, tuberculosis killed Leopold, he would never be physicist. He was buried in North Burial Ground, near the mausoleum. It was early, it had barely dawned, and the orange and red leaves had a thin layer of frost, piling up on the damp earth that would bury the child.
Grace grabbed Amanda and Thomas' little hands while Vincent held Leslie's shoulders. They were all dressed in exquisite black, like a crow's nest. "Are we going to bury Dad here too?" Leslie asked her brother, now the oldest. "Dad isn't going to die, don't think about it now." He pulled out of his pocket a newspaper clipping, "America Enters the Great War," and showed it to the girl. A giant, similar to Goliath, in American clothes, crushed a frightened little soldier without any effort.
By Vincent's birthday, on a particularly cold November, the children were already spending more time with their grandparents than with their mother. Grace had been especially busy since the war had begun. She made high-quality uniforms for the army. She once told Vincent that this stupid conflict in such distant lands was irrelevant, and that it was taking away everything that was valuable to her. Replicating the same suit over and over again had nothing to do with the creative process of haute couture.
However, one winter morning, while doing the week's shopping, they met their neighbor, Mrs. Florence, who asked her how the business was going, after extolling the child in virtues. "How big Vincent is, how handsome, how healthy, how intelligent. He'll be a great man." Grace, with her best smile, replied that the Boutique had never been so profitable. In addition, she added, “it is a pleasure for me to be able to contribute to my homeland, the United States of America”.
Vincent's grandfather was a fisherman. He fished daily in Providence River. On weekends, he would sometimes travel to Newport and go out to sea with his companions. Vincent always liked water and fish, sand, sea, river, marshes. He grew up surrounded by that crack of primitive alphabet soup.
On weekends Grace took care of the children without fail. If necessary, she took them to the Boutique, and they used to lend her a hand with whatever they could. The little ones whimpered or were distracted by playing with balls of yarn and skirt hems of sober colors. Vincent asked his mother, however, to please let him go fishing with his grandfather to Newport sometime. The atmosphere of that place was suffocating and his grandfather let him read the newspaper, not like his mother. They had not received a single letter from Arthur in those months, and the press had said that the Americans had landed in European land in June of the previous year.
The aridity of the cliffs and the winter sea colliding with the rocks, the leafless trees and green grass. The boat outlined the coast from the water and drew a white trail as a reminder of its passage. Nets stretched out like oil blankets, saying goodnight to striped bass, black fish, flounder, and trout. Months passed and the coast drew slightly different shapes, raised in trees, stretched in clouds and in sea vapors.
That early morning in May was especially humid. The bottom of the sea, undaunted, hailed to the sky a discharge, which was sustained in time in the form of suspended and wide gray. Vincent covered himself in a dark raincoat and got on the boat with his grandfather. They were in Newport and accompanied by two fellow fishermen, seasoned in saltpeter and years. The boat launched itself into the middle of the waters, splitting them with the care of a caress, the waves practically non-existent. "Scrub the deck, Vincent," his grandfather told him, “There was a big storm last night, it's all soaked."
Routinary tasks were not of interest to him, at all. What is the point of removing water from a place that is surrounded by it? It's going to get wet again. That feeling of uselessness often invaded him, of being nothing more than a permanently wet cover, an unexplorable bottom, because there is no more than what is seen with the naked eye. A fleeting compliment from his grandfather and necessary distance from his mother back in Providence would compensate for the existential martyrdom. He brushed the mop reluctantly, for just a few minutes. When his grandfather looked, he smiled and grabbed the stick tightly and then desisted and looked at the sea again.
"Are you done, Vincent?" He asked. "Of course, Grandpa." Impeccable.
His companions were busy checking the engine, and the task of extending the net was left in the hands of the child and the premature old man. An unsuspecting stumble, on wet ground, precipitated the major into the water, but not before hitting his head against a railing, which could not stop his fall. Vincent stretched out his arms with success that he suspected would be null, screaming.
The man fell. He could only look, inert, empty. His grandfather drowned and the fish did not take long to arrive. A hundred tautogs swarmed over him and began to devour the body. Their grayish and blackish bodies, like leeches in the kitchen, straightened damp over the now corpse, determined to leave no trace. Vincent couldn't stop looking at them.
Their silhouettes continued swimming in his memory when his grandfather's friends took him out of that boat. They also did so at the funeral, when the remains of that man became part of the land that had sheltered Leopold only a few months earlier. All his life fishing to die devoured by a flood of miserable fish. That night they dined on turbot.