I Miei Segreti Nascosti: The Underworld

Illustrated by Mara Wiedner

My eyes closed, sinking like sand into another place of serenity, where memories lay—the Italian air. I remember walking on the beach under the sun, which opened its yellow arms and embraced the earth with light. The beach itself was a burst of parasols, vibrant colours to match the burning sand beneath my feet. Against the percussion of the waves was the laughter, coming in bursts, and flowing like a gentle tide along the horizon. The water sparkled like blue diamonds, glittering in the sunlight, sending arrays of bright speckles into my eyes. I felt the warm breeze gently caressing my skin like a woollen blanket on a winter’s night. The smell of freshly baked focaccia and rosemary drifted through the air, tingling my senses,bringing back memories of family dining and occasions where unity was accompanied by mouth-watering food.

But those days are gone.

Distant memories, nostalgic clouds that float in the shadows of my being. The once sunlit paradise has turned into a realm of dark shadows and ill deeds. The tide of time brought harsh realities, transforming Ostia into a place of hidden dangers and lost innocence. O poor Ostia. The shadowed beach, now an embodiment of covert exchanges and silent movements in the sand.

The bustling cobbled streets are hushed. The sounds of children laughing as they played Nascondino and Mosca Cieca, with parents bellowing about the noise, already feel so distant. By nine o’clock, the streets fall silent. The scant movement of cars, with occupants eager to reach their homes, heightens the eerie atmosphere. See no one, hear no one. The Eurasian scops owls’ desperate hawking, almost as if in fear, echoes through the night. All because of the presence of something greater, which I knew all too well.  It had affected my personal connections, the embodiment of my identity and sole being. I lost friends and, in return, gained tainted hands. No more late nights at Cousin Marco’s brash birthday parties that drunkenly lasted until dawn. Sunday dinners became a rare occasion. The internal conflict was evident in my mother’s anger and disappointment, missing family engagements, and failing to take over “Daddy’s vineyard” as he approached retirement. All because of my preoccupation with my new “office job.”

It’s not that I was lying. I was simply overseeing—sovrintendere—calculating and monitoring expenses over the goods handled across the border, ensuring everything aligned and no larceny occurred. My austere cover in front of loved ones masked a much darker reality. I was not overseeing the accounting records of hopeful young workers in the former city of hope, but the lives of forlorn addicts in the jaws of depravity and addiction. In this underworld, trust was currency, and betrayal was the price of those “family occasions.”

My hidden secret.