Amapola Beviláqua

I haven’t seen my papà for three days. I’ve looked for him everywhere—he left on Monday, saying he was going to solve our problems, and he never came back. I fear he’s gotten us into even more trouble.

I’ve searched for him in police stations, hospitals, and even morgues, but I haven’t found him anywhere.

I cry a little more as I sip on a cup of bitter coffee. I borrowed some grounds from the neighbor’s house, but I was too embarrassed to ask for sugar too. I haven’t eaten anything for days, and I think I might pass out at any moment. The only thing keeping me on my feet is the will to find him.

Since my mother’s death, it’s been just us against the world, and I don’t know what I’ll do alone.

Did he abandon me? I wonder to myself, but I don’t believe it.

When my parents were hit by a car about two years ago, our lives fell apart.

My father worked as a baker, but after losing his arm, he was fired. My mother helped by working as a housekeeper, and I—I just studied. They wanted me to have a better future, to study and work in a good place, and I wanted that too.

I wanted to be able to help them, to give them a better life, but unfortunately, the accident happened, and everything we had was taken from us.

At first, my father drowned himself in alcohol. He drank to forget the love of his life who had died, and he drank to forget the misery of losing a limb, which was so important to him, especially for work.

I had managed to get into the Italian University Institute to study in the Business Administration Program on a scholarship. I had been recommended by several teachers, and my excellent performance score helped a lot, but after a year, it became impossible to continue.

My father, who had always taken care of me, needed help to overcome his drinking problem, so I put my studies on hold to be his “nanny.” My life’s goal became making him stop drinking, and he was almost succeeding—he hadn’t touched a drop in over a month.

But unfortunately, all our small savings ran out, and we no longer even had anything to eat.

I told him I would work, just like my mother did—I could clean houses, or maybe even find another job. But my father resisted; he felt guilty for not being able to give me the future he had dreamed of. It wasn’t his fault—the fault lay with the drunk who ran them over as they were coming home.

We didn’t have much, but we were happy. But our happiness ended, and now, alone, I don’t know which direction to take. I’m lost, desolate, exhausted, and I don’t know what to do anymore.

If I stay here, I’ll starve to death; if I don’t look for my father, I’ll die of sorrow.

I close the door of the shack we live in and put on the black coat that belonged to my mother. It’s old, but it still manages to keep me warm. Today is very cold, the day as cloudy as my heart.

I walk the path again between my house and the city—it’s a bit far, about twenty minutes on foot. The last lead I got on my father was at a caffetteria by the roadside.

An employee, seeing my despair, told me that he had been there that morning, asking for something to eat, but was driven away by the owner. He wasn’t well-dressed and would scare away the customers, was what he said. I asked for more details, but she said she couldn’t remember anything else. She said that morning, the man whose name no one dares to speak had been there, and everyone was tense with his presence.

I don’t understand how someone can inspire so much fear and dread. People all over Italy tremble just at the mention of the name Dalla Costa. Who are they, after all? I don’t know. The few times I asked my parents, they said they were the worst people in the world, demons in human form, and I never asked again.

I go back to knocking on every door near the caffetteria, hoping that someone might give me more information to help me find him.

Just as I’m about to give up, an older woman named Francesca offers me a cup of coffee. I think she noticed how cold and hungry I was. I accept, knowing I couldn’t refuse—this might be the only thing I’ll eat for the rest of the day.

“Can I give you some advice?” the woman asks after placing some cookies in front of me. I nod because my mouth is already full.

“Forget about your father, child,” she says, and I’m startled.

“What? Why?” I ask, nearly choking on the cookies.

“I’ll tell you, but please don’t tell anyone. This could cost me my life, or better yet, our lives.” I nod because I don’t have another choice—I need to know what happened to my father.

“The day you said he was seen at the caffetteria, I saw him too.”

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” I ask, tears welling up in my eyes. “I’ve been here twice already.” It’s impossible to hide the disappointment in my voice.

“It was for your own good,” she says, and I shake my head. “I was out picking some flowers—I make arrangements to sell,” she explains. “And I saw when he tried to rob Signore Dalla Costa.”

“WHAT?” I scream in shock, my hands trembling uncontrollably. “My father is not a thief, you’re mistaken!” I stand up immediately. I need to leave. This woman with her kind face cannot say that about my father. If I had known she would make such a false accusation, I would never have entered her house.

I’d rather starve than hear the words she just said.

“Calm down, girl,” she says, “listen to me.”

“There’s nothing to listen to. You’re mistaken, I already said that.” I control my voice—I can’t shout, I’m in her house, and I was raised well enough to know not to yell in someone else’s home.

“Listen to me, it’s for your own good,” she insists, and I reluctantly nod, only wanting her to speak quickly so I can leave. “It was your father. I knew as soon as you showed me the photo. He’s thinner now, and his hair is completely gray, right?” she asks without waiting for an answer, as if trying to prove she knows what she’s talking about. But I answer anyway.

“Yes, but there are many men who look like him—you’re mistaken,” I repeat.

“Child, he only has half of one arm.”

“Oh my God!” I exclaim, sitting down in shock. There was no way she could know that. The photo I showed her was from when my mother was still alive—a picture of both of them, one of the few we had.

“Calm down, child.” She holds my hand. “I didn’t tell you the first time you were here to spare you. I thought you might give up, but today I saw your determination. I realized you wouldn’t stop until you got the answers you were looking for. And that’s why I’m telling you now, only so you can save yourself. Stop looking for your father.”

“What did you see?” I ask.

She explains that she saw when that mafia boss, Dalla Costa, was walking along the path and my father jumped on his back, trying to steal his cell phone. But the man was quick and threw him to the ground, pointing his gun at my papà’s face. She says she was afraid of being seen and hid behind some bushes. Then she saw a car stop, some men get out, and they took my father away with them.

I listen in silence, unsure of what to say, not even knowing if the words will come out of my mouth. A deep sadness grips my heart, and although it’s obvious that if this man is everything people say he is, my father is likely no longer alive.

But then, a thought cuts through the haze like a blade: If Dalla Costa has him, that means he’s alive.

And if he’s alive, I’ll find him. No matter the cost.