My Father's Secret

If the story I am about to relate seems incredulous, I, as the protagonist, was far more stunned than you as it unfolded. 

The 12th of September was like any other day. What I didn’t realize was that it would become a life-changing experience. As my doorbell rang I walked to the door and opened it. In retrospect, I must admit that there was something very familiar about the person standing in my doorway.

“Hi,” I said inquiringly after opening the door.

“Hi,” he answered in a thick accented Italian, before continuing, “My name is Patrizio.”

Baffled, I answered, “I’m Patrick.”

The retort he made got me even more confused, “Yes, I know.”

As I stood looking at him nonplussed, and confused, Patrizio smiled and asked, “Patrick, do you mind if I come inside and talk to you?”

By now, my bizarre barometer had gone into overdrive. ‘What the fuck is this all about?’ I thought to myself.

“Sure… Come in,” I stammered.

I was now overcome by an inexplicable feeling of déjà-vu, like a contestant on a quiz show who knows the answer but cannot bring it to mind. Something about Patrizio was incomprehensibly familiar.  

As we sat down on the stools at my u-shaped kitchen island counter, I politely asked, “Would you like a glass of wine?”

“Grazie… Thanks,” he then countered, correcting himself.

“Red or white?” I responded.

“Red, if you have,” he politely replied.

As it so happened, I was having a glass of red and had an open bottle, “I hope you like this wine,” I proffered as I pour a glass for him. 

“Thanks,” he consciously replied after taking a sip, “It’s good… Grazie.”

“Patrick, I have something to tell you, but I don’t know where to start,” he earnestly uttered.

“Why don’t you start at the beginning,” I joked, uncomfortably picking up on his anguish.

“Was your father’s name Lionel?”

“Yeah,” I replied, now totally perplexed.

“Was he in Italy in the second world war?” he gingerly probed.

“Yes,” I replied, completely mystified at this point.

“Well, I believe you and I, might be brothers,” he tentatively asserted.

The soap-operatic impact of his words practically had me keeling over.

“What?” I cried, having got extended to the outer limits of incredulity.

Patrizio immediately apologized as he observed my flushed countenance. Not only was I flushed, but it felt like the blood in my body had turned to ice.    

Calmly, Patrizio now began to map out the full story that had led him to this point.

In months before the allies liberated Italy in 1943, my father managed to escape, after their platoon had been captured and he sought refuge with an Italian family who took him into their home. They took care of him until liberation took place. During this period, my father had a sexual relationship with Patrizio’s mother, Francesca. It only got realized after my father was reunited with the allies, that Francesca, unbeknownst to him was pregnant. These were hectic times and in the aftermath of that took place, she thought that she most probably never hear from my father again.

Luckily, another guy who had always been besotted with Francesca came to her rescue and saved the day. Antonio saved the day by marrying her and saving her family’s reputation.

Antonio, Patrizio’s ‘father,’ happily raised him as his son, and he had a great relationship with Antonio.  

I, unusually, kept my mouth shut and let Patrizio hold court. The impact of his revelation was so mindboggling in any case that I was stunned into silence.

As Patrizio spoke, I had an epiphany. It occurred to me that both my grandfather and father had gone to war as very young men. I had never grasped the relevance of war but understood the circumstances that could force young men into the horrors of combat. Neither my dad nor grandfather, both of whom loved to regale friends and family with tales of their youth, ever spoke about the war. It was an appalling subject that had been concealed in the recesses of their minds. In deference to them, I realized that is a code of solemn silence between these men, that the rest of us could never, ever grasp. It is as if being privy to man’s inhumanity to other men, they have been stunned into an unspeakable silence.

As Patrizio’s story continued to unfold, he told me that his mother had passed away in her nineties several months before. According to him, she was of very sound mind at the time, and when she revealed the full story, he knew that it wasn’t the geriatric convolutions of a diminishing mind.

After her death, Patrizio became obsessed with finding out about his biological father. Being well-off, he was able to commence an investigation of the matter. The inquiry proved to be simpler than he thought, and in six weeks he had resolved the matter.

He knew that ‘our’ father had passed away thirty years before and that he had married my mother and had a son, me, in 1958.  

What had amused him was when he found out my name was Patrick. One of the things his mother had told him, regarding her relationship with my father, was that Lionel had told her that when he had a son one day, he would name him Patrick. Patrizio felt sure that this is how his mother had also named him as a result of the Italian version of his name. 

There was a sustained respite in Patrizio’s story at this point before he looked at me earnestly and said, “I hope I haven’t caused you unnecessary grief. I thought long and hard about my visit and seriously wondered about opening Pandora’s box. If you want, we could also have DNA tests done.”

“Patrizio, I am stunned. Strangely, I always regretted not having a brother,” I said with a friendly smile.

 Patrizio now got an anxious look on his face as he asked, “Do you have family pictures for me to look at?”

“Sure,” I replied. “I’m sorry I don’t have too many, but I don’t have a photographic obsession,” I apologetically qualified, before tentatively adding, “My father… Our father died before the mobile phone era.” 

After I retrieved and produced my meagre album of family photos, Patrizio looked at them in solemn silence, with the referential expression on his face of an explorer that had traversed the globe and finally spotted a promised new land.   

As Patrizio paged back and forth, I allowed him his silent reverie. “Was Lionel a nice man?” he finally asked.

This question by him was the one I had begun to dread as his tale unfolded.

Subtlety, I opted for the tactic of answering a question with a question. “Did you love Antonio?” I asked.

“Yes, he was a fantastic man,” Patrizio answered with moist eyes.

“Well, I am not going to lie to you, Patrizio. Lionel was a difficult man, and we never got on well.”

At this point, I took up the cudgels and decided to call a spade a spade.

“Patrizio, I am sorry to tell you that you missed out on nothing with Lionel. He wasn’t a nice person.”

Patrizio ruefully shrugged at my revelation. To at least offer him a crumb of comfort, I added an age-old sentiment that had been told to me by my grandmother, Lionel’s mother.

Lionel had lied about his age and went off to war when he was seventeen. My father had done so, emulating my grandfather’s history in the first world war. According to my granny, this had a devastating effect on my father’s life. Dad was never the same after he returned home. Much as I despised him, I always tried to imagine the horrors of war on a seventeen-year-old’s mind.

After this revelation, I decided to spare Patrizio the rest of the tragedy of my parent’s unsuccessful marriage, which lead to my mother’s tragic death at the age of fifty after the hell she had to endure.

In one of my less glorious moments in life, I had chased my father away when he attempted to attend my mother’s funeral, a few years after they had got divorced.

To quote me, on that ignominious occasion, I addressed my father loudly in the church and yelled: “Get the fuck out of here, arsehole! Have you come to see your handiwork?... Please fuck off and show some decorum.” 

“Amazingly, I did get on speaking terms with Lionel after that, a year before his death,” I added, in an attempt to diffuse my outburst.

After my reflective lapse, Patrizio surprised me by asking if I would accompany him to the large mirror in my entrance hall.  

As we stood there looking at our reflections, the familial resemblance was remarkable.

“I don’t think we need DNA,” Patrizio uttered as he placed his hand on my shoulder.

“Nah, I think your investigation was comprehensive,” I replied. Remarkably, Patrizio looked even more like Lionel than me. 

After we again sat down, we got down to the business of our personal lives.

When he asked me if I was divorced, I confessed that I was gay and had never been married.

“Jesus, Patrick, I cannot believe this,” he exclaimed, before excitedly continuing, “it looks like Lionel had two gay sons.”

Being the homophobe that my father was, I almost convulsed with laughter thinking how pissed-off he would’ve been knowing this.

As Patrizio looked at me in astonishment, I haltingly tried to explain my amusement, as I almost choked with laughter.

Once a modicum of normalcy got restored, I got to explain how before my retirement, my lover of ten years and I had a bust-up.

Patrizio’s story was far happier. A year before his mother had passed, after she had got placed in a home due to her failing health, his lover of ten years, a guy named Marco, had then finally moved in with him. Marco and I were the same age.

Patrizio and I then spent the following many hours getting to know one another, and it was the most magical and bizarre night of my life.

In summary, Patrizio had been very successful and owned a villa on Lago Maggiore where he and Marco lived very happily. In his early seventies, he had found contentment.

Although I lived alone, I assured Patrizio that I was also content.

At around two a.m., Patrizio finally left, apologizing for his travel exhaustion. He had booked into a hotel for the night, not knowing what my reception would be.

Without hesitation, I told him to book out and report at my home the following day, an invitation he gladly accepted.

I did not have a sound, night’s sleep after his departure as one would expect, after all the histrionics of the evening. It felt like I was having an otherworldly experience as I lay in bed.

I only got to see Patrizio at noon the following day for lunch. It appeared that we had shared similar experiences as far as sleep was concerned.

Patrizio stayed for another five days, and I do not believe there was a rock that didn’t unearth as we got to know one another. What astonished me most was how well we got along. By a strange twist of fate, it took me over sixty years to find the sibling I had always yearned after. I had never been one for familial affection, but I must admit that the two of us cried like babies when I saw him off at the airport.

I faithfully promised that I would visit sooner rather than later. My decision got hastened when I received an unexpected phone call from Marco.

The call was heartrending. What Patrizio had not told me during his visit, was that he had cancer.  Sadly, he had not responded well to the treatment he had previously received. I was baffled that I had not picked up on this during his visit and had to conclude that he had put his best foot forward and fought hard to hide his pain.

“Please, Patrick, please come to Italy. Patrizio speaks about you all the time. It will make him feel much better if you visit us,” Marco informed me in laboured English. “I’m sorry my English is so poor,” he then added.

“Marco, your English is far better than my non-existent Italian,” I assured him.

As I spoke these words, I thought about Lionel. During my father’s stay in Italy, he had become fluent in Italian. Lionel was not only fluent in English but also in Afrikaans. The other official language in South Africa at that time. Lionel, however, also spoke Zulu. One of the many African languages acknowledged after we transformed into a non-racial democracy in 1994.

A week later, I got collected from the airport by Marco. He proved to be the first of my two surprises of the day. Marco was a large and handsome papa bear, with a salt and pepper beard and hair on his head. Marco had a well-tanned complexion and had the most arresting slate-grey eyes. He was gorgeous!

The thing that pleased me most is how Marco couldn’t stop staring at me with a look of reverence in his eyes. I knew that Marco was smitten with Patritzio, and the familial resemblance had a powerful effect on him. 

My second surprise was that we made our journey to Lago Maggiore in a Ferrari Dino. Although it wasn’t the most comfortable trip, being in an iconic car with a hunk sitting next to me, I couldn’t care less.

Upon our arrival at the most charming villa, I got taken upstairs to see Patrizio. After the most affectionate greeting, Patrizio asked Marco to give us some time alone. Compliantly, Marco then took his leave.

“So, Patrick, what do you think of my sexy Ragazzo?” Patrizio asked.

Although I was unfamiliar with the term ‘Ragazzo,’ I got Patrizio’s drift.

“Well, judging by everything I have encountered so far today, I would have to say you have impeccable taste,” I answered.

“Good,” Patrizio uttered with a devilish grin. “Well, why don’t I show you your room?” Patrizio then suggested.

On the journey there, I was struck by how frail Patrizio had become since I saw him last.

When he returned to his room, I offered him my arm and made sure he was comfortable.

Before I left, he said, “Patrick, let’s enjoy tonight. I want you to experience the beauty of Italy. Tomorrow morning, you and I need to have a serious talk.”

That evening, after Marco had accompanied Patrizio to the terrace where we would be having dinner, I had one of the most magical nights of my life. I hope that the readers of this tale can relate to what I am about to recall. If you have ever found yourself at a place in time when you wished that time would stop, and you could forever be suspended in a state of bliss, this was that moment for me.

The food, the music, and the ambience were breath-taking. Above all, Patrizio was in fine spirit, regrettably the last time that this would happen.

As we finally made our way to bed, I got overcome by a melancholy of unspeakable sadness. Once in my bedroom, I had an overwhelming feeling that Marco would visit me. Much as I would’ve loved that, I didn’t want to sully the evening with a base sexual encounter. Resultantly, I locked my door. I was, therefore, not surprised when I heard my doorknob unsuccessfully turning a while later.

The following morning, when I joined Patrizio, he asked, “Why did you lock your door last night?”

“Because, mia Fratello (my brother), last night was all about you,” I answered.

A strange look of acknowledgment now decked Patrizio’s face. “Everything happens in its own good time,” he then replied.

The next part of our conversation was mind-blowing. Patrizio had drafted his will and was going to sign it when his lawyer arrived later that morning. He had left everything to me, explaining that Marco’s family were never going to get their hands on his fortune. Patrizio despised them and thought they were scum. As far as Marco was concerned, however, for the remainder of Marco’s life, Patrizio wanted Marco to have life rights until his death. Marco would also receive a substantial monthly allowance. Who I decided to leave the fortune to after my death, was my own business, as long as Marco’s family were not the recipients.

As I began to object, Patrizio summarily dismissed my protestations out of hand. “Don’t fight me on this Patrick, these are my final wishes,” he answered, before adding, “We are famiglia.”

As I sat there stunned, he looked at me and said, “Don’t lock your door again, Marco, is a ‘stalleno a letto’.”

That night Patrizio had a disastrous evening, and Marco and I spent the night in his bedroom. The following day, Patrizio was taken to hospital and soon slipped into a coma. His end came shortly, and I was overwhelmed by the unbelievable funeral that he received. The ultimate testament to a man’s life is the adulation that he receives. Patrizio was shown the most breathtaking respect.

From the night after his funeral, my door never more got locked, and Marco lived up to his reputation.

Marco was an astonishing and gifted lover. He had the most incredibly large uncut dick that drove me crazy. To add to my bliss, Marco also had a libido, the likes of which I had never before experienced. The man was an insatiable animal in the bedroom.

My half-brother had incredible taste.