This Translation Tuesday, we present an oblique scrap of fiction from Diego Lama, translated into compact, equivocal English by Rose Facchini. An apparition disturbs Alfio from his espresso: his grandfather, dapper, smiling, and back from the dead. In the space of four hundred words, things only get stranger.
Alfio was sitting in the café when all of a sudden, he saw an old man appear. It was his grandfather.
“Hi, grandpa.” Alfio stood up, holding his demitasse.
His grandfather was a tall, thin gentleman of respectable appearance. He had big, blue eyes and a kind expression, reassuring, always elegant, always in a suit, always with polished shoes.
“Hi, grandpa,” Alfio repeated.
His grandfather had been dead for more than fifteen years. Alfio perfectly remembered the shoes and jacket they put on him the day of the funeral.
“Hi, grandpa,” he repeated a third time. “Weren’t you…?”
“Yes, I was,” the grandfather said, smiling in his own way, as if everything—even death—could be resolved with a witty remark. “I was. But now I’m alive!”
“I don’t get it.” Alfio sat down. “I just don’t get it.”
“Me neither, but I’m happy.” His grandfather remained standing. “Your grandmother’s also come back!”
“Grandma?” Alfio placed the demitasse on its saucer. “But… Grandma died more than sixty years ago, when dad was only a little boy.”
“A tragedy.” The grandfather smiled. “The important thing is that everything ended in the best possible way. We’ll just have to make do for a little while. Grandma and I need a place to stay, Alfio.”
“Go to dad’s house!”
“He’s too old. If he sees us, he’ll have a heart attack,” the grandfather smiled. “You’re not going to leave us high and dry, are you?”
“Of course not, grandpa. Where’s grandma?”
“There.”
The grandfather pointed to the other side of the street. A rather pretty lady in her mid-thirties, a little embarrassed, waved to Alfio from afar. She wore a bashful and mortified smile.
“Grandma!” Alfio exclaimed. “She’s beautiful…”
“C’mon, I’ll introduce you.”
Alfio paid the bill then stood up.
But now there were other folks beside his grandmother, all dressed in very antiquated attire, according to the fashions of the nineteenth century, the seventeenth century, also in tunics, some nude, others hirsute or bearded, and of every age—old, young, children, babies, infants.
They were springing up in leaps and bounds as Alfio crossed the street to reach his lovely grandmother. Then he stopped.
“Who are they?”
“I don’t know many of them,” the grandfather shrugged, then pointed to an old man. “That one’s my father, that’s my uncle, that other one is my dad’s dad, I think.”
“My God.”
“It all happened so suddenly, Alfio.” The grandfather smiled. “It’s just a matter of getting used to it at first, then you’ll see.”
The throng grew. There were people with greatcoats, mantles, furs, swords, sandals, wigs…
All very formal, embarrassed, contrite, heartbroken. Mortified, that’s it. Mortified to be alive once again.
“No!” Alfiero started to run, but then stopped. There was no more room.
Translated from the Italian by Rose Facchini
Diego Lama was born in Naples and is an architect. He has won several literary prizes in Italy, including the 2015 Premio Tedeschi for his novel La collera di Napoli (Giallo Mondadori) and the 2015 Premio Gran Giallo Città di Cattolica for his short story “Tre cose” (Giallo Mondadori).
Rose Facchini is a Lecturer in Italian at Tufts University and the Associate Editor and Italian Translator Editor for the International Poetry Review. Her translations have either appeared or are forthcoming in West Branch, ergot., Exacting Clam, Wyldblood, 365tomorrows,
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