We meet the one and only Franco Franzese

A faint sound of a canary tweeting a sweet, unceasing ditty echoed in a stairwell. Marble steps gleamed clean and bright and wide in the light coming through a window on the landing in the shape of a half-moon with a squiggly diamond gate. I remembered it. The enchanted stairwell. Naples is like that, an electric charge in the air. It’s alive.

Taking a confident seat on the first marble step, he held his thought, brows raised. I froze with wide eyes and my neoprene boot in the air. I looked down at the carpet. “Oh scusa,” I went to take off my shoe. I should have foreseen that, whispering. He looked to the side like why are we whispering?He patted down my fumes with a furrowed brow.

“With calm, Maria, with calm…”

Untying his black boots, he signaled to the shoes by the door. “One must take off their shoes,” he said without inflection, “when they come into a house. The dirt from outside, shoes, a clean house…” Not thinking I understood, he repeated the tale, as I took off my other shoe.

I waited politely to follow his lead up a wrought iron staircase with a vintage wooden handle, it emitted an immediate aesthetic, feeling, the house. Modern, with vintage touches and paintings of ruins near bodies of water.

“Tweet…tweet…?”

He didn’t understand why I was whispering, and he didn’t need to say it.

“Filippo…

“Ah–“ A canary.

Out the window, over the tops of mandarin trees, the architectural skeleton across the way was still there. A parking lot, I figured, that had barely gotten started. It was just as I remembered it, the house. The eggshell door so shiny it looked wet with a diamond inside a square.

The doors to the floors were kept closed due to the draft. I always found this doorknob funny and nerve-wracking; it was built too close to the threshold. I had caught my fingers in this door, or almost, whenever I had tried to close it. I had had a habit sometimes or often of not closing it properly which meant the doors were sometimes or often open — 

“Maria?”

I turned.

“Who is?”

An antique door framed Carmine. They had turned into a coat rack with brass hooks and an oval mirror. A Santa, I squinted, hung on the central hook — a little early for decorations, no? My eyes darted at Carmine, signaling for my coat. I got nervous.

So did my friend…when she read the first draft of this book.

This part made her extremely nervous. A house, a family, wasn’t necessarily safe for me from the perspective of my friends. I didn’t know what to do with that. “Considering your life,” she said. I just beginning to. I threw my coat at him.

“Bello,” Carmine liked my navy and white polka dot sheath, twenties in feel, I think, with a large sailor collar.

“Vintage?”

“Si,” I was dismissive.

“Are those silver balls,” he came close, “on your ears?”

“Si,” I said. He was complimentary. I had a look going on. I did. I became known, a strong word, for my style. Glamorous, even, but it depended. I had range, for sure. I tended to apologize for this façade, made it clear. I wasn’t spending a bunch of money on clothes. That was Joy, my mother — a shopaholic, fashionista.

“Marrria?”

Flora rang.

Her nasal capacity had always been cartoon-worthy. It was clearly a cavity, you know what I mean? She rang your name with a very clear tone — you got the message. I was a child once. It stunned me, a little.

“La bella FLORa…” echoed up the stairwell, a half-moon on each floor bringing in soft, gauzy light.

“Go, go,” Carmine said.

I came ashore onto her living floor the color of sand. A window by a Christmas tree flooded the linoleum floor with a bright light like a lamented beach. White lights wrapped around a Christmas tree—wasn’t it a little early? Shit, I turned. My mouth dropped.

Flora was in the same outfit as fifteen years ago! A fitted-neck cashmere sweater, black house pants, and platform slippers. Carmine took after her the most with darker olive skin and brown eyes and hair.

Holding green olives in a plastic bag, she ran to embrace me, beside herself. Tiny and fit with foulard, her dark eyes became slits when she smiled behind cat-eye frames. She was always an honest, rugged person with a tight haircut. She amazed me.

I did not have the ability to say: you have not aged a day.

“Eternale…?”

She spoke with ellipses built-in so she could remain agile in conversation, knight-like in her verticality and playful sparring. She could be flirtatious but tough, restrained, Flora, with a gaiety to her. A trickster, also. She peered into my eyes as if she could see a child in me, which was odd. She had a way of holding her hand, very satisfying, as if it were a turtledove.

“Um,” I gestured to the Christmas tree.

“Why…” is this here.

Energetic and scared — I switched thought very fast. I had to keep that in mind as I moved forward with this story. 

“You is, are 20 years.”

I stuck my thumb in the past, taking a couple of steps back.

“Passate,” I said with thumb. Past.

Carmine raised his brows.

“Learn Italian first.”

Flora was gracious, formal, adjusting her glasses.

“No,” I refused him.

With his hands on his hips, he paused next to his mother before telling her that “Maria wants to learn Italian and Neapolitan in,” he turned his finger, “one month.” “Ah,” she punctuated, she wasn’t sure if that was going to happen. I tried to let it go—my attempt to make a sentence. They wanted to know, though, what did I want to say? “Go, go,” Carmine said, somewhere else. “Tell us Maria,” Flora got languid like Carmine could. After a light round of charades, Carmine got it, the effect of the lighting too.

“Eterna,” he mirrored the ball I made with my hands and put it into the space. We encompassed “the moment,” si si, “globally.”

“Also religieux…”

“Si si…”

I gestured to the sunlight. “Quality.”

“Si si,” he said, “of the word.”

Without words he asked me why…?

His mother laughed.

“Maria, eternale?”

Yes, eternality, I said, in English. “You are eternality.”

“You, no ago? No years on…” your face.

Oh, Carmine.

Getting flirty, jabby, she flashed her brows, does this mean she looks good? Maria? She was a close combat person. My hands were always very, she conjured a little magic with a smile to seal the deal.

“Un po’ fantastical.”

I blinked, put a little bend in my knees to pop up.

“Vero?”

“Wow,” she said, “si si,” si si, Carmine echoed, I was always like this.

Her “si si” was legendary, musical, could sear cutlets.

I looked at her. Really?

“Wow, tu, you have changed…”

I nodded, also.  

“Maria,” she rang to signal my attention, touched the bag very nicely.

“These are olives…that I made.”

“Wow…”

“Ma,” Flora strained yet casual placed a little olive tree at various points in the distance.

“Maria, olive trees are everywhere…tante tante a Napoli…”

She hushed tender words that I didn’t understand.

“It’s been so long…I can still see you, si, si…Maria, look at this dress, it’s chic.”

“You look bella,” she put up an ok sign and enunciated. 

“Maria, wow…”

“I like…clothes…”

I shrugged in the Neapolitan. She laughed. Two fingers pointing at my eyes, I went searching for pieces because each one was “a story.”

“They like you also,” she shrugged.

I thanked her.

In his white doctor’s jacket, Franco Franzese slid open the mirrored door from his office like an old lady searching for good gossip with a round belly protruding a little more than it used to. He kept his crew cut tight, clipped like his cash, with a salt and pepper suave wave.

“Maria!”

He trilled the “r” so forcefully, it took the feet out from under me, which I demonstrated.

“Wow,” Flora said. “Si, si, always like that.” “What?” Even that. “I was?” Carmine said I studied mime or something. “Mimo, Maria?” She rang my name like, seriously? “Bello.”

Franco greeted me like a cousin with two kisses on the cheek. He offered me a mountain of fried mini dough balls with honey and sprinkles on top. Franco Franzese is a bulldozer but his spirit animal is an alligator so he’s really gentle at heart. He only chomps the endings of most words. His accent was legendary swishing, swashing, sweeping, chucking, to throw me down.

“Where have you been?” 

Franco moved his body like he was joking but not, taking me in. He was concerned already. He was ready to bust my chops, anyone’s chops. He complimented my dress. Si, si, vintage. I started saying things I couldn’t really say. They were surprised when I picked up. Why? They never tried to call me before. But I was not able to make these connections yet. I just felt guilt, like I had to explain myself.

“Where have you been?”

“Um,” I went blank and it would work to my advantage, sometimes, acting like I don’t understand. Eager, bright, I said it was crazy, just crazy. Just dive right in. Not affected.

“You’re nervous,” he saw it immediately. “No.”

“Siii,” he said as if I were a baby.

He tipped his head into my resistance. Still had some fight, alright.

Franco handed me the plate, screwed his cheek, the Italian gesture for tastes good.

“Buono, questo, Marrria.”

“No grazie…I don't want questo adesso.”

“Questo adesso…”

“This isn’t even food…”

He gestured to the mountain of tiny fried balls.

“These are just little fried balls of dough.”

“Do you eat? You’re skinny…”

Flora tipped her head to one side.

“NO,” I snapped. “I am muscle puro…”

He sizzled, I was skinny, I wasn’t. I took a superman stance. Franco Franzese. He gestured to Flora as if it had to be taken care of immediately. He was being dramatic, so I stepped into the kitchen even more dramatically to take in one of my favorite features: the window that opened from the wall like a door. A curtain of embroidered daisies: Flora.

“Do you like curtains?”

Franco mocked me.

I hurried around the table to the patio door.

You’re skinny, I am muscle, no, yes, how was your flight, where have you been? How are you making money? Eat, Maria, eat. AHHHH, Flora rang. What the hell are you doing, goofy guitar playing man? Carmine never moved his face, also strategic. This guy, his father indicated.

“Why is she laughing?”

Orange and mandarin trees from the garden below met a terracotta patio. Franco Franzese was funny, that’s why, ready to BUST CHOPS, boom. Boxes of nuts, bowls of fruit, leafy greens exploding out of crates on a white plastic table. I loved the theater, the show of family, each one with their own qualities, also universal. Taking his position on his bench: the radiator under the window, Franco was assessing my “wow” attitude already. Didn’t expect that.

Flora tipped from the stove with a stalk of pasta in her hand.

“Do you remember?”

“Si…”

I said with a bright smile, because I did, I did.

“Barbeque,” I said with an Italian accent for Franco…

“Sull’escalier, um, the stairs” leading down to the garden. I loved saying stupid things to him, one of my favorite activities, just to hear him echo it back.

“Senti,” Franco honked into the pressing subject at hand.

“IO,” I said with fist, “imparar’ Italian rapid.”

“Oh?”

Carmine began in a state of suspension.

Franco rocked himself forward, stretching his chin, about our “tweet tweet” secret language. He made like two little cute birds tweet tweeting to one another on some sweet little branch. Annoyed. “Tweet tweet,” and pinching his fingers together, he laid the fact on the table, proverbially, as this is a group of people who communicate physically. “You speak your secret tweet tweet language that no one else can understand.”

 I snapped at him with wide eyes, amazed, like “you remember this?” Scratching the top of his head, careful about germs, always, the gator Franco Franzese regarded that comment from his eye on the side of his head. I could almost see the surly smile. He’s a true gator, ladies and gentlemen. However, the

urologist within him, as Franco was a man of many personalities that could hit you faster than Christmas cookies. He wondered what my grand gestures were about? But he remembered that I was always like this, even fondly. Right, he was assessing me. He’s feeling something’s off about me — in a snap. In your face. Franco Franzese, a man who merited a full title.

This is the one and only Franco Franzese.

“Really?” He looked at me. “Do you still do theater?”

Boom.

“NO?” He looked at me.

“What the hell do you then?”

I ran to Flora. “Can I help you?”

“Who the hell is this? Help her? What are you going to do…?”

“No, no,” Flora said, adjusting her glasses.

“I don’t remember you having curly hair…”

My eyes grew wide.

“Si…”

“No.”

“No,” Franco said, simply.

“SI!” I felt bad. I looked down. I forgot that I forgot. No. “Si,” remembering, confirming.

“No.” 

“Si!”

“No.”

“SI,” I grabbed my hair.  

“SI,” they insisted that I didn’t have curly hair. I forgot that I forgot. “SI.” I had to fight, you see, this is Naples. It’s my hair. NO, no it’s not. I had this! “SI.”

“No.”

“Di,” Carmine corrected me.

“Regulare?”

What the fuck is this?

Franco snapped. “Tweet tweet.”

I paused because I shouldn’t say that. Carmine paused. I didn’t want to say that I forgot, that I forgot that I forgot. Laughing already, “si,” clapping, “Napoli, si, curly hair! LANGUAGE,” I thrust through the difficult. Franco is looking at me physicality with wide eyes. Getting into it. As if I were a character on TV. He began commenting to the others, did you see how she moved through the material of it? HEY — YO— YOU? YOU STOPPED THEATER? Insane.

“Rapido. The most rapido possible.”

“The most rapido possible…”

Franco looked at me through gator eyes, at the side of his head.

“Is it regular?”

 “TEE TEE,” Franco barked at my “TEE TEE” energy.

“Si, it’s regular,” Carmine said.

But what did you forget……Carmine communicated without words.

“Tweet, tweet,” Franco made two little birds tweet-tweeting with his thick hands,  hilarious. Putting his chin into it, crossing his arms, “artisti…” artists, the bane of his existence, though he would use “cultured hands” around the word “arte” as if you treated it with respect also.

Oh my God, I forgot that I forgot. My hair, everything. Wow, they remembered me. I said, awkwardly positive, looking at Franco like “wow.” I didn’t have…Franco just stared at me. Wow? Wow that we remember you?

I ran over to Carmine, clearing a basket of walnuts. Franco visibly stared at me the entire way— VISIBLY.

“Why are you nervous?”

“No, si, no si, I can see your nerves!” Gator eyes. Wide eyes. Almost if I were a baby. Me no like.

“Can…” I pointed at the nuts.

“SI,” Franco said. Flora didn’t have to turn around. “These are local Maria…” Franco and Carmine told me where the nuts came from at the same time. Flora came in at the end. “MARIA EAT THE NUTS!” Franco barked; I became suddenly scared, not wanting to disturb anyone, holding onto my hands, retracting.

“You don’t eat!”

“Si!”

On the other side of the table from him, I pointed to myself.  

“IO EAT.”

He pointed to his eyes as if I were a baby. It wasn’t what he was seeing on my figure.

“I do sport!”

Franco judged that. He winced at that.

“MOUSSE puro,” I slapped my, my biceps. I slapped it.

Flora congratulated me.

“DIED, Maria…your father? HE DIED? HE DIED?

And bam, Naples requires quick footwork.

Through the murky waters, the smooth white bums: mozzarella. These are just balls in a bucket to us. We don’t have special packaging here. I was gleeful. I was skinny. The LASER BEAMS, Franco indicated, suddenly the Hunchback of Notre Dame, coming from my eyes should be directed toward the FOOD, Franco pointed with wide but beady eyes.

“Good, food, it’s good,” he assured me as if I were a baby.

“NON SONO UN BEBE.”

Flora smiled with flirtatious eyebrows.

“I remember you always loved bufala…”

“Si? Really?” 

Franco collapsed a little, looking at Flora.

“MARIA, don’t YOU remember?”

“Are you trying to be a comedian?

“She has a quality though doesn’t she Flora?”

“Si, si,” she said.

I laughed.

“A little magical, no?”

“What?”

Franco tipped, gave me sparkly fingers. 

“QUALITA.”

Palm open, Franco was confused.

I never ate first. I couldn’t do that. Franco Franzese made his way to the large ceramic bowl with kaki and clementines as I insisted that I could not eat first, even proudly, like I got the point a long time ago. He let me have it low—Maria, eat. He wasn’t eating. Everyone made fun of his “dieta” which always remained a theory. “Non,” I was final. I could not do that.

A quick glance at the cheese, Franco about to begin his interrogation into the case of me, Carmine cut into his mozzarella with precision, a formidable bite, and broke a bit of bread. I cracked up. They thought I was joking. No, it was their reaction. “La politesse,” it was French. Then, I said police, short-circuiting, cracking up, “when you…the language,” I loved speaking like this, wanting to tell them. Free, bold, so excited! Language. Bufala!

“IS THIS NOT BUON?”

Gesturing to Carmine in the formal fashion, I could proceed.

I took a bite…my eyes closed.

Creamy, touch of stank, a delight, I was pure, renewed. I rubbed my fingers together though there was no reason to. Franco caught it…asked me what the fuck I was doing, delighted at my play, so confused as to what I was doing with my life! If not THEATER?

“Wet grass, green, earth, hooves, cow hide, a cool bath thick of cream. FRESHK!”

“FRESCO…”

“I speak Neapolitan!”

“Brav.”

“MA MARIA,” Franco perched himself on the radiator — directly in front of me. He wanted me to SEE him. “Does food not have taste in America?”

“Fa freddo,” Franco shivered.

“Yes,” Flora said with a warm smile.

“Good, Maria?”

“It’s not…(that)…cold,” I teased him.

“Oh?”

I opened my fingers, trying to find a word better than good.

“You’re seeing green, right? Is that what you said? You’re talking about the grass…” Carmine wondered.

“Ahhh,” Flora said, “it’s good, Maria? Good?”

I pressed my fork into its flesh, the liquid, the water.

“Buon,” I rubbed my fingers together, but the word was not good enough. I threw my hand — for MORE.

“A qualità superior,” I pressed my fork in it, again, since the — aqua — says everything.

Franco told me to stop PLAYING with food! EAT IT. THE WORD FOR WORD, MAN, I did not have it.

“HOW YOU SAY…”

Taking a deep breath, all forehead, “SAY WHAT MARIA SAY WHAT?”

Pasta released steam under Flora’s stirring, the cockles salty on the nose.

Franco drew his hands to the classic, Italian triangle—about to go in for me.

“Siiii,” I gazed at the glistening, slippery noodles piling on my plate.

“Where’s Ignazo?”

“Verona…”

Franco spun it up in the future. “He will come…” he tossed it. “Next week.”

“Pesce?”

“First pasta,” Flora clarified.

Carmine’s brows were raised. Franco was disturbed.

“I cannot eat…” Carmine cut me off. “She says this…”

“OH?” Franco interrogated. I was laughing. “Next week. Ma MARIA…“

“Emilio?”

Flora chimed in with a bowl of lentils with green olives and her gluten-free bread, it turned out, for I became keenly interested in the LOAVES. Pointing, frowning, she had a machine to bake her little loaves. “Emilio sta a Roma…he’ll come closer to Christmas…”

Sizzling, clenching his jaw, what’s the meaning of this? He tackled the subject with a deep brow. “YOUR FATHER.” I got noodles in my mouth— quick. Al dente. Everyone jumped in to support me except Franco twinkling his little head around like I had a cute song and dance.

“Piace?” She lifted her brows with a smile.

I sucked a cockle, a tender, warm, salty babe.

“Maria,” Franco frowned. “What about the lentils?” Carmine wanted me to eat the lentils as well. I demonstrated my chewing mouth! “Brav,” Franco was just checking—my fight. Si, si, good, normale, etc. Geez, he crossed his arms.

“SCUSA MARIA,” Franco blurted.

“I do not speak Italian!”

Everyone disagreed. I could not help but laugh. “Si, my father…obviously…” my hand extended in the formal fashion. “MOURIR,” in French. Franco cast his gaze downwards and put his nose into it, sincerely. He was sorry to hear it. They all were. I wanted no sympathy. They misunderstood.

“Maria,” Franco said as if I were a kid that didn’t understand, “he was older…”

“I KNOW,” I snapped.

“She’s a nervous wreck,” Franco punched me out of the water, emotional. “She doesn’t eat, and she cannot speak!” Eh, they made sounds. “Of what?”

Breaking her bread and throwing chunks into her lentils, she remarked again.

“You did not have curly hair.”

“No,” Franco came in fast to kick me down. “YES!” No. “YES! I HAD THIS! THIS! NO YOU DIDN’T. No… I started laughing. “What’s funny?” Franco on his bench turned his cheek. I clapped my hands at Franco.

“YOU — WANT? SAPER? WHY I poof,” I made a poof with my hand. Franco pointed.

“YES. Exactly, just like this.” Now I was on his page. 

“Poof,” he looked at Flora like I had something, something of value which he expressed with refined hands. The poof. “What is,” I made the poof. Flora made “ehh” sounds. Si si they GOT THE PICTURE. I pinched my fingers at them and did not have the word for word!

“PER THIS!” I poofed. THEY GOT THE PICTURE, goddammit!

“Si…” Flora slid. “Maria,” Franco frowned. “What about the lentils?” Slippery pasta between my lips, I demonstrated my chewing mouth! She doesn’t eat, Franco illustrated.

“SCUSA MARIA,” Franco blurted. Flora came with more cockles. No, what, who, no, ONLY FISH?

“I…” unable to see straight, I snapped at Carmine with his owl eyes.

“When you don’t have…” I could do that. “I didn’t have your number…” I made a phone. “Couldn’t communicar.” With “BIRDS?” flying out of my hands — il papier! Where it is WRITTEN NUMBERS.

“MARIA?” Franco rang. And suddenly, on my feet, Carmine simply following me — I did not have — I went searching PER — PER PER? — the number, putting a phone to my ear.

FRANCO honking, Flora confused, Carmine looked side to side as I patted my figure down, WHERE? WHERE? “You lost?” YES! PERDRE, FRENCH! Pointing, happy, electric, to Franco cringing. Tweet tweet. ARTISTS! He honked.

“Of what? MARIA? OF WHAT?????????”

Back in the game.

Flora broke her gluten-free bread and threw chunks into her lentils.

“ALZHEIMERS…?”

“ALZHEIMER?

“ALZHEIMER?”

“Is it…?”

“Si, si the SAME.”

“THE SAME. THE SAME.”

Franco ripped the ending of “eguale” right off.

“EGUAL.”

A whole fish hit the table.

“Bello!”

“MARIA, have you SEEN a FISH?!” 

Flora sat down to de-bone it elegantly. “Franco,” Flora slid in, referee, and he defended himself boyishly. I cracked up. I told her it was alright, less because it was, but because I could take it! I assure you, mother fucker, you can’t affect me — chief, ehhh, that’s right, just having a little conversation here…no worries. I don’t need no lady trying to help me. Nobody. I wasn’t looking for nobody’s help.

“When,” Franco pressed, “WHEN did he get Alzheimer?”

“When I was ten…”

I made a slow-motion explosion. They got it immediately.

“This was my life…”

“Explosion? Maria?”

Franco pressed.

“Everything has exploded?”

“Tutto boom.”

“Tutto boom?” Franco echoed.

“Tutto boom?” Flora did as well. Carmine did not.

I was sorry— WHAT?

“Carmine,” Franco did not move his face. “Why is she using this word?” He had never been more concerned. I made a nice, slow circle with my index fingers.

“My life, globally,” I froze, was it? What was it? That didn’t make sense to them—no matter where I started, it never did.

“Piano piane, Maria, piano piane,” Franco rocked. I laughed.

“Piano, piane?”

“Pia-no, pia-no, Maria,” Franco rocked on his heels, “piano, piane.”

“Softly, soft,” he assured me in the Neapolitan that it would unfold in time as if I were beginning a musical score. Nothing about Naples was piano piane.