Would I have the courage to speak to my father about Nanni—and not only about his Nanni but also about mine? What I wanted was to spot my father sitting at a small table at his favorite caffè, arrive late as he always complained I did, and before ordering anything, take a seat and say to him, “I think he’s alive.” “Who?” “The man you and I loved. He lives in Canada.” And then it hit me for the first time in my life. My father must have always known what had happened to Nanni, and that if I’d wanted to know, all I needed was to ask him. A blockhead indeed, I thought, almost laughing at my old
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