My Betrayed Youth

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MY BETRAYED YOUTH

Renzo Rocca & Giorgio Stendoro

Copyright © Renzo Rocca & Giorgio Stendoro 2013

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.

The moral right of Renzo Rocca & Giorgio Stendoro have been asserted.

Original title:

Una ferita aperta © 2007 SOVERA MULTIMEDIA s.r.l.

ISBN 88-8124-724-0

This book is dedicated to

The eradication of

THE CULTURE OF SILENCE

This book is a work of fiction. Persons and places cited are inventions of the authors whose purpose is to give a sense of veracity to the narration. Any resemblance to events, places and persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

AUTHORS’ FOREWORD AND ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The abuse of children for sexual purposes is no different from the exploitation of minors in the workplace. In both situations children are the victims of violence. Recently the scientific world has begun to take an interest in the taboo of the adult abuser and the abused minor. Facts have emerged indicating that millions of minors of both genders in the world are victims of sexual violation, resulting in an astronomic industry that continues to grow exponentially.

These pages, authentic in their accuracy and with no offensive intent, were written out of respect for the life and inviolability of a human being. It is a story in which the various characters, with their expressive power, are called upon to help an abused boy rediscover love, so that he might once again become part of life’s great journey.

A novel that engages the reader, and points out how this societal scourge can easily proliferate wherever it finds fertile ground that encourages socio-domestic associations.

A special thanks to friends who gave us confidence in the value of this book.  In particular we thank all of our patients who with their ability to work through the experience infused the creation of the novel’s characters.

Naples, Florida - January 2014

Part One

2004

1. GIANNI

MILAN - Spring 2004

Gianni Caccini makes his way among the shadows of the trees along the walkway that flanks the Naviglio Grande. This is the canal that Leonardo da Vinci expanded and completed by creating its sluice gates in the 15th century, during the seventeen years he served Milan’s reigning Sforza family. Music drifts though the air as Gianni gazes at the reflections from several exclusive night spots that lengthen then shrink on the rippling waters from the other side of the Naviglio, creating a certain “ambiance”.

Gianni is twenty-four years old. He wears a blue cotton shirt, jeans and sneakers. He’s tall, good-looking and definitely sexy. Disciplined, frequent sessions at the gym molded a healthy athletic appearance to his strong, fit body. His thick, black, curly hair is a little disheveled. The contours of his face clearly delineate his perfect features. His dark eyes give the impression of a vulnerable child, or of a man marked by a deeply concealed truth. And shame. At times they convey a confident shrewdness, at other times fear; sometimes resignation, sometimes hope. All in all, the classic meeting of opposites.

He is described as one of nature’s favorites, sculpted by her as if he were a magnificent Greek statue. He can never walk along the streets and piazzas of Milan without drawing people’s attention; his sexual magnetism contains the energies of both predator and prey. Wandering for hours in these neighborhoods, fascinated with the clean geometric lines of modern buildings sprinkled amongst the ornate baroque construction blackened by centuries of pollution, he observes everything around him. He seems satisfied and content. That’s how I relax my nerves.

Gianni is obsessed with memories of Elisabetta and Paolo, his mother and one of her many lovers. Especially that lover. Thanks to years of therapy he gradually distanced those nightmares caused by experiences of humiliation, guilt and fear, from his subconscious. His therapist guided him out from the dark and helped him attempt to understand everything possible about the beauty of art in all its forms. That’s another reason why I’m glad I enrolled in a doctoral program in Psychology at the University of Milan.

***

A pigeon flies toward the vague blur of the solar disk. As he follows its rapid movements, his attention turns towards the Naviglio’s water. On the other side of the canal, a noisy tram carries a few passengers - silent, unlike the tram - directly toward the Central Station.

Can he be on that tram? I keep hoping that sooner or later I’ll run into Paolo. That fucking pervert…

Am I being my usual obsessive self, as the doctor keeps telling me? Shouldn’t Paolo appear sooner or later somewhere before yours truly? When I really concentrate on wanting something, I usually manage to get it. And by and large I’ve become the sort of person who doesn’t easily change his mind.

During the day I’m able to shake off the thoughts that help to screw up my relationships. In the dead of night, while the city sleeps, I try to be stronger and more self-confident, to confront the nightmares that muddle my dreams. I guess that life goes on, for better or for worse.

Memories. They emerge again. I imagine a gigantic kaleidoscope, not with bursts of color but with flashes of my life. Experiences which I have attempted to repress. Did I really think I could possibly spare myself the pain? Deep down inside, my perceptions and judgments are blurred. The mind hesitates at digging into the depths of my overly developed defense mechanisms. Will these ugly thoughts shadow my subconscious for life?

Now, I’ve become irritated by all the noises coming from the street and the shouts of a group of children racing around the garbage in the marketplace, unconcerned that this is their playground.

My head is pounding, my heart is pounding. I try to relax, biting my lips. A burst of adrenaline makes my body stiffen. What the hell is happening? Maybe if I walk faster. My apparent calm is weakening. What calm! It is dissolving into panic. Am I losing my mind? I don’t understand anything anymore. I’m expecting something. Something that frightens me.

A panic attack? Please, God! Not here. Not here in the street! Not now. I can’t lose control! I’m beginning to tremble. I have to react! React. I’ll do my best not to influence myself. It’s tough to tremble without knowing why! My head is burning, my face is hot and my breath is so shallow that I feel dizzy. I can feel the sweat running down my back. I have to stop. I feel lost. I can’t fall down. It is impossible to think.

A middle-aged man greets me with a nod and a smile as he leaves a coffee shop a few steps away; What should I do? Should I nod back? This indecision is enough! I’m actually warding off the anxiety. No longer sweating; a good sign. My whole body shivers. In fact I feel better already.

Mother of God, though, what a scare! Out of the corner of my eye I watch the man moving off behind me.

***

I stopped calling my mother “mamma” from the moment she made me a part Paolo’s erotic games. In a word, his plaything. The doctor explained to me that panic is a wound that can be healed with psychotherapy. He made me understand that when the idea of hope and the idea of love come together, a sense of security is created. That is the psychological foundation to control any emotion. I didn’t answer him, because I didn’t want to burst into tears in front of him.

There’s a lot I could criticize when it comes to maternal love. I don’t want to feel like a victim. I went into therapy primarily to convince myself that I don't have to avoid love.

Right. But why?

The ‘why’ is what drives me to seek answers, clarity. For that matter, I’ve wanted to find it for quite some time. I think it's so I can break free of that oppression seething inside me. I’m ready to do anything to grow up. By now I have no more doubts.

It’s not easy to accept the reality of a father who is out of his mind. But that’s the least of it. What about Elisabetta, that whore of a mother? Thanks to her, one day I’ll be able to write about sexual abuse within the family, about incest between immediate family members, about the humiliation, the desperation.

***

Milano is an extremely beautiful city, with enormous wealth due to industry, the arts, and more recently the world of fashion. For over four hundred years a man-made canal, the Naviglio Grande, has been at the heart of Milan’s economic, commercial and agricultural development. In earlier times there were few roads and those that existed were not safe. The most apt means of transport was undoubtedly by water. Having neither rivers nor seacoast, Milan got its water from the Adda River, several kilometers away.

This area of the city has become a sort of Artist’s Quarter recently, with the classy, overpriced lofts and flats inhabited by some of Milan’s new rich, affluent foreigners, and the ever-present ever-evolving presence of hangers-on, drug dealers, prostitutes and simply curious tourists. Excellent restaurants, discotheques and barges on the Naviglio, and chic boutiques add to its allure and charm.

I have always been fascinated by this city, its history long predating the Roman Empire, its continual movement, the busy industrious and proud citizens of Milan.

It’s already after 6:00 pm when I stop in front of a church with a sloping roof that I have somehow never seen before. Swallows skim the building, and the last glow of sunset seems to expand the façade on which a magical light falls. The evening sun is reflected in the magnificent rose window and the beauty of the glittering stained glass takes me by surprise.

Today I feel like keeping all this beauty around me to myself; and this makes me happy. I glance toward the apartment houses pretending to look for someone. Actually it’s to make sure there isn’t anyone I know there. I take a deep breath, and continue walking, experiencing a gratifying physical sensation. I feel better.

When I’m in the right mood I can be moved by a passage from a symphony, an aria from an opera, a painting or a church at sunset. Is it a chink in the armor that makes me feel so different? I’ll find out before long, or so my shrink promises me.

I no longer feel that weight on my stomach I felt earlier. My good spirits return, the dizziness and panic is now in the past.

I quicken my step across the main avenue, I am flanked by buildings of discordant design on the way to my friend Andrea’s apartment. The two of us are the same age; we met during our first year at the University. We usually study for exams together, and I feel comfortable with Andrea to whom I told my story; he is without judgment.

The warm evening air is still thick with smog, just as it was in the early morning hours.

***

I’ve been standing in line for more than two hours at the University secretarial office waiting to sign up for my next exam; Psychopathology. I just want to get out of here as soon as possible. A woman with awful breath gives me a hard time with her numerous questions, typical of university bureaucracy. After another sleepless night I was already in a daze and everything seems to piss me off today. It’s probably partly due to the thought that there could be some questions about pedophilia in this exam. When will I stop trying to fool myself on that score!

Deep inside, where the unconscious snaps its photographs, I have vivid images of memories impossible to repress. An open wound.

My parents couldn’t find jobs when we lived in Florence. There were countless hardships we endured, including the humiliation of having our furniture repossessed; there wasn’t much of it, just the bare minimum, but they took it away. Then there was dad’s illness. And our sneaking over the border into the hills behind Lake Como into Switzerland.

Dad somehow found a job as a bricklayer in a small town near Lugano, where it would be impossible to be legally employed without the