Photographs from the album of happiness 20

This article is published in number 9 of Vanity Fair on newsstands until March 2, 2021

On television they show the fire spreading, approaching the houses. I call my mother. He tells me: talk to your father, maybe you can convince him.
My father doesn’t hear well, so I have to scream.
Pope! he shouted. It’s dangerous! If you don’t leave the flames can reach you!
Come on, he answers. Don’t be hysterical like your mother. Our house is in the farthest part from the woods.

There is nothing to worry about.
It took him years to build that house. And all those years my mom kept saying: I don’t really think about moving into that hole. Every Friday he went with my younger brother to see how the work was progressing. And I stayed home, loyal to mom. When they finished building, the house was rented for twenty years and then, once they retired, their surprise mum mellowed, and they finally moved in.
But dad – I decide to insist – on television it seems that he is taking a really bad turn, what will you do if in the end …
I’ll turn on the sprinklers.
Are you serious?
I also have a fire extinguisher in the garage.
A fire extinguisher.
I found myself in front of the Syrian tanks during the Yom Kippur war, son. Do you think I might be afraid of a little fire?
Mom is afraid!
Che have it!
Did you hear it? She says when he hands her the phone. Do you understand who I’m dealing with?
I’ll come get you, mom, I tell her. If I go out now, I’ll be with you in twenty minutes.
They blocked access to the area, he replies. They do not let anyone in, only the vehicles of the municipality.
I pass from below, from the dirt road.
Forget it, my son.
But why? Why let it go?
Why don’t I just cry it out here alone.
On television, the conductor’s face becomes more serious every moment. Now they show the forest burning from above, shot by a multirotor. It is my childhood paradise. Every Saturday we went there for walks. There every year on Independence Day my parents and their friends celebrated with a barbecue. And we children used to play hide-and-seek and “have it” among the trees that now collapse one after the other, devoured by flames.
A fire extinguishing expert, showing a giant map of the area, estimates that the distance between the flames and the houses in the neighborhood near the forest is currently a few hundred meters.
Mom, come on, I implore you. It’s irresponsible. You are irresponsible.
I hear my father yell something back.
And then my mom laughing.
What did he say? I demand to know.
Who bequeaths his television chair to you, chuckles.
Tell him he can’t leave me something that’s going to go up in smoke! I get irritated.

*

A few days later my parents invite the whole family for dinner on Friday night, as usual. A strong bonfire smell still stagnates in the air. It penetrates my nostrils as I walk from the parking lot to the front door. After dessert, Mom shows her grandchildren some videos of the fire she filmed from the terrace. And dad tells of the heroic deeds of his grandfather and grandmother who did not leave the house as the flames approached, and of the strong east wind that began to blow at sunrise – it always blows at sunrise – and pushed away.

(Translation by Raffaella Scardi)

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