Glaudeanna’s Tale
Today I watched a BBC documentary on Facebook called “The Beautiful Dead.” It was fascinating. It was about mummies in Sicily. As I watched, I was reminded of Glaudeanna.
When we were young, my parents used to frequent the elegant restaurant of the Park Hotel in Tehran. On Fridays, which is the equivalent of Sunday in the Western Hemisphere, my parents would sometimes take us there for lunch. I still remember driving down the graveled driveway to reach the restaurant. It was set amidst lush gardens and to this day, in my mind, I can still hear the crunch of the car tires on the path and smell the heady aroma of the flowers and the lush foliage as if it were yesterday. Mama would drive. Papa would sit next to her. My sisters and I sat on the back seat. We were dressed in our silk taffeta dresses. Our hair was swept back and tied with a ribbon, the tumbling curls falling softly down our backs. Let no one say that Mama’s daughters were anything but beautifully dressed and groomed little girls. She took great pride in our appearance.
The restaurant was elegant. The maître d’hôtel and all the waiters were dressed in tails and bow ties. They seemed to float on clouds, for their footsteps were hushed. The food was always excellent. My parents mentioned that their chef was a renowned Russian chef who used to be head chef at the Shah’s palace.
Since we were such little girls, they seated us on padded little seats that sat on top of the regular chairs to allow us to be able to reach the table. Our waiter, Dara, knew us well. He gently tied big white starched napkins around our little necks. Our parents would order the food for us. We felt like little ladies carefully minding our table manners as we dined in such elegant surroundings. I loved being taken there. I guess my parents loved going there as well. Oftentimes they would go there with friends. At night there was a live band. They dined and danced the night away.
Papa had bought a Bechstein piano that belonged to Princess Ashraf, the Shah’s twin sister. At one point, the prime minister, Dr. Mossadeq, overthrew the government. The first thing he insisted upon was that Princess Ashraf should be exiled. She was quite ambitious and Dr. Mossadeq feared she would incite riots against his regime. She quickly sold what she could and left the country. Next, he chased the Shah out. Mossadeq should not have worried about Princess Ashraf for his regime did not last too long. In a matter of weeks, with the Western powers’ aid, peace was restored, and life continued as usual. My father, in the meantime, had bought the piano and a few other items from the princess’s palace. The Bechstein now lived in our salon. No one used the salon unless guests came to visit. The room was impeccable. The furniture was dusted and polished, the doors remained closed and the drapes drawn until company was received. The Bechstein piano became an addition to the room. It too was carefully dusted and polished weekly with the rest of the furniture. It needed to be used, but it was not being played.
One evening, when my parents were at the Park Hotel dining with friends, Mama noticed M. Baiano. He was the pianist in that band. Suddenly it hit her, he should teach Nora and me to play the piano. Right there and then, she consulted with my father. She bent her head to his ear, and over the sound of the music, she said, “Yosef, what do you think of hiring the pianist to teach Stella and Nora to play the piano?” My father liked the idea. During a lull in the music, she went up to him M. Baiano and introduced herself. She asked him if he was amenable to teaching us to play the piano. He was quite agreeable. It was arranged that he should come twice a week to teach us.
We were not the most talented of students. We managed to learn a few classical pieces, which made our mother happy, but best of all M. Baiano began to bring his wife and little girl with him. Our piano lessons became an opportunity for Mama and Mme. Baiano to socialize over cups of tea and cake. Their daughter, Glaudeanna, would play with Gilda while Nora and I were tutored by M. Baiano. Soon it became a social event as well as piano lessons. Glaudeanna was invited to all our birthday parties. In fact, I still have a book of fairytales that she gifted me on the occasion of one of my birthdays. Mama began inviting the family to some of her gatherings.
Glaudeanna was a beautiful little girl with a sunny disposition. She had long light brown hair that cascaded down her back in waves. Her hazel-colored eyes twinkled with merriment. Her lips were always turned up in a ready smile. She was the happy only child of doting parents, and she was easy to love.
Time passed. M. Baiano continued to teach us. His family came with him frequently. One winter Glaudeanna fell ill. She caught a cold that lingered on and on. She had a fever that would disappear during the day and peaked in the evenings. No matter how many doctors saw her, no one seemed to be able to bring her back to health. Her parents were beside themselves. Sad to say, she did not survive. The mother ranted and raved, blaming her husband for the child’s death.
“It was you who brought us to this forsaken country! I will not bury my Glaudeannna here where we are strangers! I want to take her home,” the poor broken-hearted mother sobbed. M. Baiano looked at her with helpless despair in his eyes. He was hurting as well. Glaudeanna was his little princess. His wife did not seem to comprehend that their daughter had slipped away from both of them, not just her. His heart was breaking as well. The reason they were here, in Tehran, was that he was offered a very generous salary. In Italy, he wouldn’t have been able to earn even a fraction of what he could here. She made him feel guilty for bringing them to Iran. She made him feel it was his fault that their Glaudeanna had died. With a heavy heart, they had her embalmed and returned to their hometown in Italy to bury her in the family plot. M. Baiano came back because his job was in Tehran. Mme. Baiano never returned.
At first M. Baiano continued to teach us piano regularly, but the joy he had in teaching us was not there any longer. I think it was too painful for him to come to our home. I think each time he came, he visualized his wife and Mama sitting together chatting in an amiable fashion. He pictured Glaudiana and Gilda playing merrily, their childish laughter echoing throughout the house. It was just too painful for him. He became a sad man. He had lost his child, his wife blamed him for her death and refused to return to Tehran. He lost his joy in life and his family, all in one fell swoop. Husband and wife separated in pain and anger. They became estranged. She refused to see him. He became befuddled and bewildered. He could not comprehend why this terrible tragedy had fallen upon them.
He continued playing at the Park Hotel. My parents still engaged in conversation with him each time they went there. Yet, somehow he had become a sad, quiet, and lonely man. He never got back with his wife, as long as he was in Tehran. They did not divorce, for Catholics do not.
In my once upon a time version, when he finally returned to Italy for good, they met inadvertently. One day they crossed paths on one of the tiny, winding cobbled streets that existed in the various quaint little towns in Italy. They both stopped and looked at each other as if they found something that they had long lost. They smiled at each other. He took her by the elbow and gently led her to a café for some caffe latte and pastries. As they sipped their coffee, they caught up with each other’s news. They talked for a long time. The anger and the pain had subsided, almost disappeared. He asked her if he may see her again. She said she would like that. They began seeing each other once more. He told her he still loved her, that he had never stopped loving her. She told him she felt the same way about him. Slowly, slowly, they went back to being one again. Perhaps they started a new family and lived happily ever after. Wouldn’t that be nice? But then, everyone knows I am a romantic at heart. Peter used to say that I see things through rose-tinted glasses. Perhaps I do. I like it better that way. Happily ever after is just fine with me!