The flesh beneath the marble

There have been days when anguish, sorrow, and dismay were the ferocious tyrants of my soul, and all I could feel was a pain so deep that it felt too much for this weak, earthly body.

During those days, when it was not blood running through my veins but the viridian water of the Lethes, the river of the Underworld, all I wanted was to have you by my side.

Being a single mother is far from easy. Being a successful single mother is even rarer. Nevertheless, you have done it; you accomplished your goal despite having a baby and a master’s in History of Art, a degree that seems worthless to most. Your job as an art critic brings you all over the world, all year long. Universities, book conferences, exhibitions, and tv shows, your schedule is perpetually booked. Your books and words have seen the Americas and Europe; you have gone as far as Australia and even Asia. No conqueror in history is quite like you: your dominion is not violent; it almost feels like an enchantment.

You found your voice to be the most powerful during those years in which mine was shaken by sobs. You left me in our apartment in Mayfair, our stunning apartment, full of Persian rugs and paintings. With the high ceilings and the marble fireplace. You made our home a gallery, beautiful and gelid.

Some days were better than others: whenever I travelled with you, I saw all the beauty that this world could offer; at home, we welcomed some of the most brilliant minds of our time. No matter who they were, though, you were always the star among them. I have this theory that, if you were born in another century, you would have been an oracle, like the Phytia of Delphi, or at least you would have charmed your way to the top, like Theodora, the humble circus acrobat that bewitched Justin I, emperor of the Eastern Roman Empire. There is a mystic magnetism in you, Mum, that I cannot put in words and borders with magic.

However, a few bright moments do not make up for all the time you chose to be somewhere else, far away from me. During these loneliness nights, I would sit in front of the fireplace, staring at your favourite piece, “The departure of Atilius Regulus” by Vincenzo Camuccini.

According to tradition, the Roman general Regulus was captured by the African city of Carthage (Rome’s nemesis) following the defeat of Tunis’s battle in 255 a.C. He remained in captivity for five years until he was sent to Rome on parole to negotiate peace. He was supposed to convince the Roman Senate to accept a peace treaty signed by Carthage’s oligarchy, whose conditions were strongly averse to Rome. Regulus, instead of pleading Carthage’s cause, urged the Roman Senate to refuse the proposals, and then, over the protests of his own people, he fulfilled the terms of his parole by returning to Carthage, where he met a dreadful death. He was locked in a spiked barrel and pushed off a hill.

His last words are said to be: “I may be a Carthage’s slave but with a Roman sense of duty”.

The painting depicts the moment Regulus, deaf to the pleas of both the Senate and his own family, is heading toward the ship that will bring him back to the enemy city.

There is something indefinable, ineffable, that makes this painting magnificent. The talent of Camuccini is undeniable: the drawing is extraordinary and harmonious, the decision of concentrating the warm colours toward the centre of the canvas, on Regulus and a senator’s toga, gives the scene incredible pathos. The picture is beautifully tragic, like a Shakespearean scene, and Regulus’s piercing gaze is not something you can forget: those are the eyes of a man who preferred to keep his honour over his own life. Ironically, choosing death made him immortal.

The contemplation of art has always comforted and elevated men. Watching Atilius Regulus defying death, I felt closer to you, Mum. I imagined you with the same look in your eyes and an identical boldness to the Roman hero.

However, the years of neglect broke your spell on me. I started to feel far from you, even when you were home. You came back a few weeks ago, and you shut yourself in your office, impatient to start your new book. I graduated from Grammar school with honours, as you wanted, but it went unnoticed. You stay awake all night, drink coffee, and you only talk about the impending deadline for your writings.

Thinking back to these last weeks with you, I have never felt lonelier. When you were away, I created an idealistic version of you. You were the heroine of my story; in my mind, I would paint you in the middle, with bright colours and resolute eyes, just as Camuccini did with Regulus. Right now, the veil has been lifted.

I spent the night of my 18th birthday like every other night, sitting next to the fireplace. I was trying to distract myself from the fact that you forgot about it. I heard you collapsing on the bed just before dawn, after another strenuous night of writing. In the meantime, I was getting ready to go out.

$20,000 is how much I asked for the painting. A shame, really, considering how much it is worth. I just needed enough to start my life away from here. Getting rid of the painting was cathartic. I finally feel liberated. I wonder how much time will pass before you realize that the painting is gone, and me with it, and how long until you notice this little black book that I left behind, over the mantlepiece. I hope you find it and read these words. Maybe for the first time in your life, you will notice the flesh underneath the marble, Mum.