When things went really bad, Giancarlo would return to Sperlonga for a few days.
It was his way of reconnecting with his inner self. His spirit, both romantic and melancholic, came alive in contact with those places that evoked what he loved to call “strong reminiscences.” He always followed the same path on foot. It was a logical sequence, a ritual, a journey through memories from childhood to adulthood.

With his job as a travel agent, he had traveled the world, both personally and indirectly, through the trips he organized and the stories of his clients. He could have sought refuge in exotic countries, but over the years, he had remained faithful to this pilgrimage to his sanctuary of memories. His mind had selectively tied every corner of the town to a precise moment in his life: the alleys, the houses, and the gardens spoke to him with familiar voices.

The Ritual of Memory

He would start at the belvedere overlooking the lakes—how many sunsets he had witnessed from that spot! The passionate embraces while the entire world was flooded with shades of red and the deep bass sounds from the nearby cinema! Amadeus by Miloš Forman at the open-air arena, sitting on the grass among fireflies and mosquitoes!

“Look, do you see the profile of the sorceress Circe?” his grandfather Marco would ask, pointing at Mount Circeo when he was a child. “The coast is her dress, and Sperlonga is a white agate gem sewn onto it to make it even more precious.”

Later, he had discovered, thanks to a university professor who was one of his clients, that white agate was a sacred stone to Aurora, the Roman goddess of dawn, and to Cerridwen, the Welsh goddess of knowledge. It was believed to grant courage and fearlessness. This only strengthened Giancarlo’s belief in Sperlonga’s magical nature, and when he strolled through the narrow alleys, he gazed at the white houses in search of lost courage. To him, those small buildings embedded in the landscape were like treasure chests filled with simple human warmth.

Then he would descend to the “Spring,” where women used to wash their clothes, and where their voices seemed to have been magically trapped in the ever-cold water of the small basin, before heading toward the Truglia Tower.
“Did you know that in the 1600s, it was inhabited by just a sergeant and a single soldier? At night, their spirits return to the tower,” he would say, trying to impress his first loves during long summer vacations.

During his university years, which he had abandoned after two turbulent years, he often sat on the low wall of Via del Porto, playing the guitar and singing old songs. His passionate rendition of Meraviglioso always earned him applause from tourists and won over a few hearts in need of comfort.

From the tower, he would descend to the small port and, walking along the entire Levante beach, he would reach Tiberius’ villa.
The clandestine bonfires, the sound of cicadas! What times!

“When Emperor Tiberius was hosting a symposium in the cave, some rocks fell from the ceiling, crushing three slaves. Sejanus, a prefect, saved the emperor by shielding him with his own body.
Stefania, you are my empress, and life is a symposium, a banquet… but if it ever turns tragic, I will be your Sejanus.”

He had declared this, in a moment of melodramatic excess, to his future wife on a night of white wine and laughter, a week before their wedding.

He would then end his walk by lying on the beach, silently contemplating the stars.

Reconciliation and Renewal

That September Sunday, too, Giancarlo had returned from Rome, searching for himself along his ritual path. He had left late, after Italy’s football match, from his grandfather Marco’s house near the little square of bars. From the houses, animated comments could be heard: “That was a penalty!” “You don’t understand anything about football.” “A team lined up like that won’t get far.”
Every now and then, the sound of bottles clattering into dumpsters could be heard.

The moon had risen, majestic and bright, but the night didn’t seem to bring anything good.
On the beach, the lingering scents of seafood dinners still wafted from the seaside restaurants. He passed by a couple holding each other tenderly and a small group of young people walking with their feet in the water.

He reached Tiberius’ villa and stopped in front of the iron gate.

“There’s nothing left to keep going. It’s all over,” he thought, sinking into an abyss of disappointment. The pandemic had seriously endangered his small business. His mood had worsened drastically in recent months, and he had started taking antidepressants.

“What will I do? Who will help me? There seems to be no way out!”

As his mind grew heavier with dark thoughts, the wind carried a boy’s voice, like a whisper:

“Look! It’s the spirits of the sergeant and the soldier on that boat in the middle of the sea.”

Giancarlo turned, surprised, and smiled. He first glanced into the darkness of the nearby beach, trying to figure out who had spoken, then looked out toward the sea.

He saw a small boat approaching the shore. A broad-shouldered man was rowing, while another, smaller man stood at the stern, slightly hunched. His silhouette reminded Giancarlo of his grandfather Marco. His heart tightened. The two men got off the boat and pulled it onto the sand. The taller man threw the nearly empty net to the ground.

“Tomorrow, we’ll go farther out,” said the older man.

At that moment, as if by a miracle, Giancarlo began to cry.

He thought of all the times he had seen his grandfather rise at dawn, his face serene, heading toward the sea. The more he remembered, the more he cried; the more he cried, the freer he felt.

Then he thought of all the sailors around the world who woke up at night to face the sea. He thought of all the empty nets cast onto beaches and into ports. Of all the nights of disappointment and all the mornings of redemption.

A feeling of peace flooded his soul.

He turned, moved and grateful, toward the illuminated town.

From afar, he saw a dog running toward him. The dog reached him, jumped up, and started licking his face.

“Minooo… you’re such a disobedient dog. But I love you. Come on, let’s go.”

And as he held the dog’s head between his hands, he whispered:

“Tomorrow, we’ll go farther out.”