The April day was breezy. Professor Tafani, who was now over eighty-five, left his house at exactly 3:00 p.m.
He had decided long ago that, unless there was an actual thunderstorm, nothing would keep him indoors. Getting some fresh air did him good, and that day too, leaving his home on Via Padova, he headed toward Villa Torlonia.
He had once been part of the C.U.S. Rome fencing team, specializing in foil. His body was still lean and wiry, a tribute to his past discipline. He disliked growing old, and life had not been kind to him. Yet, professionally, he had enjoyed a highly respected career. He had taught at the Liceo Tasso in Rome, where both students and colleagues adored him for his expertise—and his wit.
Reluctantly, he had entered a competition at La Sapienza University for the chair of Greco-Roman History and, despite fierce competition, he won it with ease. It was the late 1960s, early 1970s, and his lectures soon became legendary—packed with students and widely admired. But his true passion was mythology, especially Greek mythology, in which he became a world-renowned authority. None of his lectures was ever protested or boycotted, even during the turbulent years of student unrest.
At home, however, he had not been so fortunate. For about twelve years, he and his wife Letizia had been childless. Then suddenly, a boy arrived—Fabrizio—followed by a girl, Elena. The boy soon turned out to be a good-for-nothing; eventually, he married an Australian girl, moved to Sydney, divorced, and vanished without a trace. All the father’s efforts to find him were in vain. The daughter, on the other hand, was a cold, self-centered woman who, though living just ten minutes away, only visited to grab whatever she could.
His wife had been taken from him by an aggressive breast cancer ten years earlier. Since then, he had lived alone in his first-floor apartment of a Liberty-style building on Via Padova. His books and his curiosity had saved him—but it was hard, very hard.
He walked briskly toward the side entrance of Villa Torlonia, passing the little café run by a friendly Jewish man where he often had lunch. The owner was tidying up and greeted him warmly. Enjoying the walk and breathing in the ponentino breeze, Tafani followed the path leading toward the old riding arena, once used for Mussolini’s equestrian training. During the Fascist era, the Duce had made Villa Torlonia his private residence. Some of the buildings had been partially restored, especially the “House of the Owls.”
The professor reached his usual bench, facing a small bamboo grove bending in the gusting wind. Well, thought Tafani, in the end, life is still worth living—no matter what.
He had barely finished the thought when a soccer ball, coming from the nearby open area, hit him, knocking his glasses to the ground. A man playing with his teenage son rushed over, apologizing and asking if he was all right. Picking up his glasses, the professor reassured him. The man was about to leave when he stopped, turned back, and asked,
“Wait—are you Professor Tafani?”
The old man nodded.
The man called his son over. “You’ve just hit a living legend,” he said. “When I was an economics student at La Sapienza, I used to sneak into your history lectures. I was always amazed—not just by your knowledge, but by your ability to bring history to life. And now my own son might not even pass his final exams at the classical high school!”
Professor Tafani motioned for the boy to come closer and asked, “What’s your name?”
The boy, hesitating, replied softly, “Fabrizio.”
As he stepped nearer, his features revealed an uncanny resemblance to the son the professor had lost. Tafani felt a sharp pain in his chest, and his eyes filled with tears he barely managed to hold back.
“What’s happened to you, Fabrizio?” he asked, and just saying that name warmed his heart.
“Since Covid,” the boy replied, “I just… can’t focus anymore. It’s like my mind got stuck.”
After a short pause, the professor said, “Would you be up for a little challenge, Fabrizio? For two hours a day, starting at 3:00 p.m., you’ll come and listen to me. We’ll talk about the Greek gods. Two, maybe three weeks will be enough.”
“Okay,” said the boy without hesitation.
The father, astonished, stammered, “Professor, I don’t know what to say… please, tell me what I owe you.”
“Nonsense,” said Tafani. “It’s no trouble at all—you’re doing me a favor! Fabrizio, mythology isn’t just idle storytelling. Through studying it, I’m sure you’ll unlock your mind again. Its influence on human society—and especially on our own—is fascinating. Trust me on that. I’ll expect you tomorrow at 3:00 p.m., Via Padova 47, first floor. We’ll start with Zeus. By the way—where do you live?”
“Via Ravenna, just around the corner.”
“Perfect. See you tomorrow.”
Professor Tafani rose from the bench and started home. The father and son, still stunned, resumed their game.
What no one knew was that Professor Tafani descended from a cadet branch of the family that had given rise to the Barberinis. The Tafanis, originally from Barberino Val d’Elsa, bore a coat of arms with three horseflies (tafano in Italian). When they moved first to Florence and then to Rome, they changed their surname to that of their place of origin—Barberini. Their lineage rose to greatness when Cardinal Maffeo Barberini ascended the papal throne as Urban VIII, the Pope of the Counter-Reformation (1623). On the family coat of arms, three noble bees replaced the more humble horseflies, standing proudly against a bright blue field.
Nino Salzone alias Cenides ,YCP 2024
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