like pretty flowers in a field, and every flower is a dream come true.” He opened his eyes. “Do you know what I used to call myself in those days?”
“What?”
“The doctor of dreams.”
Damiano gazed at his father’s gaunt face, painted with the color of death. “What made you decide to tell me this?” he asked. “Why now?”
“So that after my death you’ll think of me the way I truly was,” Federico replied. “And also because I want you to do something for me. There’s a box hidden in my safe. The box contains detailed records of all the child sales: the names of the mothers and occasionally those of the fathers, the sex of the babies, their height and weight at birth, and the names of the couples who bought the babies. I always meant to burn that box. I should have burnt that box a long time ago, but I didn’t. I couldn’t find the courage to destroy history, and that was a mistake I regret with all my heart. I never thought of my death as imminent, you see. Now I have only a short time left to live and no longer the strength to leave this bed and do what must be done. I’m asking you to do it on my behalf. Open my safe. You’ll find a cardboard box at the very back of it, kept closed by a string. You can’t miss it. Burn the box. Don’t read its contents. The truth should die with me.” He looked Damiano in the eyes. “Promise me you’ll do what I ask, and I’ll die in peace.”
“I promise, father. Your secret will be safe.”
“God bless you, son,” Federico heaved. “I’ll always be with you.”
8
FOR SEVERAL DAYS DAMIANO lived in confusion. What his father had done was unquestionably illegal, but he had done it for a greater good and to help people, and for that he felt respect and admiration. On the other hand, he, Damiano Sciaccaluga, had taken an oath when he had become a doctor. By keeping his father’s actions secret and burning the birth records he’d be betraying that oath, which was the foundation of the profession he had chosen. It was a conundrum, one that troubled him even in his sleep.
One morning Federico died. Watching his father lying immobile on the white sheets, hands crossed on his chest, Damiano realized he couldn’t betray him. He rushed to Federico’s medical office and opened the safe. The box was in the very back, as Federico had said. Damiano’s hands trembled as he held it, for he knew he was holding the legacy of his father. He brought the box to his own home, where he started the wood stove. With no hesitation, he lifted the stove lid and placed the box over the opening, ready to toss it into the flames. It was then that he began to wonder what the box contained. Papers? How many? Names, for sure. Someone he knew? He shook the box. So many secrets … I’ll look once, he said to himself, and then I’ll burn the box and forget it ever existed. What ill can it do if I take a quick look, it’ll be a moment then the box will turn to ashes. “Don’t read its contents …” he heard in his head. “The truth should die with me …” He stared at the red of the flames, watching his curiosity eat the voice of his father. He walked away from the stove, sat at the kitchen table, and untied the string. His heart raced as he began to skim through the handwritten papers. Each sheet contained information related to one child sale, beginning with the parents’ names—biological and adoptive—followed by the child’s data: birth date, sex, weight and length at birth. In the bottom right corner numbers indicated how much the adoptive parents had paid and how that amount had been divided between Federico and the birth mother. Looking at those numbers, Damiano realized it was true that his father had never gained any money from those sales. Emotion and guilt grew and fought inside him so strongly he had to stop reading. What should he do with those sheets? Should he look for the parents? For the children? It was a difficult decision, one he should not make hastily or while he was at the mercy of his emotions. One thing he knew for sure: he wouldn’t destroy the box—he would keep it. Those papers were a connection