The Importance of Genre
Facing the large family left me briefly flustered, but I smiled and greeted them as politely as I could.
And then the aunt took the baby from me.
Even though she was a complete stranger he was meeting for the first time today, Luca, once nestled in her arms, looked like the world was pure delight and launched into a storm of baby babble.
After a fleeting moment of bewilderment and a twinge of hurt, another baby was placed in my arms. A little girl a bit bigger than Luca. With dark chocolate-brown hair braided into pigtails and brown eyes, she was truly adorable.
“Hello…?”
I offered a gentle smile and carefully greeted her, but the baby stared at me with wide, sparkling eyes and then looked ready to burst into tears.
Why.
“…Do I look scary?”
“No way. Our Bianca’s just shy around strangers.”
Greg took the fussing baby and handed her back to his sister as he spoke.
“Shy around strangers?”
“Yeah. Luca will probably start being selective with people soon too.”
“Kyaaaah!”
…Would he really? Luca was now making dolphin sounds nonstop, as if he were having the time of his life.
“Is that reliable info?”
“Well, every baby’s different, I guess.”
The aunt holding Luca gathered the other kids and headed for the living room, while I was led to the dining table by Greg’s mother, who gave off a clear vibe of “I can speak English, but I won’t.”
Indeed, the hand of the woman who had once hurled a smartphone at Greg’s face felt so powerful that once it locked on, escape seemed impossible.
The sudden thought hit me that if that palm connected with your face, you’d topple right over sideways.
“……”
And I felt a little more pity for Greg, who had supposedly been pinched on the arm and smacked on the back by that hand countless times.
In the short stretch from the entrance to the table, Greg’s family exchanged a rapid-fire torrent of words.
After seating me, they bustled between kitchen and dining area; from every direction came the sound of people ordering one another around. Of course I understood not a single word, so I simply sat there quietly blinking.
Even amid the chaos, the house thrummed with the delicious smell of cooking, and soon a plate heaped high with lasagna was set before me.
Pop!
Grandma skillfully uncorked a wine bottle, filled a glass to the brim, and handed it to me.
“Thank you.”
I accepted it with both hands and a word of gratitude, yet the red wine sloshing full in the glass was a little startling.
Is wine normally poured this full?
Then a pre-meal prayer followed.
While most Americans are Protestant, Italians are mostly Catholic.
When asked what my religion was, I said I had grown up under the strict teachings of the nuns, and all the elders nodded.
Feeling as if I had scored roughly one point, I relaxed a little and picked up my fork along with the others.
With chatter that made it feel as though I had dropped into the middle of Italy, the warm, appetizing aroma of food, and the heat radiating from both the dishes and the people, I was slightly dazed as I brought the food before me to my mouth.
“……!”
It was so delicious my eyes lit up.
If this was what lasagna was supposed to taste like, then I had never eaten real lasagna before.
The adults exchanged smiling words, clearly pleased with my reaction.
The sisters at least used somewhat gentler English and gestures to push a salad bowl toward me.
The salad was delicious too. Was this balsamic vinegar homemade?
Even the wine was good. Among people drinking red wine like water, I barely managed to finish one glass.
The garlic bread beside the lasagna was also too delicious, and everything was truly delicious. I polished off a considerable amount of lasagna on the first plate and gratefully accepted a second serving.
But when the third plate appeared in succession, I desperately refused—only for my refusal to be refused. As I struggled with my fork and finally admitted I could not eat another bite, saying I would take the rest to go, I watched them pack more than my share of lasagna into a container.
Looks like I’ll be eating only lasagna for dinner every night this week.
“Mom says she’s packing three bottles of wine for you too.”
“No, it’s fine, Mother. I’m alone, so I couldn’t drink all that…”
She pretended not to hear.
I felt as though I had done nothing but eat and suddenly worried about Luca, but from the living room the laughter of Luca and the children never ceased. And subjectively, Luca’s voice seemed the loudest…
Unlike Dad, our baby is strong.
I had refused the third plate, yet since the others had not finished eating, I sat there as if listening intently to conversations I could not understand and ate three more slices of garlic bread.
Even though I had eaten so diligently, I felt as if I had overheard something along the lines of, “Why does that kid eat so unsatisfyingly?”
After the meal.
Handing me a small demitasse filled with a strong espresso shot, Greg asked,
“Want to get some air in the backyard for a bit?”
“Yeah.”
I nodded vigorously, took the cup, and stood up.
I could feel the family’s tight-knit affection through my skin, and it made me wonder if this was why Greg was such a good person—but I was short on oxygen.
“Ah, before that, let’s feed our Luca some formula.”
“He’s already eating?”
It was true. The aunt had taken Luca’s bottle and formula from the bag I had brought and was feeding him.
Luca was smiling brightly, sucking on the bottle in her arms.
“……”
Well, as long as you’re comfortable, Dad is happy.
Only after we stepped out into the backyard alone did Greg briefly explain the current situation.
The moment he had confessed his sins over the phone, his mother had driven seven hours with Grandma and the aunts straight to Greg’s apartment.
And from there Greg had been “relocated” here, where for the two days he had not gone to work he had been subjected to mental re-education.
“…So then Mother will go back home with Grandma and the aunts, right? She’s not going to keep living with you?”
“Yeah. Just my sister is staying for a while with the kids. So I can learn how to take care of a baby.”
I see.
“Then when are you planning to bring Rachel over?”
“Later. If I propose again and she accepts. Even if not… if she came right now she’d probably try to run away, wouldn’t she? For the record, your face earlier was priceless.”
We snickered like kids.
A cool late-spring evening breeze stirred.
“Still, it’s nice. Your family.”
“It is.”
“There must be bad times too, right?”
“There are bad times.”
The harmony shown when guests visit is surely based on the family’s usual self, yet an outsider can never truly know what it is like day to day.
“When our family fights, it’s really vicious.”
Because they know every last detail of one another’s circumstances, the words that fly are that much more cutting; baring the bottoms of their souls that no outsider ever sees and hating one another—that too is family, Greg said.
Certainly, if that much weight of affection could just as easily crush a person, that was another story altogether.
And…
Even without understanding the words, there had been a certain atmosphere in the conversation that was directed solely at Greg.
“Are you the only son in your family?”
“Yeah. And the somewhat lacking youngest, at that. My sisters are all smart. …Good jobs, good marriages, kids.”
So every time they look at him the whole family speaks with one voice full of worry, he said.
“…That must be hard.”
“Well…”
Greg let out a deflated little laugh but did not add anything further. Instead he changed the subject.
“My mom really likes you. Says you’re sharp and put-together.”
“…I barely said a word and just ate like crazy.”
“I told her. How you take care of Luca, that you’re a great cook, that you can do anything.”
While we were exchanging trivial remarks, someone walked out of the house one door over holding a can of beer. He had the exact air of a guy who had finished dinner and come out for some air, just like us.
When Greg’s eyes met his, Greg raised his espresso cup in greeting; the man raised his beer can in return.
They were too far for conversation to carry, yet Greg quietly asked,
“I’ll look like that soon, won’t I?”
“Doesn’t look bad.”
Fulfilling responsibility for your own household—it looked cool.
Of course that responsibility would never be light.
Greg nodded and tossed the espresso into his mouth.
“My sisters, Mom, Dad who’s not with us anymore… they all gave up so much. My brothers-in-law too… they’re all in the same boat.”
Greg looked up at the sky washed in red sunset. He gazed high, then slowly closed his eyes.
“…I already knew. Time for the immature youngest to graduate, even if it’s late.”
“……”
People are strange.
When you tell them not to, not to, they ignore you; the moment they really say they won’t, you find yourself thinking maybe they should stay a little immature a bit longer.
Of course Greg would live well from now on. Yet the thought of the sparkling, immature Greg withering was simply sad.
…I don’t really know because I have no family, but would his family actually want him to sacrifice? Maybe they sacrificed so that he wouldn’t have to.
Greg was saying he would give up music for his family. Yet what they had opposed might have been wanting him to live a more responsible life, not music itself.
I had no idea exactly what conversations had taken place, but perhaps Greg had never even seriously brought up music, and because of past memories he had gotten scared in advance and simply declared he would do whatever the family told him.
If so, wouldn’t it be good for him to try properly at least once?
It might be a selfish thought, but looking at things now, it wasn’t as if he were that desperate for money or in dire straits.
People say that as they grow older they regret the things they never did more than the things they did.
…Rachel probably sent me because she didn’t want to see Greg like this either.
“……”
Yet I had still never heard Greg sing even once.
If, contrary to his words, he turned out to be a terrible tone-deaf disaster, then all this fretting would be pointless.
I downed the now-cold espresso in one gulp, wiped my mouth, and asked,
“Greg, do you have a guitar at home by any chance?”
“A guitar? Of course. Why?”
“I practiced, so I don’t want it to go to waste. Let’s try playing together once.”
Of course it was a lie. I had glanced at the sheet music once and never practiced. Moreover, since it wasn’t a guitar I had bought with points, the performance wouldn’t be perfect—but I could manage the basics, so it would be enough to check Greg’s singing ability.
“Ah… sure, why not?”
After I waited a moment, Greg returned with a slight smile and handed me the guitar.
Ting, ti-ding…
Confirming the pitch was perfectly tuned, I opened the recording app on my smartphone just in case and settled into position.
The song Greg had brought as the one he most wanted to sing first was a piece with a lyrical melody. The lyrics looking back on beautiful days after a breakup were so lovely that the song was popular with both men and women.
When I laid down a calm accompaniment, Greg let out an admiring “Oh.”
I shot him a look that said not to make a fuss; he grinned once, cleared his throat—
And began singing as if simply murmuring the words.
“……”
Even though we had never rehearsed together, Greg rode my accompaniment just right and delivered his story through song.
A breakup song steeped in wistful nostalgia.
Yet the lyrics carried on Greg’s voice sounded less like longing for a lost lover and more like yearning for that time itself in the past.
A song that seemed to speak for his current feelings, thick with heartfelt emotion.
“……”
So much so that the neighbor, halfway to raising his beer can to his lips, froze and stared at Greg with glistening eyes.
Whether because I had no nostalgic past of my own or because my emotions had simply dried up, tears did not well up.
But one powerful thought did whirl inside me.
This is YouTube material.
I should have filmed it instead of just recording.
No—editing a black-screen short as a teaser for Shorts would be great too.
I still had not mentioned YouTube to Greg, nor suggested we try persuading the family together.
Yet already in my eyes the projected payout that had not even covered Luca’s formula money was swelling tenfold, a hundredfold.
As the song reached its climax, the red numbers of the graph in my head shot through the ceiling.
Diriring…!
When the song ended and I stopped the final stroke, the neighbor set down his beer can and gave a standing ovation.
Somewhere in the neighborhood a cheer went up as well.
Greg first bowed exaggeratedly to the only audience member visible in front of him—the middle-aged man—then sat back down.
“How was it? I sing pretty well, don’t I?”
“Yeah.”
I nodded honestly. After checking that the recording had come out clean, I turned off the phone screen.
“Did you get better than before, or were you always this good and just never made it as a singer?”
Pleased by my better-than-expected reaction, Greg, face slightly flushed, played an old video on his own phone.
He must always have carried footage from those days with him.
With a little anticipation I pressed play.
[Gwaaaaah! Kuuuurgh! What the hell…!]
What is this. I nearly dropped the phone in shock.
[Uwek, uuuuurgh…!]
Click.