“The house had a fence painted with sighs and songs of love…”
These are the first verses of the beautiful waltz “Pedacito de cielo,” (“Little Piece of Sky”) written by Homero Expósito with music by Enrique Francini and Héctor Stamponi.
Every time I hear this waltz, I immediately feel a lump in my throat, and the image of my home appears: my grandparents' little house at Alejandro Fiol de Pereda 1237, Montevideo, Uruguay. The house where I spent my childhood, where I was lucky enough to be pampered and “spoiled” by my paternal grandparents.
That house had a fence, one of those low ones, with a green-painted iron gate that over time began to peel off… Flowers adorned its front, and there on the sidewalk, playing, running, and getting into mischief, I spent my childhood in the full freedom of neighborhoods as they were in the past. What beautiful times and what a soothing feeling it is for the soul to recall such a lovely childhood!
After many years, life brought me back to my grandfather’s side, reuniting under the same roof. This time, it was my turn to take care of him and spoil him.
In one of his after-dinner chats, he took out a photo from his wallet, one that he cherishes dearly. In that photo, he’s 16 years old, standing by the shore of Capitello, Italy, with his B-flat clarinet under his arm and the uniform of the band he played in. His eyes light up with the intensity of youth as he talks about how much he loved playing in the band, how many operas he had performed, and how he would have loved to continue. But World War II wasn’t easy, and at that time, young people dreamed of a better future, one that, back then, was only possible in South America. Exactly the opposite of what happens today, when people emigrate from South America to Europe to build a better future. Though perhaps this is all a consequence of being children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren of immigrants, carrying in our genes that “immigrant” code, and so we keep doing it, even though today, there may be other possibilities…
Two years after that photo was taken, he boarded the ship that would take him to Montevideo, where he built the foundations of his “better future.” a home.
When he arrived, he worked, worked, and worked… but his hands no longer played the notes of the clarinet. Instead, they brought life to the elegant men’s suits of the time, with the finest quality craftsmanship of a true Italian tailor. This was the trade that, alongside music, he had studied in Centola, Italy, his hometown. And that’s the work that allowed him to build that little house with the fence, painted with love for the family. He spent his days there working with my grandmother in the workshop behind the house, while listening to classical music, tango, and football matches on the radio. My grandfather, Aniello, and my grandmother, Livia, met in church, when he went to play with the band, and she sang in the church choir… but that’s another story.
He arrived in Uruguay carrying a suitcase full of dreams and music in his heart, but one of those dreams had to stay tucked away in his pocket. He had to sacrifice a lot to build his path, and he couldn’t continue playing the clarinet. At that time, in order to play in the theater orchestra, you had to be a Uruguayan citizen, which meant waiting three years for residency and renouncing his Italian nationality… and he didn’t want to do that. Without knowing it, he gave up his dream of continuing with music, but left the door open for a future descendant to fulfill it… sometimes passions are inherited, just like nationalities.
And so there we were, living together again under the same sun in Alicante, Spain. My grandfather Aniello, just a few months away from turning 90, was my only audience while I vocalized and sang tango. Sitting in the living room chair, he listened in silence while I, focused on household chores, spent hours singing. We listened together to tangos on radio 2x4, and as the radio played, our minds traveled across the globe, and it felt like we were still under that “Little Piece of Sky” in that house with the fence in the Prado neighborhood of Montevideo.
And for a few moments, I see him smile… Because he, as the tango “El corazón al sur” says, always has his heart in the south, longing to return to his home in Montevideo, the one he left just recently to be with his son, my father…
Another tango that’s emotionally difficult for me is precisely “El corazón al sur” by Eladia Blázquez. Every time I sing it, my whole life flashes before my eyes like a movie, condensing an entire existence into a few images, and the identification is inevitable. There, in those verses, I see my grandfather, and in each of its words, my life is also reflected:
“My father was a bee in the hive,
With clean hands, and a good soul.”
Here I am, singing these verses alongside the bandoneonist Carlos Costa:
Sorry if this story made you shed a tear. I know that many of us have stories similar to this… at some point, stories always intersect. Everything unfolds like a circle that touches the same points millions of times, and though each time the point has a nuance, a different story, the movie that repeats has the same heart.
My favorite versions of “Pedacito de cielo”:
Anibal Troilo & Francisco Fiorentino: https://youtu.be/8cUHYpqk5CE?si=cClKjb_JPIsdvGcv
By Maria Graña & Pablo Estigarribia: https://youtu.be/hSla9tmFJjI?si=TgTFaaUC8VXKs9sb
Here is the photo he carefully keeps in his wallet, on the beach of Capitielllo with his clarinet under his arm.
And because passions are also inherited, here are Nicolas and his great-grandfather enjoying a good plate of pasta “spaghetti al pomodoro”.
My small tribute to my grandfather Aniello and to all those who, for some reason, life has taken them away from their dreams; because the dreams that are not fulfilled have a potential that would not always have given us happiness and perhaps that is why they are not fulfilled, but they are kept in our pockets and continue to weigh and hurt our hearts. With much love we have to let them go....
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