Finding Francesca

I don’t remember how I met Francesca. I think I was about 12 or 13, in my first year of ginasio, junior high. I remember walking with her to and from school. My street was on her path, so it was easy. We walked and said goodbye when we arrived at the iron gate of my house. She proceeded to her house in a vila several streets further. (A vila is a cul-de-sac surrounded by what best could be described as Portuguese style town houses.)

I listened to Francesca attentively. We talked. I was in awe at how knowledgeable she was. Instead of entering my house when we got to the gate, I started to continue to walk all the way to her house and then I would return home, pondering about what we had talked about.

I do not remember details of our conversations. I remember her talking about her family, how strict her parents were and what a drag that was. Her sister had a boyfriend and Francesca covered for her, telling lies about why her sister was late. I probably complained about my family as well, my absent father, my perennially unhappy mother, my disgruntled siblings. Sheer hell, for us adolescents.

The only story I remember from those days with Francesca was Beatriz’s story. Like Francesca, Beatriz was also older than I. She no longer attended our school. Beatriz decided to run away from home. She was quite a tomboy, I know. It was Francesca who helped her, cutting her hair and not telling which direction did Beatriz escaped dressed as a young man.

That story of transgression, gender transgression and transgression of all the behavior codes a girl must obey not to find herself in dangerous situations fascinated me! I fantasized a lot about being like Beatriz. A few years later, when I visited our recently founded new capital, Brasilia, I located Beatriz, met and spent an afternoon fishing with her at the lake. One of my heroes.

Francesca was my hero too. She had existential angst down pat. I rehearsed it too, feeling bored, making eyes, crying at sad songs. Francesca suffered from terrible social shyness. I could not learn that, I tried. I was just too nosy.

I don’t remember how we separated. Life brings people together and separates them, tout doucement, sans faire de bruit, as the song goes. My love for Francesca was so deep that I named my guitar Frances. It was not the full Francesca because I did not want anyone to know or admit that my guitar (masculine word violao in Portuguese) was named after a girl.

I learned at one time that Francesca had moved to Brasilia, one of the centers of student agitation just before the military dictatorship was established. Of course she would be involved. Later I knew that she had married a man with the last name Golubov. I have a letter that indicated she was having a hard time managing having become a mother. Silence. Absence. Time passing. No news of Francesca.
After I moved to the U.S., for many years I have tried to find her, with no avail. I wrote to the Correio Brasiliense, the capital’s newspaper, asking them to publish a letter of inquiry. I would look in phone books and ask people who lived in Brasilia if they knew of a Francesca. Maybe five years ago I found Jaime Golubov, an architect and artist, theorist of symmetries as a professor at the University of Brasilia. I wrote to him but never received a response. I just could not find vestiges of my Francesca.

Yesterday my sister was showing features in the computer and we went to Orkut. I played a bit and decided again to look for Panza (Francesca’s maiden name). No results. I go to find Jaime Golubov again, and get a page from his research in symmetries where a student indicates that she is continuing to take on the topic after his death in 1996. Oh, well. No wonder he did not answer me. He was dead… There is a picture of him. “Very interesting man,” I thought, “someone who Francesca might have loved, a genius type…” Under this picture posted in Flckr, a feature of Google, there was a comment from a reader: “Oh, this is my dad! I had not seen him in so many years!” Signed, Iemanja75. By the way, for those who do not know it, Iemanja is the goddess of the sea in AfroBrazilian religions.

I just about died myself. I clicked on the comment and found Iemanja75’s pictures posted. A photographer. No doubt Jaime and Francesca’s daughter. She had a collection of family photos posted. I clicked on that. There they were, Dona Rosina, Senhor Gennaro, Francesca’s parents, and Francesca and her sister Maria Jose in a picture beside their mother, Francesca looking exactly as she did when we were schoolgirls.

I sent a message to Iemanja75 who I know now be named Leticia. She lives in London. I told her about myself, about the friendship with her mom, and asked if her mom was still alive. She answered back immediately! I could not believe it! My Francesca is alive and well and also living in England. Then Francesca herself wrote to me,

Carissima Tania;

What a surprise, and a very good one!!!!! So, you have relocated to
the USA I understand??

YES, we have a 50years catch up to do, and let's hope that our diverse
ways of using English, yours American, mine British, wouldn't interfer
in our communication.

You couldn't find me because now I am using my maiden name Francesca Viceconti-Panza, and my website is empty.

I came to London to do a PhD 20years ago, and couldn't cope with it
all due to family pressures. But we decided to stay because I could
use my Italian nationality.

Since then, I did a degree in Public Art and Design, taught history of
art, did translation work, had a grandson, joined the Palestine
Solidarity Campaign and went there to see all the Isreali violence and
racism in the flesh, and had a show of my digital images about
Palestine just last October....

It will be great to keep in touch; I am now planning to go to Rio in
April to see my sister Giusseppina, and work alongside this English
journalist who lives in S.Paulo, and is a commited Palestinian
supporter.

I am taking the liberty to attach 1jepg image of mine and hope you
will see what type of work that is about.

Love and peace, muito amor e carinho. bacci tanti con amore...

Amigona de sempre Francesca


Life is good. It gave me back Francesca. In London!