For the Better

That afternoon I enjoyed the short drive home along the Tyrrhenian coast. Our family’s Fiat Topolino was a creaky, rusty little luxury - the best we could afford. The rough steering wheel under my hands and the smell of oil and old upholstery didn’t quite go with my suit and fashionable hat. Even though I’d bought them on sale, I thought I looked quite stylish.

The window was open, the waves flashed between the rocks, and the warm air smelled of an adventurous life and new hopes.

“Bring me some new clients, Bruno,” my boss had said before the trip. I had done even better than that.

I gave it a little more gas. The Fiat hardly picked up speed, but I only smiled.

Most of our friends and relatives were still struggling to get by after the war. So, we felt more than lucky.

I was already imagining Elisa’s arms around me when I walked through the door of our little apartment. She had told me there would be a surprise. I was curious.

A glossy wine-red Alfa Romeo roared past in the left lane, then cut sharply back into mine as the road began to curve, forcing my car toward the edge.

“Mannaggia a lui!” was my only thought. Damn him.

The right wheels dropped onto the gravel shoulder. The car pulled toward the edge. I jerked the wheel left.

A truck came around the bend ahead.

Too close.

The Topolino spun sideways. There was this ugly, loud shriek of metal against metal. Then came another sound—a deep, splintering thud unlike anything I had ever heard.

When the car stopped across the road, I found myself staring at the rock face beside it. A grey car pulled up in the opposite lane. Seconds later, another appeared from behind. For several long seconds, I couldn’t move. Then, with shaking hands, I pushed the door open.

And looked back.

A section of the stone parapet was gone.

I moved toward the gap on trembling legs, as if in a daze. Below the road, only a few metres down, the truck lay on its side among the rocks, half in the water.

The other drivers were already running toward it. I ran after them.

I just wanted to be a good person. Nothing more.

And now...

I watched helplessly as the medics lifted the badly injured driver and his companion into the ambulance.

I called my wife from the police station and said something like, “Don’t wait up for me. I’ll be late.”

For some time, I couldn’t bring myself to call my parents. “Later,” I thought. “Later.”

Weeks after, those memories came again and again.

If only I had been driving slower, things might have turned out differently. Maybe.

Talking to the police and to others, I realised that the two witnesses weren’t even sure it had been an Alfa Romeo. Neither had seen its driver cut me off.

“Everyone says that when they’re trying to justify themselves,” the policeman replied in a bored voice.

No one had been close enough to prove my words.

But one thing seemed certain to everyone: I had lost control of my car, and the truck driver had swerved only to avoid hitting me.

Later, the investigation found that I had exceeded the speed limit by five kilometres.

The driver and his passenger survived, but both needed months of treatment and rehabilitation. When they were finally able to give statements, neither remembered the crash clearly enough to add anything useful. The Alfa Romeo was never found. Not that anyone had looked very hard for it.

For a year that investigation continued I was restless and nervous, trying to pretend I was fine.

Then there was the trial.

The judge was clear and sharp: “Ten months. Suspended.”

At first, my family breathed a sigh of relief.

Then came the rest: compensation for the driver’s and his passenger’s injuries, the truck, the expensive equipment lost with it, court costs, and a fine. The assessments had already been completed. Altogether, it came to one million two hundred thousand lire.

I was devastated.

My parents were speechless when I brought them the news. My wife went pale. Our little daughter couldn’t understand what had happened. Only my younger brother Luigi said, “It’s okay. You’ll get through this.”

“Boss, I really need a rise,” were my words in his office a few days later. He agreed.

But even working harder, I couldn’t earn nearly enough.

Then the letters began to arrive. The claimants wanted their money quickly. Soon there were official notices too, warning that if I didn’t pay, they would start seizing property.

“I’ll never earn that much on my salary,” I said anxiously over dinner with the whole family. “I mean... it could take twenty years to pay it off.”

“We can sell the flat Grandpa gave you,” my father replied. “We wanted to divide it between you and Luigi anyway. If we give you a million and borrow a little more, we’ll manage.”

Mum nodded. “And there will still be another million for your brother.”

I objected. I just didn’t want to become such a burden on the family.

But after many days of discussion, I finally gave in. I could see no better way.

Yet bad luck had got there first.

We contacted an estate agent and told him we wanted to sell Grandpa’s flat. Two days later, he called my father back, clearly irritated.

“There’s a problem,” he said. “The flat has been seized. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Seized?” Dad asked, frowning. “What do you mean?”

At our next family dinner, we talked about nothing but the precautionary seizure.

“If they sell the flat for next to nothing, Bruno will still be in debt. And what will Luigi get? Neanche il becco d’un quattrino! Nothing!” Mum talked with her hands as much as with her voice, moving both arms as she spoke, her fingers closing and opening in quick, emphatic shapes. She was truly outraged.

“Don’t worry about me,” my brother shot back. “The important thing is to get this problem over with.”

“Nonsense!” Dad snapped, lifting his right hand, palm out, as if to stop the very thought. “Bruno was convicted only because no one had seen what really happened. Per l’amor di Dio, haven’t we been through enough already? And now we’re supposed to let some vultures have half the flat for nothing?”

I just frowned and thought.

“I’ll try to get a large bank loan. Maybe I can borrow some of the money from someone else.”

“A loan?” Mum clearly didn’t like the idea.

“So we can hand the bank another pile of money just for sitting behind their desks?” Dad was indignant too.

“If that’s how things stand, we’ll sell our old house in the country, borrow what we can from the relatives, and that should be enough. We can sell the flat later. It must be worth at least a couple of million.”

“All right,” I finally gave in. “Then I’ll pay you everything back out of my share when we sell it.”

Dad nodded. “Maybe. We’ll see.”

Over the next few months, the plan worked. I was happy to hear that the two men from the truck were recovering. All the legal procedures were over, and all the money had been paid. The only people I still owed were my own family.

And it seemed that we were finally past it.

Then one evening, while we were visiting my parents, Luigi arrived with a shining face and unfolded a newspaper in front of us.

“Look!” he said triumphantly. “They’re hiring workers from all over the world! And look at the conditions—housing, good wages, even the possibility of citizenship one day! Dolce vita, eh?”

“And?” I asked cautiously.

“I think we should all go. Mirra and I have already decided. And little Marco—he’ll be happy wherever we are. So come with us! All of you!”

“We have our life here, son,” Father said carefully, as though the words were difficult to get out.

“We’re not going anywhere.” Mother added with a notes of worry in her voice.

“Mum… Dad, look. Dozens of immigrants have already got houses there.” Luigi pointed to a photograph of smiling families. “There’s no risk.” Mirra nodded, supporting him.

“It’s halfway across the world. And it must cost a fortune to get there, doesn’t it?” I was still trying to make sense of it.

“We may even be able to go for free, as far as I understand,” Luigi continued. “To be honest, I went to their office yesterday.”

He pulled a leaflet from his pocket and laid it on the table.

“But if we choose that option, we have to promise to work there for three years.”

“But…” Mother stammered. “We wouldn’t see each other for… years!”

“Come with us!”

Our parents, usually so expressive, just exchanged looks.

“We’re not that young, dear,” Mum said. “Bruno, tell him it’s not a good idea!”

Luigi sighed dramatically, like a teenager being contradicted.

“You’re always too quick to make decisions,” Father added. “Give it a week and you’ll change your mind.”

“We don’t need a week,” my brother objected. “It’s decided.”

“You’d better stay,” I added. “I don’t see why this has suddenly become so urgent. And I agree with them. It’s too far. And…” I added after a pause “It’s too sudden. Even for me.”

“Okay! Chill. We’ll write.” Luigi gesture with both hands.

“Yes,” supported Mirra, hiding little Marco on her hands. “We’ll send you letters often. We promise.”

I tried to find the right words.

“Look. You’ve always valued your freedom so much,” I continued. “You have your own workshop here. And now you want to spend years working for some company you know nothing about, in a country whose language you don’t even speak? With no chance to change your mind?”

“Wait.” Luigi raised both hands as if surrendering. “Wait… I’d known about the offer for a while. Honestly, at first I didn’t even want to go. Then it hit me—if I take my share from Grandpa’s flat, I can go as a free worker. I won’t be tied to the company. I can quit whenever I want. In the worst case, we’ll be able to come back. Would that make you happier?”

He could see that we were still not impressed.

“This is Australia, not Italy,” he continued, gesturing. “It wasn’t damaged by the war. We can have a really good life there!”

Mother looked at him sadly.

“You were planning to use that money for this risky adventure?”

“We need time,” Father said at last. “I’m not ready to agree to anything yet.”

He paused and let out a heavy sigh.

“Who knows… Maybe this will be the first good thing to happen since that car accident.” Father face changed smiled.

If you had known Luigi since childhood, you would have understood that stopping him once he had made up his mind was about as easy as stopping a charging bull.

A couple months weeks later, the whole family and half our relatives gathered at the port to see them off.

Mirra was glowing with hope. She stood beside Luigi, waving goodbye, while little Marco sat in his father’s arms and waved to us too.

They kept their promises.

They wrote quite often.

After three years in the mines, Luigi found another job in transport, with an even higher salary. Mirra was later hired as a schoolteacher.

We were always happy to welcome them back to Italy from time to time. Not that our family could afford such a journey ourselves, even years later. They didn’t visit often, but whenever they did, we were happy to see each other.

Luigi seemed to have hit the jackpot.

Marco grew up smart and strong. While still in high school, he even managed to get a part-time job at the mine.

We sometimes asked when Marco was going to have a little brother or sister. Mirra would smile, and Luigi would usually shrug and say, “Maybe later.”

They were happy. That was what mattered.

We joked that Australia had cast some kind of spell on them.

The dry grass crunched softly beneath my shoes, and somewhere in the trees a bird kept singing. Standing there, I remembered visiting Australia with my mother and father ten years earlier.

Luigi had been only fifty.

That time, we had come for his funeral.

And our parents passed away shortly afterwards.

Mirra hadn’t cried then.

She wasn’t crying now.

Her face looked pale beneath her Australian tan, as if all the tears we had never seen had somehow drained the life from it.

This time, I had come with my wife. Our children were grown now, with lives of their own back in Italy. Mirra was alone.

Beside Luigi’s grave was Marco’s. Little Marco, who had once waved goodbye from his father’s arms, had died at twenty-seven.

“Marco was a good son. And my brother Luigi was a good father and husband,” I said, remembering how we used to help our father at work when we were children. I tried to smile. “They will always look after you from Heaven.”

I was trying to comfort Mirra. She smiled. Elisa put an arm around her.

We knew that hundreds, if not thousands, of people here had met a similar fate, drawn by the promises of a better life at Wittenoom.

Deep in thought, I kept asking myself: “What if?”

Over the years, those conversations with myself had become a habit.

“What if I hadn’t exceeded the speed limit? Would that have prevented the accident? I don’t know. But if it had, perhaps I could have been a better older brother, with an exemplary life, and Luigi might have listened to me.”

I knew it wasn’t true. Luigi had always been very much his own man.

“But what if…” came another thought. “What if we had let the court sell the flat for a fraction of its real value? We would have remained in debt. And Luigi would most likely have paid no attention to the Australian lure. He might have stayed with us. And they might still be alive.”

Elisa hated this habit of mine whenever I shared those thoughts with her. So eventually, I kept them to myself.

My life was good. Our life was good. Some people even envied us.

After many years, I had found a certain inner peace in accepting that I couldn’t control everything.

We often make decisions that seem reasonable and right.

Those mine workers simply wanted a better life for themselves and their families.

The company that built Wittenoom was simply following the new trends and trying to do what seemed best for itself and for the country. I remember those years, when people kept saying that asbestos was going to change our lives. To ordinary people like us, its dangers were unknown.

Perhaps the Alfa Romeo driver had been pursuing something good too—hurrying home to embrace his wife and children, or trying to make it to another business meeting on time.

But we never have enough knowledge to see all the consequences.

Life itself was already a stroke of luck. Yet it was filled with barely visible choices that might reveal themselves as decisive only decades later.

And we never notice the exact moment when we pass the point of no return.

Mirra had her life here—her job, her students and her friends. She chose to stay, no matter what.

When she saw us off at the airport, she said only, “Come together next time. Bring your children. And your grandchildren.”

We promised.

And all of us hoped for better.