Beyond Boundaries

By Nancy Castrogiovanni

In the quiet corners of life, a subtle yearning takes root — an ache for something more, a search for purpose that often hides just beneath the surface of the everyday.  

 

"Beyond Boundaries" is a tale woven from author Nancy Castrogiovanni's real-life threads. At its core, this story revolves around a simple yet profound mission — to uncover the legacy left behind by a cherished grandfather, A. Sans E.  

 

Our protagonist, a seeker of stories, embarks on an earnest journey to assemble the fragments of her grandpa's life, to trace the brushstrokes of his artistic spirit. Through whispered tales and cherished memories, she unearths the layers of his existence — a life vibrant with colors, painted with passion. 

 

As each chapter unfolds, the narrative gracefully shifts between past and present, illuminating not only the artworks that graced canvases but also the vivid palette of experiences that defined A. Sans E.'s world. It's a story of discovery, one that resonates with shared laughter, intimate conversations, and the quiet yet significant moments that shape a life. 

 

"Beyond Boundaries" navigates the landscapes of memory and family history, tracing the footsteps of a life fully embraced. It's a tribute to the beauty of heritage, a celebration of the enduring creativity that dwells within us all. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nancy Castrogiovanni
• Release date: Aug 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9788011036768

Nancy Castrogiovanni

Nancy Castrogiovanni, a multi-faceted literary explorer and author of “Beyond Boundaries” lives a colorful, highly accomplished life. Nancy attended a Ph.D. in English Literature from Sunderland University, UK, where her academic journey delved into the realm of exiled writers like Milan Kundera and Mircea Eliade — echoes of whose ideas resonate within her debut work. For two decades, Nancy has called Sunderland her home, a city that embraced her artistic aspirations. Armed with a master’s degree in English Literature and a Bachelor in Fine Art, she orchestrated captivating theater projects for audiences both young and old, fostering a vibrant exchange of ideas, experiences, and cultures. Venturing beyond borders, Nancy’s path led her to the heart of Prague, Czech Republic, five years ago. As the spirited theater director and scriptwriter of the “English Theatre Club” under the aegis of the Integration Center Prague (ICP), she orchestrates engaging performances that intertwine language, culture, and belonging for newcomers in Prague. Nancy’s artistic work extends to diverse theater projects for children, where imagination knows no bounds. Through “Beyond Boundaries” Nancy Castrogiovanni paints a story that captures the essence of heritage, memory, and the eternal quest for meaning.

Book preview

Chapter One

Each memory was brought to life before me and within me. I could not avoid them; neither could I rationalize, explain away. I could only re-experience with total cognizance, unprotected by pretense.

Richard Matheson, What Dreams May Come

It is strange—the path that life sets before us. In some ways, the idea of predestination, so favored by some religions, might be a preferred philosophy. This belief that the road that was our life was decided for us eons ago and that every choice, every thought, and every single decision is beyond our control. That even though we convince ourselves that we are thinking outside the proverbial box, we are still just following the Yellow Brick Road that takes us to the magical land of the Wizard of Oz. Where, hopefully, we get the answers to all our questions.

It might be comforting to hope that everything is beyond our control and our actions are no fault of our own—but what of free will, then? The events described here were due to my decisions, but what if they were not? What if they were all governed by some higher power? Or an unseen hand that gently nudged me down one path instead of another?

I have become quite philosophical in my older age, and I apologize in advance for any such delineation from the original narrative. I have been accused of being overly bookish, but it is merely a product of my schooling and the literary world surrounding me. I have tried to blend my voice with that of the artists and writers whom I idolized throughout my youth. There is an amazing tale to be told, and I will venture to do so without becoming too derivative and heavy-handed.

I wish to inform any reader of this tale that while my grandfather’s artistic endeavors are based on real life, as are the geographical places mentioned, the rest of my story is purely fictional, as are the other characters who appear in this story. Everything resembling real people and facts is simply coincidental.

I had spent the previous twenty years as an artist and playwright in England’s bustling theater landscape. I had come to London with a bag and hope, not to mention a packet of manuscripts and ideas, having traveled from Italy as a wide-eyed art student anxious to see what the big world was all about.

Initially, we moved into a commune with other like-minded thinkers and raconteurs. We slept on mattresses, drank too much, and made sure we weren’t stealing each other’s ideas. The latter was the most difficult to avoid, as we often collaborated in the early morning hours when the red wine had long ceased flowing and inspiration had taken its place. On more than one occasion, I awoke with a hangover, only to walk into the kitchen and discover a half-finished storyboard or partial manuscript of what seemed like the best play in existence. To put it frankly, most of the scribblings that appeared from those weekends were nonsense, but I wouldn’t trade the experience for anything. I got a job as a screenplay editor, then as an assistant director. I tried to direct some of my own plays, finding some success in smaller theaters off the West End, but I never got the huge break I craved. I later married and had two children, taking any work I could find while pursuing a career in the arts. I created a home there and continued to work hard and polish my skills as a playwright, occasionally acting in plays. I soon had enough money to buy a small house outside London for myself and my family, and I relished the tube ride to and from work, during which I could expand on my ideas, read, or even write a bit. Overall, I lived a happy existence. It was more than anyone could have imagined. Little did I know what was lurking around the corner—or that my life would shift so unexpectedly.

After 20 years, I wanted a change of scenery, and before I knew it, an opportunity presented itself. An old friend from the commune called me and made me an offer. It was extremely different from what I was doing at the time, and in many ways, it was the opposite of the bright life I was used to, but in all honesty, the truly vibrant days had passed by this point. I no longer drowned in red wine or stayed up all night working on plays, stage directions, or memorizing lines. I was simply rewriting old plays or working on the novel I’d been planning for years.

My friend reminded me that I complained about being stuck in a rut the last time we chatted. I was locked in my comfortable suburban existence and had lost the glimmer of someone chasing their dream. True, I had come close to the dream, but just coming close appeared to be enough for me to settle into a life of constant procrastination. My friend felt sad to see me in that situation.

On a rainy Sunday morning in May, I was sitting in my kitchen when the phone rang. I’d gone into a trance-like state, sitting at my kitchen table with a notebook in front of me and a chewed-up pencil in my mouth. I blinked several times before recognizing the strangely familiar sound entering my creative space. I spat out the yellow pencil shavings and picked up the phone.

I have the perfect job for you, she said.

What kind of job would that be? I asked with an air of skepticism.

You still like books and literature, right? she said on the other side of the line.

Obviously, I said sarcastically, recounting the years of literary scholarship work I had spent at the university.

How would you like to work with literature? she asked enthusiastically. In a literal sense of the word.

I scoffed at her attempt at a literary pun, or was it grammatical? I loved words but despised grammar.

So, what is this literary job you’re raving about? I inquired, staring out my kitchen window at the rain.

It is for a publisher in the Czech Republic, she whispered, as if anyone would be listening to our conversation.

Go on, I said, encouraging her.

The job would entail rewriting classic works of fiction, she explained. You would make them into abridged versions, and then they would be translated into Czech as well.

So, I’d get credit alongside all the classic authors? I inquired.

I assume so, my friend replied, but to be honest, I’m not sure. Come on, what do you have to lose?

I am pretty comfortable where I am, I said, scratching my head. I have a lot on my plate here, and I’m not sure my family will agree to us moving abroad.

You were just telling me the other night about how bored you are with your life, she begged. And how you didn’t have anything going on. Your children are still small, and your husband makes a living by writing short tales. He can work from anywhere.

I shifted my gaze to the notebook on my kitchen table. It had nothing of value in it, just some scribblings that looked more like chicken scratch than writing. She was also correct about my spouse; this transfer to Prague would help him as well. Spring is quite nice in Prague, right? I asked.

The best, my friend responded, and I could hear her grin over the phone line.

Moving to Prague set into motion a series of events that changed my life forever. Of course, I was blissfully unaware of this while planning our trip. I was determined to avoid tying myself up for too long and to keep everything open for a return trip. I took a leave of absence from the theater and sublet our house to a lovely young couple instead of selling it outright. We drew up a contract, allowing them to buy if it came to that. I packed everything I needed for myself and my family and reached an agreement on the terms of my contract with the publisher. My friend from Prague, who had come there to study and afterward fell in love with a Czech, had arranged for us to stay in an apartment in the heart of the old town. She discovered that it might provide me with the necessary motivation to work on old books. I found it all perfectly exhilarating since the first work of fiction I would tackle was Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, one of my absolute favorites.

Within two months, I established myself in the beautiful city of Prague. My family and I lived comfortably. I quickly fell in love with the ancient buildings and architecture. It was exactly what I needed. I had also enjoyed the magic of old buildings in London, and my cottage was properly ancient by modern standards, but there was something quite different about Prague. It had a different kind of lure and luster. It was as if the history of the place were somehow closer, as if all the historical events that had taken place there were right beside me, always hiding in the corner of my eye.

I would sit on my balcony with Frankenstein open next to me while my laptop was open to a word-processing document. I read the novel again and highlighted the passages that absolutely had to be in a revised edition and where the language could be made simpler. This was done under great duress on my part, as I loved the archaic phrasing and references—ones that modern youth might not grasp and Czech teenagers would not understand. There was a quiet satisfaction in picking Ms. Shelley’s work apart and making it my own—like a ghostwriter, but centuries apart from the original creator. I sometimes wondered in quiet reflection what she would have thought if she knew what I was doing and if she would have been pleased that her text would reach more readers this way and be opened to a younger audience.

As my friend had said, the weather was exceptional. It was as if the sun shone a little brighter in Prague than in the UK, and it was warmer and more pleasant. I enjoyed many an evening on my balcony with