There were twelve steps that I walked down each morning. I would count them in sets of six, and the first six would take me to a mezzanine that overlooked a courtyard. Sometimes, there was a woman who crouched in the centre to smoke as the day broke. Her lips were dusted in cigarette ash, and her stained nightgown was sheer enough for me to see the bulge of her spine and the jutting of her hips. The first time I saw her, she returned my stare with a resentful one of her own. After that, I tried not to look at her anymore.
New places were not exciting to me. I did not care for novelty, and I cared even less about that which was unfamiliar to me. I wasn’t exciting to the new places either. Perhaps this was a good thing: I never behaved self-consciously, I wound through streets of cobblestone with empty determination, I talked to people with decisive nonchalance. Once, when I found myself in a small farmer’s market in a piazza two blocks from my apartment, I spied at a produce stall a barbarian bouquet of coriander in a bucket of parsley, and this amused me. It was in the wrong place, but no one would notice, nor would it be meaningful to anyone if they did. I fancied myself as a misplaced herb. I wondered whether the coriander felt self-conscious.
Opposite the market was a cluttered strip of restaurants and bars dotted with up-tempo adults and crimson-cheeked children. The heat was sweltering, causing bourns of sweat to run down my chest. The warmth of the sun parched my energy. I imagined the water in my body turning into steam, imagined myself deflating into the stinging sunlight.
A serious-looking man nearby was scooping lemon gelato into paper cups that were covered in condensation. Its icy surface glistened as the vendor wiped his slick forehead with the back of his sunburnt hand. A group of teenagers nipped at his heels, chattering with anticipation as he prepared their servings. I was suddenly hungry, but I was adamant in my avoidance of teenagers. I departed, striding into the bar nearest to me.
It had a strange air about it, lit only by a few ginger-tinged bulbs hidden in their sconces. The marble clad tables upon the plush carpet were empty, save one. An old woman with the creased complexion of an overripe nectarine was bent over a steaming shot of sable coffee. She fiddled with her chunky gold rings, moving them one by one. Her skin moved with them, as if her jewellery was welded to her knuckles.
There was a boy behind the bar. Actually, I presumed that he was in his late twenties, but there are some adult men who will only ever appear as boys. Even in filling out their frames, letting their vocal tone mature; the way they move distinctly gives the impression of a child who has been mistakenly thrown over the precipice of youth into adulthood. He was mopping the countertop with a vigour I only ever witnessed in people who were professionals in avoiding eye contact.
I placed myself at the furthest end of the bar and rummaged through my bag while the boy finished cleaning. After a few moments, he turned reluctantly to me.
“Good afternoon,” he said. I greeted him back.
He had an ordinary face, ordinary clothes. There was nothing particular about him. I did see the blush of a pink birthmark peer out from beneath the collar of his shirt, and his nose was quite strong, perhaps broken at some point, with a jagged edge that reminded me of an uncut chunk of rock salt. But these were features that were uninteresting in the scheme of things.
After I ordered, he warmed to me slightly. We sat in amicable silence for ten, fifteen minutes as I made notes in my journal, a small dessert fridge humming merrily in the background.
“What are you writing?” he eventually asked me.
I told him that I was trying to write a book. He smiled, long and knowing. I tried to smile back, but my mouth was full of millefoglie, so I awkwardly grimaced instead.
“And the book,” He added. “What is it about?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“That’s silly. Besides, almost every story has the same meaning.”
I felt offended, resentful at the cliché of this conversation, but urged him to elaborate.
“I have always thought that every author is trying to understand something, which means that every book is about asking why. Sometimes the author tells us why, sometimes they don’t.”
“Interesting.” I said, and then realised he wanted me to say more. “Have you studied literature?” A tangled laugh fell from his lips. “No, no, God no. Not academically, no.”
Finally, I felt myself falling into his words. “Why? Would your family not want you to?”
He paused, itching casually at his brow with a long forefinger. “My family isn’t an issue. Well, I have no family around anymore. That’s why I moved here only a few weeks ago, so I’m a stranger to these parts. Moved from around the country, that is.”
“So, you’re alone?”
“I am, yes. It’s freeing though, knowing if I disappeared in the maze of people here that there would be no one to notice the absence of Paolo.”
“Paolo.” I echoed. I told him my name.
Our discussion turned into a heated debate about our favourite novels. The heat outside turned into cooled night, stirs of nocturnal noise enveloping the piazza. I left around eight as the bar became busier, but Paolo encouraged me to return the following afternoon.
The next day, I took twelve steps to the street, occupying my time for a while by dipping in and out of the disarrangement of shops on my street. There was a Castroni adjacent to the apartment building. A bemused shopkeeper leered from her counter as I browsed. Cans of cherry tomatoes, jars of pickled onions, boxes of sweets, unending shelves of olive oil. I held each of these items, absorbing the typography, the shape, looking carefully at the expiry dates: 04/24, 10/27, 03/26. How did they know I wouldn’t be able to eat the dried figs in two years? I pictured someone who sampled a singular olive every day until they decided the brininess of the olives during April was inadequate. I wanted to tell Paolo about this image.
Around four, I returned to the warm luminesce of Paolo’s bar. On shift with him was another, mature aged man with an abrasive grin who introduced himself as Giuseppe. Paolo curtly notified Giuseppe that he was taking his break, and then I found that he was sweeping me back outside.
He took me to a deli where we purchased an oil-blemished bag of fried artichokes, which he reassured me were the best he had discovered in the area. I began to see different parts of him: eyes that were once only brown became like toasted walnuts to me, his forearms were bronzed and freckled, and he walked with a gait of anticipation. Perched on the curb of a road that heaved with pedestrians and cars, we talked casually between mouthfuls of artichoke.
“I find it hard to believe you have no friends here.” I told him.
“Why? I mostly keep to myself. Maybe if I worked less, I’d have more time to explore.” Paolo’s eyes were following a stray cat as it darted between torrents of motorbikes. “What do you do in your free time?”
I chose this moment to bring up the expiry date debacle. He gave me a look of endearing bewilderment.
“I guess there are people out there who think about these little curiosities after all! Most of us would prefer to turn our minds to important matters.”
“Important matters like what?”
“Who am I to say? We wonder more about our own lives, not the nature of other things.” He paused for a lengthy moment. “Although, it would be difficult to convince someone that my life is an important matter, relative to theirs.”
“True.” I added. “But that’s a cynical way to look at it. With my undivided attention, and enough time, I’d be willing to think that your existence is as important as mine.”
I half meant this as a joke, but Paolo gave me a quietly sombre look.
“Good to know.” he said, and I felt inexplicably delighted.
Giuseppe scolded Paolo under his breath upon our arrival back at the bar- Paolo was a few minutes late and with the tension between them coming to a zenith, I decided to leave. Again, Paolo requested my reappearance the following day, and although I playfully pretended to think about it, we both knew that it was a sure thing.
The next afternoon came upon me with unexpected haste, as I had overslept and overthought for several hours. I pinned my hair up, I took it down, and then I pinned it up again when I saw my unkempt mien in the reflection of the rusted mirror. Giddy, I rushed down twelve steps towards Paolo.
To my chagrin, Giuseppe stood alone behind the counter when I entered the bar. He was taking the order of a young woman with sleepy eyes, so I loitered apprehensively near them.
As they finished, I greeted Giuseppe and asked after Paolo. At first, he was quite silent. I couldn’t stop looking at his face; the lines on his forehead forming, settling deeper into his skin. His expression became stony, he placed his hands firmly upon the marbled surface of the counter as if to keep himself upright.
“Paolo did not arrive at his shift today.” He notified me. It took great effort for my face to remain blank. “Is he unwell?”
“No.” Giuseppe began. “Well, yes. In a way. I called his landlord at three, I know him personally and I wanted him to get that boy up. I thought he was sleeping in.”
He stopped for a beat, glancing at a patron who had entered behind me.
“Paolo lived in a very old housing complex. There was a fire during the night, and the roof has collapsed. Most of the residents were crushed. It’s sad news, but Paolo was killed in the accident. Such a shame. He was a nice young man. It’s hard to find new hires nowadays.”
“What? You mean, he’s dead?” The situation was so unbelievable to me that I couldn’t find any other words. I was engulfed in robust nothingness.
“Yes.” Giuseppe blinked at me. “If you know any of his family, please let them know. The boy never told me about them.”
Of course, he had no family, and there was no one I knew to tell. Motionless, erect like a prop. I had no attempts of consolation for Giuseppe, nothing I had to give him at all, really, so I drifted, stupefied, out of the bar. He didn’t try to stop me.
I went to a deli to buy some fried artichokes. I sat on the curb outside, isolated in the crowd of people. I tried to think, wanting to rationalise the circumstances, but the thoughts that came to me were confusing and fragmented, my mind scattered and frenetic. Lost in a foreign calenture, I imagined the smoking lady in the courtyard covered in rubble, dreamt of the gelato vendor looking up to the sky to see falling beams, pictured the ring-clad old woman startled by a falling ceiling. I wondered why, I wondered how. My own existence felt fragile, no longer an unabashed attitude. Unfamiliarity plagued me now; I could feel the disquietude it ignited travelling through me like pernicious poison.
When the sunset swallowed me, I walked home, and Paolo’s ashes clung to me with every step.