I'll Miss You, part two

   

     There were merits to starting over. With his eyes closed he could almost pretend he did. The mild mediterranean sun of early summer warmed his skin as he lay back on a flat rock on the water's edge in the harbor. He inhaled deep breaths of ocean air, the smell of fish caught and breezes from the horizon.  He felt calm, he felt at home.

   
     The gentle patting of waves on the hulls of anchored dories suggested a life of pulling fish from the sea...or buying those fish to cook for patrons at a crowded taverna. From sea to plate to belly, the simplicity was appealing after time spent amongst a city living on the stage of a bygone era. Here in Vernazza, the era continued.

   
   
   
     Sitting up, he took in the honesty of a town hunkered into the two hillsides of a small valley. Water from the creek spilled onto a small beach, a natural harbor, an entry and an exit. Church bells rang. Turning his attention closer at hand, or foot, he watched a small crab rest on a forgotten rope in the tide pools. With its delicate pinchers it pulled bits of scavenged food from the rope's fibers, feeding itself inconspicuously. When he moved in for a closer look, the crab scurried away under a rock.

He stopped and stayed in this Italian seaside town for three reasons – running, swimming and fish, for these were the three things he told himself he could not live without. Here, they were in abundance. Well-worn trails built of stone steps connected Vernazza to Monterosso to the northwest and to Corniglia to the southeast. He ran those paths for their rewarding difficulty, finishing back in town to dive into the sea to wash away the sweat, salt to salt, swimming with the sea life – gamboza, anchuige, sea bream - that would nourish him for the next day, the next run. If there was more that he needed, he struggled to figure out what that was.

   






          From the sanctuary above town, it was tempting to imagine living there on the coast permanently, simply staying, learning the language and a new set of customs. Gravesites with marble headstones bearing the names of Fanelli, Gianni and Rosso rested in struggled-for spots, finally above it all.








     He played his usual game – where would he live, which window would he peer from, which door he'd open daily. But all the windows were the same size. Four story apartment buildings hunkered shoulder to shoulder on long-forgotten bedrock, claiming the valley and relegating the creek to an underground channel.
This was a bold and honest way to live, he determined, to forfeit hillside views for a spot within the inner workings of the town, of the earth. Surely at some point in the future, the mountains would send down water and mud in quantities Vernazza could not absorb, scouring clean shops and livelihoods. But the town was old. They have cleaned up before, they have begun again, they have started over, which was what he was considering now. A lone house perched above him on a cliff spoke of the need for security, a fixation on guessing the future by the clarity of the horizon. But when that house goes, there will be nothing left. You never really know when it is going to rain.

   

     No fences, no barbed wire, boats tied loosely, doors with locks that hadn't been turned in generations – why is it so hard for us to trust each other, back in that other place where we lock our hearts with keys and combinations, hidden and concealed in memory? The passageways of Vernazza were narrow. Mud shoveled out from one floor must be washed out to sea. A hand is a hand.

     “Dooooorrrreeee...” The heavy rowers voice bellowed and echoed across the water and over the courtyard and up the Via Visconti. His big shoulders were ready to row anywhere for a fair price.

     He knew what he could do if this were to be his home – the town runner, from village to village, carrying words or packages or notes. He knew without a doubt he could do this well.

“Mi potete aiutare, per favore?”

     He was snapped out of thoughts of a hypothetical future by the question of a young Italian man who had approached him quietly from behind.

     “Mi dispiace. Non parle Italiano.”

     The young man frowned in mock disappointment, his hair dark and skin olive. He held with care both hands a large glass vase of ornate craftsmanship, filled affectionately with countryside flowers. Standing at the base of a ladder leading to a marble plaque, it became obvious the man needed more hands.

     “Help? Aiuto?”

     “Si! Si! Grazie.”

     Affixed to each plaque in the cemetery was a picture of its deceased, flattering pictures from earlier times of people in suits and Sunday dresses. At the top of the ladder was a picture of a woman, Francesca Bianca Aurora, who must have been the young man's grandmother, based on the dates of her life.

     “I put the fiori here for my mother. She lives in France. We miss my nonna.”

     He understood enough to know this woman died recently. The pain of loss was just sinking in, still tender to the touch. The young man took a deep breath.

     “Allora,” he said and climbed to the top. He motioned with his hands for the vase to be passed up. The exchange was smooth but as the young man stepped up a rung, the vase was lost from his grip and suddenly airborne.

     Without thinking, he had done something he had always done when objects fell, something he read about in a Mark Twain novel, a move Huck used to catch a knife – he stuck his foot out to break the fall. And though the vase spilled water and flowers to the dirt, the container remained intact, having been slowed from breaking point by his interjection. There would be a bruise there the next day, paired nicely with the red welt from the key that was still in his pocket, but it was a small price to pay to save the irreplaceable.

     “Ah! Grazie! Grazie!” He talked on and on about the vase, probably one of his last tangible reminders of her.

     “Prego.”

     The vase could be refilled with water and new flowers could be picked. He was thankful the vessel itself was still in one piece.

     “My name is Eduardo. You?”

     “You speak English well.”

     “Una piccolo.”

     “I'm Rex.”

     The young man's hand was warm and strong. More than a handshake, it was a pull, closer.