Rewind and Play

2013

---

Alice

JON: Hola, preciosa. Any men’s photos for me? I can’t believe you’ve been there a month and have seen zero interesting specimen for your bestie

ALICE: Ah, Jon

ALICE: If only you knew

ALICE: I’ve mostly been working, helping my sister Laura with her homework, slept

ALICE: Trying to find a routine here

JON: How’s the restaurant going

ALICE: I’m working on it… Not great -__-

ALICE: But, on the plus side, there’s a tattoo parlour in town

JON: What! Have they not burnt it down yet? I hear them Catholics think it’s Satan’s nest

ALICE: Might get something done there, as a souvenir

---

“Ciao a tutti!”

As soon as I leave Il Cavallino my smile falters.

Daniela and Giovanni are putting up a brave face, but I can see their defeated look every time the lunch or dinner services goes by without barely anyone coming through the door.

I’m unsure if they have savings, but it’s clear they can’t keep it up the way it’s going for longer than four, maybe six months more.

In the last couple of weeks Daniela told Anita and Mirco not to bother to come, that the three of us would be enough. Considering they aren’t paying me (and, of course, I wouldn’t accept a penny anyway), the situation is pretty grim, at the moment.  

While I slowly walk home, the fog floating around the village for the last few days enhances the cold seeping through my coat. Fog has lingered on the fields for weeks now, giving the outskirts of the village a spooky look, autumn settling in. I must admit, I missed the mist. Autumn is my favourite time of the year.

It’s Friday, just after three, and the village is quiet. A couple of cafes are open despite the lack of customers. They will come, eventually, come six o’clock. Aperitivo time.

I haven’t been out yet, in the village or elsewhere. I was adamant I wanted to dedicate the first few weeks to being with Laura and helping at the restaurant, and now that the settling in period is finished, I can confirm I am bored out of my skull.

I walk by the Black Star parlour, intrigued now that I know its owner’s name. I have passed in the vicinity of the tattoo shop several times, but I’ve never caught a glimpse of Samuel Marchetti in the flesh. It’s idiotic, but I haven’t been able to muster up the courage to walk in and say hello. Fair, I suppose, considering I have exchanged maybe fifteen online words with Samuel in as many years.

My curiosity has yet to be fulfilled this Friday: the shop’s blinds are down when I walk past.

I’m almost at the door, hand outstretched to, possibly, try and open it, when my phone rings, cutting the music into my earbuds off.

“It’s Friday,” states Clara, without even bothering to say hello, before continuing: “it’s Friday, I have made zero progress whatsoever on the organisation of my own wedding, and I want a drink. You up? I haven’t seen you since you arrived.”

“I was just about to text you. Think Marco can drop you in? Apparently, there’s a place worth going to, here.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it but why not? I haven’t been out in the village since… Ever?”

Clara moved to San Giuliano when she met Marco, and never looked back.

“Well then, we have a plan. Aperitivo at Bar Sport. Wear a ballgown.”

“I’ll take out my best Cinderella outfit. Be down at your place around six.”

Upon opening the apartment’s door, I am greeted by cheerful europop and an exclamation: “Sister!”

Laura is at home, and relief is instant. She is a great buffer, whenever Anna is asking about the restaurant, or telling me how much time I’m wasting, or asking if I made the right choice coming to Castelnuovo, in clear defiance of the feelings of happiness she should have felt from having her beloved daughter back in the nest.

Laura is sprawling on the sofa trying, and clearly failing, to study.

“How are things, little one?” I ask, sitting down next to her and stretching my feet up on the coffee table. “Where is mom?”

“Mom is out to see auntie Simona, thank god,” she giggles.

I pat her on the knee: “Clara and myself are going to pay a visit to Bar Sport, tonight, on your recommendation.”

“Una has done great things with it. You won’t be disappointed. Or so they say, I have only been there for breakfast a couple of times.”

Una is five or six years younger than me, and in the often-stagnant panorama of a small provincial town, she is a ray of light; despite being very young she has jumped at the opportunity of providing a different place for the village youths to hang out when she took over Bar Sport.

“She would love to organise events throughout the year, but the paperwork is making her think twice about it,” Laura says, clearly in awe of Una Rossi. I can only agree with Una, having experienced more than once the world-wide infamous Italian bureaucracy.

What I found in Madrid was feeling like I belonged. No one thought I was weird for being a nerdy Italian in love with alternative music. On the contrary, I met plenty of people who were intrigued by me. Some of them became my friends, but it is also correct to say that most of those acquaintances didn’t stick.

Maybe that’s why I’m so intrigued by being in close proximity to Samuel Marchetti again. It was only for a short time, but I felt like I belonged. It’s not a feeling I’ve experienced often.

“Well, enjoy your aperitivo with Clari. I will eagerly await your report back.” Laura’s words bring me back from wherever my thoughts floated away to.

I get up and while I start toward the bathroom to take a shower, I say over my shoulder: “Oh, don’t worry, I plan to, on both accounts.”

There’s something about tonight, I have a good feeling about it.

---

“Well now, look who decided to show up for the evening…”

Una is behind the bar, her glossy black hair pinned up in a long ponytail, sporting a white t-shirt, her beautiful, dark eyes inspecting the two of us with a raised eyebrow as we walk through the fogged-up door of Bar Sport.

I know Una very superficially, but Una, same as everyone else in the village, knows that I am back. Of course, the theories circulating are manyfold: it’s heartbreak from that guy who was no good for me, I’m broke, one or more of my family members are sick, Laura needed me back, I’ve got some medical condition… The rumours have swirled for the past month, according to my amused little sister.

I am well used to the grapevine. After all, I am from here. I actually find it quite funny, which makes me say absolutely nothing to change anyone’s mind. Life’s too short to be bothered by small town gossip, after all.

“Welcome to the new Bar Sport!”

I look around: “I love it.” And I mean it, too.

The bar is left in a dusky atmosphere, only a couple of old rickety lamps illuminating their respective corners, a string of fairy lights creating a vibe that goes very well with all the vintage furniture strewn across the place. Talking Heads are playing in the background, which I approve of immediately. On the walls there are several vintage posters of old Italian ads, from the time of Carosello, and Twin Peaks (clearly, Una is a Lynch fan).

It’s already dark and cold outside, and the windows are covered in condensation. There are a few people at the moment, but it will pick up soon for aperitivo time, when plenty of the younger people still living around town will make an appearance, if what Laura says is true.

I barely know anyone anymore at this point, but I do love the idea of experiencing a bit of a buzz. This is the first time since… Well basically ever, that I’m out in town as an adult. I moved to Spain as soon as I graduated, so the bulk of my adult life was spent there.

“This place is incredible!” exclaims Clara, who looks as impressed as I feel.

I introduce the two of them, and Una leans on the bar conspiratorially and asks: “What are you girls going to drink tonight?”

We look at one another and exclaim, in perfect unison: “Two gin and tonics, please!”

With an appreciative nod, Una gets to work and when she puts the fancy glasses she’s chosen in front of us and I take a sip, the concoction tastes like heaven. Bless Una.

I settle on the stool with a happy sigh, Clara plopping in front of me with a delighted face: “This is the best time out from not organising my wedding, ever, and we literally just sat down.”

Una, who is putting glasses in the dishwasher, comments, deadpan: “I have plenty more excuses for you to choose from on the shelf, if you are interested.”

“I love you already,” chuckles Clara.

I clink my glass to my friend’s and then ask Una: “How is the bar doing?”

“It’s doing all right. I have in mind to organise something for carnival in February, to liven up that shitty month, you know how it is here between January and spring…”

“Ah that’s a great idea! If you need help, I can always sell you Laura for a good price.”

Una chuckles: “I heard you are helping out with Il Cavallino, Ali?”

I demurely slurp from my short straw: “Yes indeed. I am between jobs in Madrid and I am eh… Reassessing my life path at the moment. So, I thought a little pause in the village helping out my auntie could do no harm. But please, don’t spoil the fun for everyone else, they are still trying to guess why I am here. I vote for heartbreak.”

Una nods seriously: “I won’t. And do take a break now that you can and you are not tied down to anyone or anything.”

God, and this girl is only what, twenty-something?

Customers starting to trickle in and we keep chatting about ideas for the bar, life in Castelnuovo and some local gossip.

Two refreshments in, I am gazing lovingly towards Una, who manages to be at the same time very sweet and very entrepreneurially oriented, and Clara, who looks like she could really do with a break. She is an IT consultant now, and she manages exclusively big projects. She is not the stressy type at all, but she doesn’t have time for much bar working, at the moment. The little time she has she spends with Marco, her future husband, who works as a primary school teacher and has quite the opposite character: shy and introverted, he spends most of the year frantically working for his kids.

I look around at the growing crowd, recognising some of the people, but failing completely to remember any of their names.

The door opens with a boom at that point, and a tall, blond man barges into the bar, followed by a tall woman of slighter build.

“Hi, tovarisch!” shouts the man.

“Ciao, Piotr, you are late,” says Una, not a hair out of place; “Lucia,” she nods towards the woman.

The two come towards the bar, failing to notice the look Clara and I exchange, with Clara mouthing “Piotr?” trying not to laugh.

“Piotr” doesn’t look very Italian, in fairness: he’s a big, burly man, with blond hair and a red face (he must be coming from another round of aperitivos in the next bar over). There just aren’t many foreigners in Castelnuovo: there’s not enough work, here, to attract immigrants.

“How are you doing, dearest?” the young man is asking Una.

“It looks like it’s going to be a good night,” she replies, throwing a smile in our direction.

This also brings the attention of the newcomer onto us. I give him a wave, Clara nods, lips still firmly pressed together.

“Laura’s sister and a friend,” explains Una.

Arms like tree trunks envelop me, squeezing so tight I’m lifted clear off the stool, and I smell alcohol, perspiration and Lynx. Then, I am as suddenly placed back where I was, gently, just in time to enjoy the view of the same bear hug crushing Clara, who, in fairness to her, takes it in stride and, to my ever-increasing pride, without letting go of her drink.

“Laura’s family and friends are my family and friends!” Piotr booms, and he bows, like a gentleman from the Nineteenth Century: “Pietro Locatelli, but you can call me Piotr, at your service. And this is my good friend, Lucia. She’s a carpenter,” he adds, like that explains everything: “You see, my father is Italian but my mom is Russian. I much prefer to use my Russian name.”

I am dazzled and intrigued in equal measure.

Clara reins in her laughter and waves cheerfully at Piotr now: “Nice to meet you, Piotr! Now, if you excuse us, I will go to the toilet before I pee myself… Ali?” She grabs me by the hand, and with a “Be right back! Don’t leave us!” she moves away from the bar.

The customers starting to accumulate for the happy hour have spilled into an extra room towards the back of the bar, where a pool table sits under low lights and a couple of armchairs rest near a taped over window. The decoration of this area is clearly a bit of a work in progress, but it’s masked well by the dim illumination. The toilet, on the other hand, has clearly undergone a transformation. It is unisex and painted bright pink wherever music photos are not plastered on the walls. A small mirror ball hangs just over the sink, sparkling.

“Wow,” is the only thing I can say, my first reflex one of squinting slightly. “This place must be the single most daring thing to have ever happened to the town.”

Clara giggles and we take our sweet time in that bathroom, laughing semi-hysterically over Piotr.

When we come back, we find that, finally, the place is packed full of people and, once we manage to reach the bar again, someone has taken over our stools. Not Una’s fault, because she is far too busy tending the bar to shoo the two men who sit on them, despite the presence of our jackets draped over the seats.

The man facing our direction is unknown to me, and all we can see of the other is that he’s got short hair, with some silver starting to thread through the nicely cropped hair. From where I stand, I can see his light blue shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. It feels weirdly familiar, but I don’t think too much about it before tapping the guy on the shoulders and leaning in to say in his ear: “Sorry to intrude…”

The guy’s head whips in my direction, so fast I can’t move away quickly enough. His face almost collides with mine, but he manages to just barely avoid it, stopping close the tips of our noses are almost touching.

A whooshing sound fills my ears, because I immediately recognise that face, those eyes and that nose. I am so shocked I can’t move, my mouth forming a perfect circle when I look into honey eyes, a nose that is a bit big but suits the face, a big mouth, currently crooked in a half smile, a dimple. That fucking dimple, I swear to God.

Samuel does not smell like smoke and burnt wood anymore, but he still smells very nice. Fresh, clean perfume that enhances his own scent underneath, which has not changed at all.

This has been going on for far too long not to be awkward, but my brain is clearly short-circuiting.

“A little respect” (Erasure version) is now playing in the background, and it’s like I’m experiencing reality through a hyper-saturated filter, the string of lights on top of the bar making Samuel’s face dance with shadows, the clink of the glasses being unloaded from the dishwasher far too loud in my ears.

Like someone found the five senses dials in my back panel and turned everything to “overdrive”.

With a sound that sits between a couch and a chuckle, Samuel finally says: “The short hair suits you, Ali.” And he smiles broadly, breaking the spell and putting some distance between us.

My knees are wobbly. In a desperate attempt at looking cool, I lean on the stool’s back, missing only by a centimetre. Trying to recover with some dignity, I send my elbow landing on the bar with an amount of force that I will remember tomorrow, when I will have to ice it.

At least I didn’t fall on my face.

Despite being fully capable to produce sentences that make sense and even, sometimes, amuse people around me, I am utterly tongue-tied. I shake my head while Samuel smirks and, eventually, I go in for an excruciatingly awkward one-armed hug while trying frantically to recover my voice.

I end up all but croaking: “Long time no see my man!” (My man?!)

I am extremely conscious of being suddenly sweaty, of wearing a very used t-shirt with a NASA logo which had gone slightly pink because I washed it with a red scarf once, and absolutely zero makeup because why would one put make up on to go for an aperitivo in the village’s bar?

Samuel, of course, looks like a million dollars, neat as a pin and smelling so nice one would want to eat him, but not me, absolutely not me. I am just having a quiet stroke not understanding why I am having such an overblown reaction.

“Yeah, it must be at least what, ten years?”

I clear my throat: “I’d say so, yeah…”

Clara interjects: “Ah, Samuel Marchetti! The one and only! You clean up well, my man,” the evil woman throws me a glance that says “God, girl, keep your shit together” and gives him a hug.

“Clara, I’ve never seen you around! You frequent only the cool gang in San Giuliano, I imagine…”

Clara laughs: “I am an IT consultant now, Samuel. I am the textbook definition of uncool. But we heard so many nice things about Una’s place that we wanted to check it out. And I must say, I am impressed. By the place too,” she chuckles.

Samuel laughs and turns around to give Una, who is working while keeping an eye on what’s happening at the bar, a double thumbs up: “You impressed the forestiere!”

“I know, I am cool like that,” comes the reply.

Throughout the exchange, not a peep comes out of my mouth. I am just about to say something, hopefully not idiotic, when Clara cuts in: “God Marchetti, I haven’t seen you since… What was it? Our lame seventeenth birthday party?”

Considering the man lives here, the chances of meeting him around weren’t small. And yet here I am, reacting to his mere presence like I’ve just seen Adam Driver in the local bakery.

However, trying to understand this episode I’m having will have to wait, because the sudden memory of the birthday in question flashes before my eyes.