Rewind and Play

2013

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Alice

The sky looks ominous, with low-hanging clouds, the cold air getting through the coat Anna gave me because my own one turned out to be not warm enough for Northern Italy. I thought of arguing, mainly for the sake of it, but then I concluded that she was probably right, this once.

I do wish it snowed. It doesn’t necessarily snow every winter in Castelnuovo, but every time I’m here in the cold season, I get my hopes up. Whether it’s going to be just a dusting or something more substantial, I just love snow.

The weather man said that this might be the right year to expect a good amount of it, so here’s to hope.

It’s been a particularly frustrating lunch service at Il Cavallino, today. Two people wandered in and ate a toasted sandwich (a toasted sandwich!) each, sharing a packet of crisps no one even knew we had on display. I almost threw the bill at them, sputtering with rage. No one else had come in.

It is what it is, I suppose.

Bored out of my skull, I started going around the restaurant, making notes of what could be improved with little effort: replace tablecloths and napkins, change the posters on the wall, paint. All things that can be done quite quickly and, crucially, cheaply.

I am starting to see that both Daniela and Giovanni are stuck, and they don’t really know how to un-stick themselves, so to speak. They have been doing this for so long they have become what some might call “institutionalised”.

They need me to be their Gordon Ramsey and fuck them out of it. But gently, I suppose.

When I get home, I take to the laptop and create a provisional spreadsheet, titled: “Il Cavallino Kitchen Nightmare”. I am in a good, quiet place in my head while I list out all the jobs I could do in my spare time (of which I have an abundance of) and at a reasonable price (I’ve got some savings. I don’t want to blow them all in a small renovation for a place that’s not mine, but at the same time, what’s money for, right?). I start searching for prices of stuff online, to get a provisional budget. There’s not much to this particular Excel file, but lists, and their fulfilment, always help my brain. Creating order from chaos soothes me. One step at a time. 

I feel better, knowing that I am at least trying to do something to improve the place’s situation.

Of course, I have not said a word to the guys yet, but I will, as soon as I have an actual action plan.

When I’ve worked for around an hour and I start to feel slightly better about the whole affair, I make myself a coffee, I pet Poppy a little (getting a scratch in the process, but, hey, tough love), get dressed and start walking back to Il Cavallino for dinner service, which no doubt will be as fascinating and exciting as lunchtime was.

I am a bit early, but then I can always go around the place and take more notes for the revamp.

Once out of the apartment I peep at the sky, asking it to sprinkle some magic onto this village; it could really benefit from some joy being spread around.

I am looking up (my parents had laughed at me uncountable times when I was younger, forever looking anywhere but the path ahead, often ending up straight into the back of a car, or a lamppost), when, of course, I bump into someone coming from the opposite direction: “Oh I am so sorry, I should look where I am going!”

A hand on the arm steadies me.

“I am not complaining, bump into me whenever you want, Ali,” says a voice that sends an immediate shiver of recognition down my spine.

Samuel is standing there, keys jingling in the hand that isn’t currently keeping me upright. We are in front of Black Star.

Before I can say anything else, Samuel continues: “Splendid coincidence. Care to come in? I have your design ready,” and he unlocks the door, keeping it open for me. Not giving me a chance to scurry away.

“Oh, really?” I muster, stepping in, hurrying to add, once I’m through: “I am not sure how much time I have, Sami, I am working the dinner shift.”

I don’t know why I am this nervous of being alone with Samuel. Really, I should have come by sooner. I am fully aware of having delayed stepping into Samuel’s territory for a while now. And I’m kind of angry at myself for it.

I did do some online stalking, once I knew who owned the place. Of course, I was really impressed with Samuel’s work. Not only his style does match my favourite, but he seems to be a very good inker (sometimes, the two don’t necessarily match). Not that I was ever in doubt of his talent. Samuel Marchetti had always struck me as a person who would get what he wanted.

I take my time to walk around the small, spotless property, checking out the illustrations on the walls and nodding appreciatively. “You are very good, Marchetti, I’ll give you that.”

The square-shaped shop is at the corner of Via Roma and Via Carducci; its main area tidily set up: on the left-hand side, a tattoo table, a stool and small table for instruments and inks; some of Samuel’s illustrations are hanging on the walls, framed in black. A movable separation panel, black with silver art deco patterns, stands folded on one side. The other two sides of the shop are completely made of glass windows; black venetian blinds are currently drawn down, separating us from outside.

In the corner between the back door and the glass wall sits a small bench with a coffee machine, a book with illustrations and a cash register.

Even if I haven’t spoken with him for a long time, I know it’s very Samuel-like: bright, and neat.

I love it.

“It’s the second time this village surprises me since I arrived.”

“Una made an impression, I see.”

“Yes. And you did too, Marchetti. Although I always knew you were going to smash it, whatever you’d do.”

Is he… blushing? I catch a glimpse of pink ears when Samuel turns to busy himself with the coffee machine.

He beckons me closer and asks, without making eye contact: “Coffee?”

Leaning on the bench, I nod. Then, because I am me and when there are awkward pauses my filter leaves me, I ask: “Have you ever thought of moving somewhere else where you could have more customers?”

I see the edges of a smile while Samuel pours coffee, and turns with two small cups in each hand: “Straight to the point, as always.” My flustered expression makes him huff out a small laugh: “Don’t worry Ali, it’s a logical question, I suppose. I don’t want to move anywhere else; I am ok here. I know Castelnuovo might not be the best place or the one where most stuff happens, but people around here are nice enough and there are jobs to be had, you just have to be a bit creative. If I moved my business to Milan or Genoa, seventy percent of the stuff I’d have to tattoo would still be ‘my name in Chinese’, a star or someone’s date of birth. I know that’s what keeps every place going, but I’d rather do a little less of that and more quality stuff, which is what happens here.”

“Point made,” I reply. Samuel has understood that I didn’t ask the question with malice, and he’s giving me a straight answer.

“If I came back home, I wouldn’t know what to do, you know? I’d probably end up in an office in Milan. Yuck.”

The conversation has gone very intense, very quickly. But I don’t mind, because I’ve always felt at ease around Samuel. It could be because that thin layer of bullshit you normally put up when you meet new people is not there with a person you knew when you both had more pimples than smooth skin. Although, that applied to the other people. Samuel’s skin was always spotless. The bastard.

“You could do anything you wanted, Ali. You are a smart woman with a head full of plans, I am sure.”

Am I blushing now? Preening at this small compliment? 

“Ah, but you have just always been very nice to me. The world might beg to differ.”

“The world I am sure looks at you with a much kinder disposition than you think it does. Here, give me.” He picks up the now empty cups and puts them in a tiny sink.

I gesture at the shop, then: “You are well set up here.”

“You should have led with that, Giannelli,” comes the reply, but there’s only amusement in Samuel’s tone.

Clearing my throat, I say: “Sorry. I am finding this a bit overwhelming, but I don’t know why.”

Samuel washes the cups and dries them with precise movements. He throws a glance in my direction, one I can’t interpret: “Same, I’m just better at hiding it. But I can’t deny it, I am happy to be able to catch up.”

A small knot unties itself at the mouth of my stomach: “Thanks, Sami. Same for me. More questions for you then: do you live in town?”

“Yeah, in an old house at the end of the road to Pontenuovo. I am trying to do it up by myself and it’s taking its sweet time. Another perk of working here at my own pace, I suppose.”

I am well aware that neither of us has spoken of significant others. Quite glaringly so. And I am most definitely not going to start now, even if Una’s words from the night at Bar Sport are still ringing in my ears.

So, I play the idiot and keep the conversation going: “Oh, the one on the left-hand side coming from the village? I have always loved it! That road looks like a tree-tunnel. And the new cycle lane is very handy too.”

“By the time I can retire, I might have it finished” he chuckles, crossing his arms on his chest.

“I am terrible at almost everything manual, but if you need a hand, I’d be happy to help. I’m just not so sure you would want to. For your own good.”

“You can always bring me water while I sweat away, and then go back to your book.”

The familiarity the image conjures makes me blink. I have to shake my head slightly to clear it. Heart is doing overtime in my chest, so I say the first thing I can come up with: “That might very well happen… Considering that, at the moment, you are kind of my only friend in the village.”

The dimple makes an appearance: “Well, you’ve been here what, like two minutes? You know everyone, really, you just have to recognise them now that they look grown up. You’ll be swallowed by the place sooner than you think. Also, you don’t want to be associated with the tattoo guy, everyone knows they are bad types.” He wiggles his eyebrows, in the least menacing way I can possibly imagine. And I smile again, until he asks: “How long until you go back to Madrid?”

I sober up immediately: “That’s a good question. I don’t know. Bar some boxes, I don’t have much else there to go back to, really. At the moment I am kind of looking around waiting for a sign. In the meantime, I had the crazy idea to Gordon Ramsey Il Cavallino. And, by the way… Bad type? I’ve never met anyone who reeks of good guy more than you, tattoos or not.”

Samuel laughs: “Ok, there is a lot to unpack in what you just said. First, I am clearly a bad boy, everyone knows that. I like weird music, I tattoo people. My angelic face doesn’t do anything to diminish the hatred some moms have when their teenage daughters come home with their best friend’s initials on the wrist. Second,” he is ticking points off from an imaginary list, “I am happy you are waiting for a sign, maybe I can convince you to stick around. Third… What are you exactly trying to do with your poor aunt’s restaurant?”

I lean conspiratorially towards Samuel, definitely not thinking about what he said about me sticking around: “I am going to Gordon Ramsey the shit out of it. Well, I am going to try and turn it around and make it successful again. I have nothing but time in my hands, Sami,” the dimple shows up on Samuel’s cheek when I call him that, “so I started a spreadsheet – don’t laugh! – and I am writing all that can be done on a low budget to boost the place. I just hate seeing it so sad and empty all the time…”

Samuel looks thoughtful: “I think it’s a great idea. I love that place too, and Daniela and Gio do seem to be a little stuck there. Sometimes you don’t realise it, how stuck you’ve become, until someone from the outside comes in to wreck it all – and that would be you, of course.”

He watches me with that pensive expression on his handsome face, and the conversation could become intense again, but he doesn’t let it. Clapping his hands, he moves to get out of the bench: “Ok, since you are here. Your free design. And since we are talking about Il Cavallino, a proposition.”

“I am intrigued about both. But the design first. Are you sure you don’t want me to pay?”

“Consider it just a test. After all, you are going to pay me full price for your next project, if you decide to do it here.”

“All right, show me the goods. And thanks, Sami, it’s nice to know I still have one friend in the village.”

“Those trips in the bus created a bond that cannot be broken, Ali.”

I chuckle: “Fuck off and show me the design, you idiot.”

I feel so comfortable in his presence, the same I feel with Clara, or Marta, or Laura. It must be true that what the bus bonded, life can’t break.

Samuel is rummaging in a drawer now, looking suddenly nervous. It’s quite endearing. I don’t remember many times when he looked out of his depth or unnerved. It seems like he cares a lot about what I will make of what he’s about to show me.

He slides a small piece of paper on the workbench towards me.

And my face is heating up, again. I can’t help a big smile unfurling, stretching my cheeks until they hurt: sitting on the bench, a small, dainty, tattoo version of the book he had drawn on my wrist the day, so many years ago, the rickety yellow bus packed it.

An open book, its leaves floating, two cherry blossoms on each opposite corner.

“Of course, if you don’t…” he starts, fidgeting.

“It’s perfect.”

I’m too stunned to say anything else, but I mean it. The memory of that day is still as fresh as if it happened yesterday. It was the first time complex feelings, which I didn’t really know how to handle, stirred in me.

Of course, Samuel doesn’t know how thoughtful he’s being. He’s just trying to be nice and pay tribute to our brief but intense friendship. I find myself almost moved to tears, but he’d think I am even more of a weirdo than he already thinks.

Blinking quickly, I say: “I can come by whenever you are free and we get it on. It’s really great, Sami. Thank you.”

Samuel clears his throat, but I’m not looking at him so I don’t know what’s he thinking.

He turns to take something out of a drawer and asks: “What about now?”

My mouth starts moving but Samuel’s cuts me short: “Come on, it’s Monday. Give Daniela a ring and tell her you’ll be a little late. Not that it makes a difference… No offence.”

“None taken. You sure you don’t have anyone else booked in this afternoon?”

When he confirms, I ring my aunt who, of course, has no issues (“It could snow, so we might even close up early, Ali… don’t bother coming tonight and I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”)

By the time I turn around I notice that Samuel has already started setting up.

“Come here,” he says now, patting the chair he’s already prepared. “I must confess that I was hoping for you to like it, so I already printed the transfer paper in a couple of sizes. I was thinking of the wrist, if you like?”

Of course I like: “Sounds good.”

We are quiet while Samuel finishes the prepping.

He gently washes and cleans the area, places the smaller of the two designs on the skin and, once I confirm position and size, he transfers it over.

His gloved fingers are precise and clinical, but I can feel their touch through the latex.

“Last touch… Music!” With a flourish, he clicks something on his phone and music starts playing.

“Nothing as groovy as Daft Punk,” I comment: “This is Daft Punk, right? I don’t think I’ve listened to this one yet, but I recognise their style.”

“Groovy, huh. What a grandma you are. But yeah, this is their latest album, the one with ‘Get Lucky’. It’s great. Now…” He pauses, holding the machine up for dramatic effect: “You ready?”

All tattoo artists everywhere always ask something along those lines before starting, it doesn’t matter the number of tattoos you already have.

“Go for it, Sami.” I smile, eager.

The machine starts buzzing, and Samuel takes to my skin. The first couple of minutes are quiet, he concentrating on the job at hand, me observing him shamelessly as the spotlight shines on him. He has aged very gracefully: the hints of grey in his hair only suit him and, even if I do miss his curls a little, his new haircut is well… an actual haircut and not a bowl cut from the Nineties. Today he is wearing a simple black jumper and dark grey jeans over a pair of white Nike shoes. Samuel has never been an ugly man, but he’s grown into a proper handsome specimen. What I like even more is that he seems the same: same calm, joyful energy, same humour and same twinkle in those honey eyes.

 “Like what you are seeing?” he asks with a small smirk.

Well, there goes my thinking he wouldn’t notice. And fuck it, I want to be truthful: “You’ve aged well, my friend.”

“So have you. I like the short hair and the tats. And… it’s like while you were away you found yourself. Not like a hairstyle or tattoos do that, only. I mean your general demeanour. You are more confident.”

“It’s not difficult being more self-confident than I was back then. I was quite closed up, I liked books, I liked to spend time by myself.”

“What changed?”

I chuckle: “Believe it or not, you did a lot for me, at a crucial time. You were always outspoken; you were always comfortable around me. Your behaviour puzzled me, at the start, but then, I just grew to feel like I could tell you anything, do anything with you. That was probably the first step. Thanks for that.”

“Well, I didn’t know I was helping you breaking out of your shell, because you’ve never been in one around me, I don’t think. You only seemed a little perplexed by the fact that I was – still am, just so, you know – very touchy feely. Also, you made me feel right at home.”

“Living in a big city helps, too,” I say, needing to stick to a safe topic. It feels way too easy to slip into something more intense with Samuel, even if this is the first time we speak in so many years: “There’s plenty of perspective to be found in the fact that you are but one human being in a sea of people and no one will look your way twice. In Madrid, I got to fully accept myself for the way I am, and I stopped caring about what anyone thought.”

“I hardly believe anyone could ignore you, but I get the point.”

“You know, Sami, you were always one of those who looked like could fit everywhere, always so at ease.”

Samuel chuckles: “Of course I wasn’t. But that was what I have always found easiest, to smile and joke, and, mostly, it has worked just fine.”

“I don’t’ miss being a teenager at all,” bursts out of me with a small laugh.

“Fuck no, I don’t either. What’s there to like? Pimples, hormones, trying to navigate all the firsts in your life… So fucking horrible.”

“Hey, you can’t complain about having a bad skin!”

“I had plenty of the rest of it, despite my peachy complexion.”

“What, like hormones?”

He looks up briefly, making eye contact for a split second, mouth twitching.

“Oh, those were definitely there. Especially certain mornings.” Before I can react to that crumb he’s leaving there for me, he moves on: “I meant more like big stuff happening in your life. Do you remember I almost never spoke about my dad?”

I am surprised by his willingness to open up, but it is coming so easily, this afternoon, that I ask: “I… do. I did? I remember that day, when the bus abandoned us. You were down and I thought maybe something had happened… You probably don’t remember.”

Focusing very intently on my wrist, Samuel says: “Ok, first things first. Of course, I remember that day. It’s one of the few times we were together not on our way to school or surrounded by other people. Something had indeed happened with my dad, at home, the day before, and that was the reason why I was in such a shitty mood. But you know what, you made me smile; you were just there with me, and I’ll never forget that.” He is quiet for a second, like he is gathering his thoughts, then with a small inhale, he continues: “I am sure you think you were very incidental in my life because we only shared seats for a year or so. I will say this to settle things once and for all: you weren’t. I remember many things from that time and I remember you. And the other day, when I saw you in Bar Sport, it’s like these last years have not existed and I had seen you the day before. Well, not that I want to remember that last day, precisely.” He paused, a small blush creeping up his neck: “Sorry, sometimes when I am working with my hands and my mind is idle, I ramble, and when I am around you it appears to only get worse.”

I don’t know where to start to unpack all of this, so I decide it’s best if I file away Samuel’s comments about me for now, with the intent of picking them apart later on in the comfort and relative solitude of my shared bedroom: “Could I ask you what happened with him, Sami? If it’s too painful or personal, you don’t have to share it with me.”

We are already over halfway through the session; almost all the lines have been completed. Only some colouring to do and we’ll be done. Samuel pours water on my wrist and gently wipes it clean, before resuming his work: “My dad… He was never a great parental figure for either my sister or myself at the best of times. His excuse was that he was never home for work. He used to pull shifts at the sugar factory so it’s not like it was neurosurgery, but my mother clearly believed him. When it closed, his excuses weren’t valid anymore. So, he had the guts to tell my mom that he actually had a second family in Pontenuovo and he fucked off, just like that. Was it a big surprise? Not necessarily, considering his behaviour. It still stung, and created ripples in our family. Before leaving us, he used to leech on my mom, always taking more family money to do what, we didn’t know, at the time. The day I was in such a bad mood, he had just come back and that evening, he would tell my mom. We were already struggling before he left but, after that, even what little money he would bring was gone. So, after I finished secondary school, I felt like my mom had already experienced her share of shit men. Going to university at that point was something I couldn’t really afford. And that’s how my fantastic career as a mason started. I’ve always been good with manual stuff and, although my passion was illustration, I was ok doing that for a while. Kept me from thinking too much, kept my family going, brought money in the house. I also managed to travel a little in bits and pieces. Then, after some years of fighting really hard, I was in the right place again. When the opportunity to go back to my original passion presented itself, there I went. I understudied for a while under a guy in Milan and, even if I am not exactly working as a graphic designer, I did find something that I realised suits me even better. I had to take a slight detour but I got there eventually. And hey, I learnt how to fix stuff and I have a side hustle in doing paint jobs, which keeps me in the good books of the moms around here, to a point, at least.”

I can’t even imagine the responsibility he faced when he was so young. All the issues that having such a poor father figure could trigger in him. How strong himself and his sister must have been to overcome the effects of something like that. The way his life was thwarted from the get go because of the actions of someone else.

Samuel made his speech without showing any external pain. He just sounded so… grounded, so sure of himself, so composed.  I am so proud of him, and I am so happy he’s shared his story with me.

I know I shouldn’t be moving, but I can’t help curling my fingers and touch Samuel’s gloved ones, once.

“See, you have always known what to do with me. No bullshit, no ‘Oh you are so brave….’ If you keep behaving like that, you’ll get many more free tattoos.”

It’s my turn to chuckle, even it’s a bit of a sad chuckle: “Well, you were very brave, Samuel. No need to point out the obvious. Plus, fortunately, you got to a point in your life where all of that is behind you.”

“Right you are, bella. I am touching the colour up and we are done, I think. Talking about colour and livelihood, I was thinking about your Ramseying of Il Cavallino. Is painting in your plan?”

I narrow my eyes at Samuel, knowing full well where this is going: “You are not going to paint anything for free, Sami. Where you there twenty seconds ago, when we were having the whole livelihood conversation?”

“Hey, I am not saying I am going to paint for free! But I have a small proposition for you: I can lend you tools and brushes and I can help you out setting up etcetera, and we can use my providers to get discounted paint, but I will let you do the work and buy the stuff.”

“That’s still too generous of you.”

“I am not finished.” He held up a finger: “In exchange, could you lend me some of your nerd expertise?”

I do laugh at this point: “What? Of course, but, how? It’s not like I am an IT dude or anything, I have a degree in Languages, for fuck’s sake.”

“Well, I heard you are very good at spreadsheets…”

“Really? You want me to help you out with that? Also, who told you this?”

“Ah, I can’t reveal my sources, but as you know, in Castelnuovo you just need to ask the right people the right questions… Anyway. I am trying to sort out my finances for both the painting gig and the tattoo parlour, and I know someone who apparently is very organised with this sort of things and could help me out. I tried to Google stuff, but I want to know what can I do and how to structure what I want to do and I could do with an expert, like yours truly,” he finished, enthusiastic.

“I think the someone you spoke to overpromised, but I am happy to help.”

“Fantastic, we have a deal! Also, I gave you my spiel over what happened to me over the last fifteen years, and I made you pity me deeply and feel an emotional connection with me, but just so you know, I will interrogate you on your past soon enough, my friend.”

I smile. Soon enough means I’ll see him again: “Yessir. God, does that mean that I will have to spend an awful lot of time with you over the next few weeks?”

“I am smart like that, you see. I made you an offer you couldn’t refuse. Voilà, we are finished.”

He sprays some blessedly cool water on the throbbing raw meat on my wrist, washes out all the remnants of ink and dirt and he gets up, gently pulling me, hand circling my wrist, in front of a full body mirror.

Samuel stands behind me, holding up the sleeve of the jumper and turning my wrist so that I can see the tattoo and the way it combines with the others on my arm.

Daft Punk are still grooving in the background, a gentle electronic soundtrack for what suddenly feels like a very intimate moment. I love the tattoo. Samuel’s presence behind me feels very comforting. I wonder how it would feel like if he hugged me from behind. I can feel his breath on my neck, his chest almost touching my back when he’s breathing.

This is not very appropriate.

Yet, I do not move. Neither does Samuel, who is still holding my wrist lightly. He is making eye contact through the mirror, eyes darkened in an undecipherable expression.

“You like?” He asks, perfectly still.

“I love it. Thanks. You are hired.” My reply is scratchy. Almost by reflex, I fractionally move backwards.

“Wait until you see the design I have in mind for the other arm.” whispers Samuel, fractionally moving forward, guided by what seems the same reflex.

The little bell on the door chimes.

“Ciao Sam, you ready to go to? Oh, sorry, I didn’t know you were with a customer.”

Samuel springs away from me, releasing my wrist: “Vicky! Yes, I am, and I wasn’t. Do you remember Laura’s sister, Alice? Ali, you might also remember her, this is Vittoria, I dated her for what, two months? back when we used to get the bus together. A couple of years back we reconnected through Facebook and here we are, eh, engaged.”

What in the absolute fuck?

Ah, reality.