Rewind and Play

2014

---

Alice

It’s when the door closes behind me that it really hits me.

Holy shit, I kissed Samuel Marchetti. It was a nothing kiss (or was it?), but I still kissed a married man.

I lean on the door for a second and try to get my shit together.

A pale February sun is shining through the clouds that are partially covering an anaemic sky, and some mist is already starting to steam up from the naked fields. The air is crisp and works wonders for my foggy brain.

Incredulous, I touch my lips.

Right. I should not have done it. However. The moment, the intimacy we shared, the fact that something highly as unlikely as us sleeping in the same room happened… He looked so vulnerable, and grateful, and beautiful, that my body just moved on its own accord.

Or that’s what I’m going to say to the judge, anyway.

And that’s without trying to unpack the sofa moment, which in a way had been way, way worse.

Shaking my head, trying not to think of Samuel’s body behind mine, I wrap myself up tightly in the coat and walk towards Il Cavallino’s entrance.

“Alice Giannelli, long time no see!”

I freeze mid-step, as if the early morning frost has just covered me too, and look up from the gate I just closed. I recognise the voice, and it’s not good news.

“Ah, Michele! What do you do at this time around here, in the middle of nowhere?”

He’s the village gossip. Not like it’s his official job, but all nasty rumours are always spread by him, an assiduous frequenter of each and every town bar. He normally walks around in shorts and t-shirt in the depth of winter; the reason why is anyone’s guess.

Michele tugs at the lead in his hand by way of explanation. A tiny, angry looking chihuahua is looking at me with unfriendly eyes from the ground, wrapped up in an orange coat that makes him look frankly a little ridiculous.

“And why are you here on a closing day, dressed like that?” Michele makes a gesture that encompasses my borrowed clothes, and, very possibly, my very crazy hair.

I have absolutely nothing to feel guilty about – well, next to nothing anyway – but I feel like this man is trying to pry some state secret from me, and I start to sweat despite the chill: “I slept at my aunt’s yesterday, and I am going to work at the restaurant to finish some stuff.”

“Was Samuel Marchetti helping you out? I ask because I saw him through the curtains not two seconds before you came out,” he says, and I blink hopelessly a couple of times.

What did this man see? Did he see anything he shouldn’t have?

I peek in the direction of the big living room window, the curtains drawn enough that I can see Samuel sitting on the sofa, phone in hand. I feel a rush of affection looking at his drawn, tired, but still beautiful face, his hair wilder than I’ve ever seen it, reminding me of the longer locks of our youth.

“Why is he here?” The nosy man insists from my side, looking up at me in very much the same way his dog is.

“He had an accident with his back last night and I had to bring him over and be sure that he wasn’t going to hurt himself. We were at Il Cavallino, I’m there to help out.”

“I know.”

Of course he knows, the prick.

“What were you doing there?”

“Painting. Look, there is much to do and tomorrow is an important night, birthday party, as I’m sure you know. Francesco Graziani’s?”

“I wasn’t aware you knew one another.”

“Who? Graziani?”

“Marchetti.”

Suddenly, irritation swells up and I reply, curtly: “We are old friends.”

“I see. You single, yeah?”

How on earth does he know?

“Yep.”

“Is he still struggling with Vittoria? I heard the wedding party wasn’t fantastic.”

“You will have to ask him that,” I reply with a very small and polite smile. My tone is now starting to betray impatience; I suddenly remember my mom’s throwaway comment and a wave of proper anger sweeps over me now, directed at this man and at some of the people who live here who are petty, and small, and live to shred other people apart.

I close my eyes, take a deep breath and think of Una, of Laura, of Samuel, of Daniela and Giovanni.

When I open them again, I manage to find the energy to smile again (albeit with, possibly, too many teeth) and I am about to fuck him out of it when the door of the house opens again, and Giovanni steps out.

He looks tired, too, but he smiles when he sees me: “My favourite niece is still around,” he says, and hugs me tight: “How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve been through the spin cycle seven times over.”

“Same, darling. Buongiorno, Michele. Everything good with Poochie?” Uncle Gio asks, nodding at the man and his dog – Poochie, apparently.

Michele looks at the two of us, mollified by what I assume is Giovanni’s always slightly threatening vibe. He replies: “All good with her, thank you, Giovanni. I heard there’s a big party happening on Friday, and Marchetti is helping you out?”

“Well, Samuel has been one of our favourite people for a long time, since he has always come quite often to the restaurant. We are all old, and good friends, so yeah he gave us a hand. We are trying something new with the restaurant, thanks to my lovely niece. Now, if you excuse us, we need to get going. Ciao,” and with that, we leave a slightly puzzled Michele (why is he even wearing bright blue shorts anyway?) and walk to Il Cavallino.

When we make it through the door, I turn to my uncle: “I’m so sorry zio Gio!” flies out of my mouth.

“Whatever for, my dear? Come here a moment, let’s take a break,” he sits down at one of the stools near the bar, which have remained through the night.

I sit in front of him, and smiles reassuringly down at me: “Samuel saw Michele through the window and called the cavalry. Michele is annoying but mostly innocuous.”

Making a mental note to thank Samuel later, I say: “Thanks for that. But I meant more the hassle of a job half finished. I am going to work now.”

I think uncle Gio has probably seen the slightly manic look in my eyes, and that’s why he gets up and prepares two espressos. Once one is in front of me, he says: “Samuel seems better, but I didn’t talk to him much. We will leave in a bit.”

“He’s better all right.” I massage my temples: “I didn’t know he was that bad or I wouldn’t have accepted his help.”

“He’s a big boy. He can make his own decisions. In more than one way, if what we are seeing is to be believed.”

Giovanni is a blunt instrument; he never pussyfoots around anything. I think this is him trying to be delicate, which, despite everything, makes me smile: “Are you trying to tell me something, uncle Gio?”

He shrugs his massive shoulders: “I am happy you are there for him.”

My smile twists into something more uncomfortable: “He just got married. I thought that’s what a wife does.”

“It wouldn’t be the first, or the last, time someone makes a mistake.”

It looks like he’d like to say something else, but I’m not sure I want to listen to any of it, not right now.

“Well, I’d better get started,” I reply, averting my gaze and getting up, a leaden feeling throughout my body that I’m not sure is only due to my tiredness.

---

All my remaining (and rapidly fading) energy goes into cleaning Il Cavallino up and, by dinner time, the place is open for business, despite its still bare walls. Not that it matters, since the four people coming in don’t even look up from their, in this order: phone, wine glass, dirty fingernails and poker machine.

On the plus side, I can work in peace until closing time. I select which posters can be kept and I add some of my own: a collection of old photos and postcard with the village depicted in sepias, blacks and whites are now dotting the walls. It’s better to keep it simple, in my opinion, so I add only some books on the newly revarnished library, a couple of potted plants for colour and a vase with dry wildflowers in a corner.

It looks so much better. I snap a quick photo and send it to Samuel, with the caption: “You helped with this. Thanks again, and thanks for sending Giovanni earlier.”

Samuel doesn’t reply immediately, and, the longer the time goes on without an answer, the more something resembling anxiety gnaws at me.

I am biting off more than I can chew, especially getting involved with a person from the village, with all the problems that that is already bringing me. It won’t be long until I am called a homewrecker, I am sure.

We close early and I am tucked in bed by eleven. I sleep like the dead for ten hours straight and, when I wake up, for a second, I think that, if I turn around, I’ll find Samuel there, arm draped around me protectively even when he himself can barely move.

But no, I’m in bed with Laura, my little sister snoring loud and clear next to me.

No messages from Samuel.

I shouldn’t feel this way, but I can almost feel the noise my heart makes dropping onto the floor and shattering. It’s stupid that I care so much about someone I’ve just met again after so many years. And yet, I can’t help it, flashes of Samuel’s face, concerned, laughing, tender, keep bothering me at the most importune moments.

Throwing the bed covers slightly more forcefully than I probably should, I force myself to behave like a responsible, functioning, human being.

While I’m having breakfast, I reflect on my past – and very present – crush on Samuel. He had been, after all, the first person who made me feel seen, appreciated, he made me feel confident to just be myself.

Fifteen years later, it’s like no time at all has passed. I can read him as well as, I’m sure, he can read me. I know he cares for me. I am quite positive he wants me.

I want to get to know him better, 2014 Samuel, and fill the blanks of his existence. Ask what he has done while I was away. Tell him what I’ve done while abroad. I want to know everything about him, spend nights on the sofa watching movies with him, going on trips with him, help him with his house.

The intensity of these feelings is a bit scary.  I haven’t experienced something this all-consuming, well, never. Attraction per se is not scary, but when it comes second to the heart-wrenching feeling that is filling me up when I think about losing him… That is terrifying.

Attraction can be controlled, reigned in, to a degree, at least.

But feelings, there’s no dam to control what I’m starting to feel, and there’s no point in denying it any longer.

While biting listlessly into the almost carbonised piece of toast I made for myself, Anna waltzes into the room, awakened by my presence. Here she is once again, disrupting the only moment in the day I allow my head to be filled with a blank space, and not giving two shits about it.

In the normal run of things, I would not engage. However, today I am tired, and sad.

“Finally, you show up, mademoiselle. Long time, no see.”

“Mmm.”

“Anything you want to tell mommy dearest?”

“Tonight, Laura and myself will work at Il Cavallino, they have a big birthday there.”

“Always lucky, they are.”

Anna has always had a very, very big chip on her shoulder with regards to my aunt and uncle’s lives. She seems to be considering restaurant life to be very glamourous, clearly not grasping what working in the hospitality business actually entails. I bet she would not enjoy the “glamour” of having an empty restaurant day in day out, but I don’t want to have an argument at nine in the morning. I sip my latte and say: “Maybe this is the turning point and things start getting better.”

“They should sell the place and find a real job, although I don’t know what they could find at their ages.”

Anna has worked her entire life as the office manager for a small local company but, same as everyone else in the family, she has a divine right to pass judgement on everyone else’s business. That very annoying habit must have skipped a generation, because none of either me or my cousins seem to be like that. It’s either genetics, or that we all want to be as different from them as possible. I’ll let you guess.

“I’ll go buy a couple more things I need for tonight in a bit. Do you need anything from the shop? I’m going to San Giuliano, they have a good store for restaurant supplies.”

“No, thanks. I will prepare chicken for tonight; I will leave you some out in case you are hungry when you come home.”

I can’t think of anything else to say at this point, so I stay quiet. Anna, bored with my lack of response, sashays back to her room for some bed-reading time (that’s where my passion for books comes from, in fairness to Anna: when I was little, I remember my mother with her nose constantly in a book, normally a gruesome thriller or a romance).

Before going to Il Cavallino, I buy new curtains, new tablecloths and new napkins. None of this comes exactly cheap, but I’m certain they will make the difference and I still feel guilty about causing a scene yesterday. Then, in a different shop I get a couple more posters for the overflow rooms, before hurrying back to the restaurant.

The kitchen is in full swing. Daniela, Anita and Mirco are all working hard prepping for dinner. Giovanni has called Graziani and this blessed customer has requested a banquet to celebrate his fortieth birthday: two entrees, two mains, a roast and two desserts. Daniela proposed her menu and the guy was very enthusiastic about it.

When I walk in, everyone is chatting animatedly. It’s uplifting to see and I want to make it into a daily reality again.

“Hey zia, can you spare a second to tell me if you like these? I have plenty of time to go back and change them if they are not of your taste.”

Daniela pulls the curtains and tablecloths out of the bag I’m holding up to her. The curtains are of a slightly lighter shade of blue than the feature wall behind the bar, with a simple geometric pattern along the bottom that makes them cheerful without being tacky; the tablecloths are paper, but of excellent quality, white with a blue motif running along the edges.

“They are gorgeous, Alice! They must have costed you a fortune! Let me give you some money back!”

“Absolutely not, auntie, I am not paying any rent and I am getting paid welfare from when I was in Madrid, so consider this a small gift which hopefully will bring us some luck.”

“You are giving us more than this ‘small’ little gift, my dear niece.” She envelops me in a hug, followed by Anita who looks almost teary; even shy Mirco gives me a big smile.

“I will go put these up now, guys, be back in a sec.”

I retreat, overwhelmed by the attention. All I want is give back to them some joy in their work, give them back what I’m sure they have given the community that has forgotten about them in recent times.

Once back in the main area of the restaurant, I check my phone for the hundredth time today (pitiful, I know) but, bar a message from Laura confirming that she will be here at six, no other messages have come through. At this point, I only hope that Samuel’s back is ok and that Vittoria hasn’t trampled over it in high heels to avenge the night we spent at my aunt’s.

With a sigh, I start removing the old curtains, change them, and prepare the tables for the evening. By the time Laura arrives, I am already exhausted. Clearly, I need some more rest after all the action of the last couple of days.

Laura walks in and stops in her tracks: “Wow…”

She does a little walkaround, and then comes back to me: “Sis, you did an excellent work! I was expecting a change, but this is incredible!”

“It’s just some paint and some minor spruce ups,” I say, modestly.

Laura claps her hands, delighted: “Did you do all that since yesterday?!”

“I’ve got some help with the painting from Samuel, but yeah.”

Laura gives me a look that means: “Uh, interesting” but, because Giovanni is floating around cleaning the bar, she says, instead: “We will go celebrate at Una’s next week. After you’ve taken a break, it looks like you need it.”

“I do need forty-eight hours rest in bed I think, yeah.”

Laura tilts her head and mouths: “You look sad.”

I mouth back: “Later.”

Laura gives me a thumbs up and claps her hands again: “Let’s get this party started!”

---

The evening is a resounding success. The place is crowded but, because the menu has been confirmed beforehand, our job is much easier. The only extra work for us is to bring drinks whenever required, and everyone is in a celebratory mood, because a lot of drinks have to be brought to the tables. At some point, an impromptu karaoke session starts up and everyone is singing “Oh mare nero”, “Azzurro”, and some weird songs from the Alpini collection that makes both Laura and me laugh to tears. The atmosphere is great, the food excellent, and everyone is in high spirits.

Daniela leaves the restaurant around eleven, after closing the kitchen, and looks destroyed but happy. Giovanni, Laura and I stay put until one, when the party finally ends, or, to be exact, moves to the birthday boy’s house. It’s two o’clock in the morning by the time we are finished.

Giovanni gives us both a hug and tells me: “Don’t come until Monday, ok? You’ve done enough for us already.” I only nod against his broad chest and then get into the car with Laura.

“I am exhausted! But it’s gone well, don’t you think?” Says Laura, leaning against the headrest, eyes closed.

“I hope the word of mouth helps a little. I’m starting to form the idea of doing a re-opening party if I see that the clients are picking up.”

“It’s a great idea, sis. We should definitely do it! On a different subject… What’s the story with Samuel? I’ve waited all day to ask but we’ve been so busy I haven’t been able to catch you.”

With a weary sigh, I proceed to tell her what’s happened in the last twenty-four hours.

By the time we are parked in front of the apartment, Laura looks like I will have to pick her jaw up from the floor: “Holy shit. You slept with him?”

“I didn’t sleep sleep with him. We kinda shared a sofa for some hours of uncomfortable sleep. He said Vittoria knew he was not going home that night but I don’t know what he told her when he went back and he hasn’t been in touch since.”

“Ouch.”

“Yep. I think for now I just need to watch cats’ videos for the next twelve hours. Then, maybe, we can talk about it again.”

“Sound plan.”

When I am getting ready for bed, I finally have a moment to look at my phone again:

SAMUEL: Hey

SAMUEL: I hope your big night goes well, the place looks fantastic

After these two messages, sent around dinner time, two more, sent around ten o’clock:

SAMUEL: I told Vicky what happened and she was understanding (not happy about my back, which is understandable)

SAMUEL: She sends her thanks for taking care of me

My stomach tenses up and I feel almost nauseous. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but something about the formality of the messages hits me where it hurts most.

Despite the fact that I’ve just admitted to myself that I’ve got feelings for Samuel, I find myself going back to the comfort of thinking: I shouldn’t have made anything of it, we are just friends. The relationship between Samuel and Vittoria is strong enough.

Yada, yada.

With all of this churning inside, I decide it’s high time for me to book a return flight to Madrid.