Small towns, contrary to popular beliefs, are restless. They're not frantic. People do not rush or scurry, at least most of them; they jog, at best.
When the bell of the church's tower strikes 7:30, for instance, kids smile in their sleep and turn to cradle themselves in the coolness of their pillows, sweating off the summer's dew. So do their mothers. Their fathers huff to shave themselves squeaky clean. Some men try to suffocate themselves with the snake of their ties, others kiss their wive's foreheads, lingering press, to memorise the wrinkles on their lips and letting them keep company all the way to the office. And when the the bell of the church's tower strikes 8:30, some of those suit-pressed devils are already halfway through their paperwork, while the most melancholic of their peers stare at waves crushing down the pebbly beach, foam drowning dead clams and a hidden pearl. And before the bell of the church's tower strikes 9:30, women have already been up, for a good half hour at least. Breakfast is already plated, peaches and sweet milk, and some of grandma's canestrelli, two for each child, and coffee for the adults to indulge and wake up properly. The least affected by the summer heat have already kissed the kids goodbye and, soft shoes on, they clack the short heels on the stony streets, scanning shop's windows, fruits on display, sales and chatters.
See? Restless. But as they are small, they grow predictable and Nico, all the way from the hard seat of the counter, has memorised all of their routines by now. No one dares to even look at the shop until the clock clicks 9 sharp. Mrs. Mercenaro is the first to arrive. Every Tuesday she asks for the necessary to the best artichoke sauce - or at least, so she claims; for the longest time Mr. Saverio, shop keeper, had always gifted her couple of apples more, so Nico complies, obidient. "Sciô." Nico calls him. He had known Saverio for as long as he was old enough to stumble into his shop and buy half a kilogram of pineseeds for Sunday's pesto and even though Nico is freshly eighteen - practically an adult himself - he still can't refrain from calling him Mister. So he hollers and guide with his voice the dry old hand, to write down the day's buisness.
And when the clock clicks 9:30, sharp, or 9:34 if the bakery's window was interesting enough, it's Master Ferrando's turn. Even before the old man can make the shop's bell shriek, the paper bag's already full. Three buns of fresh oil-coated bread, a tub of mayo - and only the good Lord knows what he does with a tub of mayo everyday - and three sweet peaches for his nephew. He's a silly man, always snapping forgetful fingers to get the names out of the tip of his tongue, but he's generous. Nico likes him. After he hands him what he needs and endured a soft pinch on the cheek, Nico waits patiently for the 10:15 sharp, the banker's daughter, to take a bar of dark chocolate. Her mother nags her to watch her figure and her father laments that he could buy her the finest Perugia's chocolate. She will be back in a week, when the wrap lays empty but she remembers only eating half of it.
But somewhere, somewhen between 9:45 and 10 o'clock, the bell sounds a dissonant note in Nico's swiss clock. Before raising his eyes to face the anomaly, he spares a quick glance to the calendar. No birthdays missed. Today marks Saint Egidio's martyrdom but, unless a baby has been blessed with the name that very day - which Nico, as the whole town, would know in a matter of seconds - no one's coming to claim any dry biscuits and sweet wine to celebrate. And the Ricci's anniversary is not to be drinked to until a week from now. Eyes skims some more to meet Sciô Saverio's, who is looking at the stranger just as puzzled, if not even more. Meaning: situation might be dire. Nico only sees him when he finally reaches the counter.
"Buongiorno," He says, unsure, meeting Nico's eyes and then not.
The sight is blissful, so much in fact that the only hand to keep Nico's soul on ground, is the urge to register how sweetly he said so, like no one in that town had. It had the softest 'b', snapping mellow on the plump lips, growing upon half of the word, bridging right to the 'n'. Nico hears the caress of the overly curled 'r', soft on the shell of his ear, and he traces every closed 'o', resounding it on every crevice of his brain. It's the most honeyed greeting a person can convey. Although, that might be an angel, not a person at all. His sounds are too silvertoned, his coils too aureate, his features too cherubic. Nico grows stunned, and while his own mouth hangs agape, he observes the boy's move to try and curl in the next right word.
"English?" Is all that Nico can manage in his haze. He sees how the man's shoulder slowly untangle and the sun starts to shine again in his cornflowers fields.
"Thank you." He nods, releasing all his knots in a chuckle. "I don't think I would've survived the embarrassment of butchering another word." And thank God for grandpa's letters from D.C. because this boy talks fast. Had Nico been just a tad less experienced and he would've struggled to run after his words.
"America?" Nico smiles, or tries without looking too much like a cod.
"Texas." The boy nods again.
"What brings you all the way here from the States?"
The boy's mouth coils upwards and his head cocks to the right with amusment, then it morphs slowly in a poorly masked somber. "I'm here with my dad for the summer. He says that you haven't lived until you've seen Italy's beaches."
"You don't sound happy," Nico furrows his brows. "You don't like it here?"
"No!" The boy hurries to lift his hands in defence. "I've seen very little of the town and I can already tell," he sighs. "It's lovely." Then he raises his shoulders. "Just homesick, I guess."
Nico feel all the snotty tears running on his face, the sleepless nights in D.C., how he would howl and shriek for poor 'Papà' left behind on the lonely town's beaches, when work would tie him down one or two nights longer to the Roman's land, not even realising that, hadn't it been for mamma, his papà would've kissed them goodbye almost immediately. Nico nods, understanding.
There's a scratchy voice that rattles him out of his mind. "Nico, l'orologio." It says. And the clock says: 10:08. The banker's daughter surely has already stepped out of the white mahogany doors.
"I'm afraid we can't chat any longer, not right now at least. Were you looking for something?" Nico almost cries, suffers from the thought of not looking at that piece of heaven anymore. He was getting used to the sight.
The boy hums, stumped. "I, uhm-- Just enough to last us a week?" He lets two coins tin on the hard wood counter, one silver and one golden. "This is what I have."
Nico smiles and take the silver one, rings and hands him change. His chest scoffs in a summersault and a laugh, endeared to say the very least, as he weighs and watches the pearly sand fall from the scoop to the bag.
"You know," The boy starts and rocks a little on his heels. "You people talk better than I thought."
Nico lets the bag fall onto the counter with a thump and holds it tight in his fingers. "What do you mean?" He spells out.
"I mean," the boy stops rocking. He senses something it's not right. He bits his tongue, probably trying to cut it off before he can say something silly again. "It's a pretty small town in Italy. I-- I thought you'd be, you know-"
"No! It's just," The boy looks around like the answer is writting on the scale or maybe on the wood shelves. "It's a pretty remote town, maybe you don't get a lot of tourists or, I don't know--"
"No need for tourists, english is taught here." Nico basically slams the adhesive shop's logo to secure the sugar. "I expected a little less vanity from someone that didn't even bother to learn how to greet properly." He slides with care and strenght the bag. "Cinquecento grammi di zucchero! " He shouts to Saverio and turns right back to the rude American boy, cheek bit and jaw clenched "Five hundred grams. It'll last you a month. Good day."
Nico feels the stranger's gaze searching for him, but he's already gone to fiddle with something on the register, trying to look busy. Anything to keep him from falling into those deep sapphire mines. "Sorry." He hears him whisper and drag the slight leather heels away, so slump they're almost scratching on the floor. Only when he hears the bell ring again in a goodbye, Nico turns. He sees him look one way and the other to cross the street. He sees how his curls sways with the same rhythm of his hips and how the too tight shirt warps on the hollows of his back muscles, how the too short hem doesn't cover his dimples of Venus. How little effort he puts into being so strikingly heavenly. How, even in sorrow, his eyes look so seraphic when they turn to him again.
"Sei un deficiente." Saverio huffs.
Nico's head darts to follow the voice, behind shelves and a pretty thin wall. Saverio can't see him now, as he's currently too busy trying to was away ink from his hands with a cloth, but Nico is shooting a glance that would make an angry child pale. "Quando mai." He scratches in retort.
"E invece si," Saverio chuckles. "Prima ti incazzi, poi gli guardi il culo." He leans on the desk so he can meet his eyes better. "Ridicolo."
