Mopped Up
(25/30) Different Perspectives
I have a thing about words in languages that are not my own, words that suggest stories. Recently I wrote a story about umarell (‘little men’ who while away their retirement in affectionate criticism of local construction companies and their workers).
Previously, I was drawn to scarpetta, a word that refers to the bread an Italian might use to soak up every last drop of a particularly good tomato sauce.
“The post-lunch heat seared onto dusty streets. You could fry crocchè di patatte on the bonnet of a vintage Fiat Cinquecento you were minded to. But it made more sense to linger under a faded Cinzano umbrella and let Matteo, the longstanding chef patron, prepare your antipasto. The shaded seating outside the osteria was where a keen observer of life might learn all one needed to know about the Sicilian mountain village I call home.”
It is one of my favourite stories, written from the perspective of an observer. I wondered today how it might work if I was to write a version that sees the story through another character’s eyes.
Perhaps start with this first version of Mopped Up, before you try the latest one.
I move slower these days. My knees ache when I try to rise from the deep embrace of the faded armchair in my small front room. Once I am upright, it is easier to just lean over the balcony rail and watch the world go by. You can see plenty from there. Most days the Greek fellow is polishing glasses. No one can remember how or when he arrived, but the village is better for his gentle manners. I know for a fact that two young widows set out to quietly charm him, but it is the washing line of Signura Firranti that displays his freshly laundered undershirts on Tuesday mornings. Who can begrudge them. There is too much sadness in this place, too much loss. I for one celebrate the happiness they have found in one another.
I start each day by remembering my boys, prayers rising before steam has escaped the kettle. Ferro, my love, taken while Lucio - light in my darkness - was growing inside me. Beloved Ferro, deeply loyal to the family business. But when that business is death, darkness shades light more often than you can imagine. Our son had his eyes, and how I wish he had lived to see them. Perhaps then he would have paused before catching the boat, revenge burning inside him. But Lucio grew up with stories of his father, of the Family that drew us close. When his turn came, he didn’t hesitate. He prowled in his father’s footsteps, all the way down to the harbour, onto the boat, across to the mainland. He followed his handsome father to the cimiteriu where they lie, side by side, waiting for me.
In the years since, I have been paid a generous pension, a reward for their loyalty. I repay it with my own. It costs nothing to remain tight-lipped, to see nothing, to send police investigators down narrow streets that lead nowhere. In small Sicilian villages, we are all family, we all do what we must.
On searingly hot afternoons I hide in my apartment, unless the telephone rings and Matteo needs me. I went to school with his father, so I feel a connection. When he calls, I know to gather the tools of my trade. There are particular cloths and liquids that are better than others; after all these years I know what works best. Today I hadn’t truly needed the call but it came anyway. I’d seen the man walking into the square, catching his breath by the church, taking off his fedora to wipe his brow. It is a steep climb up from the harbour. This man is older, but there is no shame in pausing as even youngsters lose their puff on the climb. They should always catch their breath while they still can.
I set off down the street, walking slowly. My black dress is a uniform of sorts, a badge of honour for those of us who celebrate the memory of loved ones who answered the call. I can hold my head high. My beloved boys would be proud, I think.
I see the Greek, the sparkling flash of a highly-polished Aperol glass signalling his modest presence.
He nods my way, polite as always. “Buongiorno, signora Scarpetta”.
I smile at him but I cannot stop to chat. There is work to do at Matteo’s osteria.
I love them both, Barrie, but I’m partial to the most recent told from the perspective of signora Scarpetta.
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