Mopping Up

Aesthetica Creative Writing Award (2024)

This is a fresh version of a story I published earlier in the year, edited over the past week to create a second entry for the 2024 Aesthetica Creative Writing Award. I have no high ambitions when I enter a writing competition; it feels like a necessary part of ‘getting my writing out there’. Last year, I entered a piece for this Award - I liked it at the time but I can already see my writing has improved, and I am more prepared to put the work in … edit, edit, edit, that’s the difference.

There is a second piece entered this year that I won’t share yet (holding back until the initial judging is done in November) - secretly, it is a piece I am proud of (there, I said it out loud). With that piece, I opened up to a friend who taught me so much in the process about editing and the importance of fresh eyes - skilled eyes - on your work. A huge thank you to

Matt Inwood

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I have had an idea bubbling around for a while. A play on words, for that is what we writers do … play with words.

Scarpetta is the bread offered with an Italian meal to mop up when the main course is done.

That is the background you need so this short tale can unfold.

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Photo by Ilenia F. on Unsplash

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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.

You also see plenty from across the street.

In the time it takes this diligent barman to shine a trayful of Aperol glasses, a scene can play out. I polish and I watch. No one notices an old man in an apron even if his glass cloths are bleached brighter than Santorini whitewash. It has been many years since I visited the island of my birth. My Italian is that of an emigrato. Here in Sicily, where no one asks questions, the anonymity I enjoy is a blessing.

This stranger is the latest of many. Well-tailored and well-thought-of by those who sent him. Men from this village take the same road he’s travelled but in the opposite direction. Weeks later a priest will comfort a mother or a widow while young brothers or cousins make travel plans. It is the way of things around here.

I watch until the twinkling glass draws his eye toward the nondescript waiter hidden in plain sight across the street. The things I note are familiar vignettes played on repeat. Pinstripe and lapel width reflect changing fashions. Shoe leather is polished to a mirror shine but dulled by the dust that swirls in this backstreet. It is a steep climb from the harbour for the sea breeze but it never arrives as breathless as the men who pause by the church before taking their seats at Matteo’s.

There is no eagerness in faces hardened by what they’ve seen and done. I lie by omission, of course. There was one, younger than the rest, with a swagger in his stride, ego swollen by the responsibility placed on his young shoulders. That was the day a sharp gust ruffled the skirts of the parasols. In truth, Father forgive me, the wind lifted the skirt of Matteo’s daughter and my gaze lingered. The young man noticed too. A few weeks later the girl left in the back seat of the priest’s car, the exhaust groaning at the shame of it. By then, the young man was long gone, no more than a murmur in the whispered secrets of this place. The responsibilities of parenthood would have weighed more heavily than the task he was sent here to complete. He might have been better suited to fatherhood.

This one is older. If the wind picks up, those old-fashioned lapels will offer the lift his mood requires. World-weary, seen-it-all-before. His fedora is jauntier than he is, angled to hide a livid scar running from temple to chin. I imagine the disfigurement pains him. His wink suggests the residual anxiety of a flirt with death more than a misplaced compliment paid to the wrong kind of ragazza giovane. He looks like a man of few words. The trainee waiter left early for soccer training so Matteo is taking orders, cooking and serving. Without a menu, it is “take it or leave it” for the piatto del giorno. The sullen-looking man in the fedora obviously chose ‘take it’. No doubt it is fresh seafood brought to the kitchen by Gia, who inherited a fishing boat from her grandfather. They say she is charmed and always lands a catch. She is charming too, but will not be caught.

So, fish it is in a deep pool of rich tomato sauce, a grandmother’s secret unveiled. Fresh basil nurtured on the patron’s terrace, far from wandering hands. Pasta is pressed thin each morning, hung in strips to dry, and plucked from the line before the stifling late-morning heat curls it.

It is simple, timeless food, savoured as an early lunch or a last supper.

The solid build of the stranger is hidden by his well-cut suit. He nods to Matteo, silently summoning more bread, scarpetta. Not one ounce of tomato sauce is wasted as the rhythmic circling of bitesize pieces leaves little for the plate wash. In any event, the dishes will wait. Guiseppi, hands wrinkled by hot water, knows when to withdraw to the cool shade of the olive trees in the graveyard. If he is minded, he will pick up his long-handled shovel and shift dirt in anticipation. Washer of plates and digger of graves, the old man finishes up when service is done.

The old woman shuffles into view, the black of her mourning clothes catching the mood. Those of us with walk-on parts in the slowly unfolding story of this community recognise her costume as a portent of the future. Not all the characters will appear in the sequel. The stranger fixes his gaze on the widow while arrogantly gesturing for the bill. Hidden off-stage, the proprietor takes his cue and knows the price to be paid.

As the clock strikes the hour and bells echo from the church square to this narrow alleyway, the soft whisper of a silenced pistol is served in place of digestivo. The old woman pauses outside my bar, claw-like fingers tightening around her rosary as she crosses herself, murmuring words of forgiveness for Matteo. She glances up, nodding her appreciation for the silence she knows they can rely upon. She walks towards the osteria where a stranger is sprawled across a reddening tablecloth. Everyone has a part to play, and hers is to clear the set.

“Buongiorno, signora Scarpetta”.