Chapter I - Portorosso
On the dreamy Ligurian coast, in the summer of 1970, a lovely little seaside town is warmed by the brightness of noon.
Simple but charming buildings, their pastel plaster baking in the sun, line narrow winding streets and walkways of cobblestone. A few people sit or mill about, mostly older folks chit-chatting and young children playing futból. Over the pleasant murmurs of this small-town life, quiet music plays in the distance. It's a dreamy tune on soft strings, a woman slowly singing in a mellow alto.
The streets are crowded…The crowd surround me…
It speaks to me and laughs…And knows nothing of you.
Slanting streets wind and converge at the piazza, one side of which opens wide to the shore and docks. Small shops line the area - a cafè, latteria, pescheria - and near its center a fountain sprays into the air. A young boy eating a cone of gelato sits on the fountain rim, tilting his head to look through the spray where his angle creates a sparking rainbow.
I see them pass all around me…But I know the city…
Will seem empty to me…If you don't come back.
The deep gong of a church bell echos from the canyon of a nearby street, tolling noon. A few moments later more people begin to appear, meandering while in conversation. Some head to the cafè for lunch. Off shore, over the vibrant blue and green waters sparkling in the sun, fishing boats point towards land to come in for a break. Beyond them, perhaps a mile out, a lonely island stands.
A handful of customers are trickling into the pescheria near the docks. The front doors are open, and the proprietor's strong yet gentle voice can be heard over the chatter of his clientele. "Yes, signore, three amberjack or snapper for domani. Non è un problema. … Next, please. … Yes, very good. Trecento lira, per favore."
The singing woman can be heard more clearly here. On the side of the pescheria, a small yard is surrounded by a tall stone wall. A tree in the yard reaches up, one large branch stretching towards an open second-floor window, from where the music comes.
I always think of you, only of you!
And I know that the city…
Will seem empty to me…If you don't come back.
The window leads to a small bedroom. Fifteen-year-old Alberto sits cross-legged on the bed, facing the record player on a nearby desk. He isn't looking at it though. He's gazing at the floor, deep in thought. Solid footsteps sound outside the door, clearly heard even over the swelling music. But the boy doesn't seem to notice them.
How can you want…To live alone without me?
Do you not feel…That our love has not ended?
A knock on the door brings him around. It opens, and the large, mustachioed form of Massimo Marcovaldo peeks in. "Alberto? What are you doing up here? I need your help taking the lunchtime orders."
Alberto springs up and hurriedly takes the needle off the record. "Oh! Sorry, papa! I got distracted." He follows the man out and downstairs, getting to work right away. He's glad the shop is busy; it'll take his mind off things for a while.
Author's note:
Just a little opening to set the tone! I have a rather lengthy story planned, and much written. Unfortunately I've been writing the scenes out of order, as inspiration hits. So the next part of this tale isn't quite ready to go. Hopefully soon!