Mediterraneo

By Julian Gallo

What would they do once the fire goes out?  

 

Two lifelong friends, Gianni Mazzaro and Matteo Radicci, set off on their summer travel, an annual ritual since their college days. This year it’s the Mediterranean, the first stop being a small village in the mountains of southern Italy - a town in which both their families hailed from. They soon discover that their ancestral town has one foot in the twenty-first century, one foot still firmly rooted in the past, where some of the locals are still clinging to ancient folkways, vendettas and superstitious beliefs. Something dark had taken place in the village some three decades earlier and the mere arrival of the two friends - and Gianni in particular -  sets off a chain of events that will shake this sleepy village to its very core.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Julian Gallo
• Release date: Jul 25, 2012
• ISBN: 9781507055618

Julian Gallo

Julian Gallo lives and works in New York City. His poetry has appeared in over 40 journals throughout the Unites States, Canada and Europe. He is the author of 9 poetry books, "Standing on Lorimer Street Awaiting Crucifixion" (Alpha Beat Press 1996), "The Terror of Your Cunt is the Beauty of Your Face" (Black Spring Press 1999), "Street Gospel Mystical Intellectual Survival Codes" (Budget Press 2000), "Scrape That Violin More Darkly Then Hover Like Smoke in the Air" (Black Spring Press 2001), "Existential Labyrinths" (Black Spring Press 2003), "My Arrival is Marked by Illuminating Stains" (Beat Corrida, 2007), "Window Shopping For a New Crown of Thorns" (Beat Corrida, 2007), "A Symphony of Olives" (Propaganda Press 2009) and "Divertimiento" (Propaganda Press 2009). He is also the author of 6 novels, "November Rust (Beat Corrida, 2007), "Naderia" (Beat Corrida, 2011), "Be Still and Know That I Am" (Beat Corrida, 2011), "Mediterraneo" (Beat Corrida, 2012), "Europa" (Beat Corrida, 2013), the short story collection "Rapid Eye Movements" (Beat Corrida 2014) and "Rhombus Denied" (Beat Corrida, 2015)

Book preview

"Don’t walk in front of me, I may not follow.

Don’t walk behind me, I may not lead.

Walk beside me and be my friend."

Albert Camus

Autumn 1943

They were the very first to pay homage to Jesus, weren’t they?  These three Magi, these mystic pagans from the East who followed the Morning Star all the way to Bethlehem.  Magi - where the word magic comes from.  It is believed that they originally came from Babylon but some accounts have them originating from Persia or they may have even been Jews from Yemen.  No one really knows for sure but Anabella Santini didn’t seem to care one way or the other.  As far as she was concerned, the very first people to welcome Jesus into life were magicians, so therefore, what she was doing was not against the Church, despite what the clergy - and even her own relatives and neighbors - had to say about it.  What are Catholics other than pagans who have accepted Jesus? 

The only thing on her mind was the dark haired little boy who said she was ugly.  He didn’t think she heard him but she did and it sunk into her chest like an old Roman sword.  She never did like the boy.  It was his eyes - dark as coal with a gaze that would make the devil proud.  He never spoke and when he did she never liked what he had to say.  Useless babble that never made any sense, much like the rest of the Mazzaro clan.  It was this boy, Vicente, she was convinced had been touched by Satan.  It was in his eyes and the eyes are often the window to the soul, aren’t they? 

Her bedroom door locked, candles burning, Anabella spread out the items she needed on the top of the dresser, including the spoon that the boy had eaten his soup with.  She clutched a small, worn, dusty old book in her hand - a book she had inherited from her grandmother just before she passed away at the start of the war - a book she had never been able to look at, much less hold.  In the end she knew what she was doing was right.  You have to stop this sort of thing at the beginning.

What would they do once the fire goes out?

Gianni gazed out the window of the SUV as it careened around yet another sharp turn, giving him a sense that just one wrong move would send them all plunging into the ravine below.  Not a pleasant thought.  In all these years this was the first time he felt this nervous about taking a ride from a random stranger.  The driver seemed pleasant enough, a middle aged man with a slight greying in his hair, white pinstriped shirt, khaki pants, brown loafers, rimless eyeglasses; a sort of professional, he thought.  Then he looked over at Matteo who was too busy fiddling with his rucksack to notice how close they had come to driving off a cliff.  Calm or oblivious, he couldn’t tell which, but that was Matteo.  Always eager to experience new things, never once complaining about anything no matter what the circumstances. 

The SUV made another sharp turn.  Gianni instinctively grabbed hold of the door handle, squeezing his fingers tightly around it, convinced that the truck had taken the turn on two wheels. 

He looked at Matteo again, who was still rummaging through the pocket of his rucksack, seemingly oblivious to the man’s reckless driving. He seemed more determined to find whatever he was looking for than he was thinking about how close they had just come to becoming nothing more than pulp on the rocks below.  He finally found what he was looking for.  A packet of Mentos.  He popped one in his mouth, held the roll out to his friend. 

No, thanks.

Matteo shrugged, held the roll up to his lips and used his thumb to pop another into his mouth. 

Gianni took a cursory glance at the speedometer.  Either the driver had a death wish or he was used to these mountain roads.  He hoped it was the latter.  God help them if another car came around one of the turns, especially at the same speed. 

Finally the road straightened out.  A few houses dotted the hills around them.  Gianni imagined the view their occupants must have had and felt a tinge of envy.  To be able to look upon this landscape first thing in the morning must have been amazing. 

More Than a Feeling by Boston came over the radio and the driver reached for the volume to turn it up.  Gianni looked at Matteo, who gazed out the window at the passing landscape, his fingers tapping the rhythm on his knee.  He was in his own world and Gianni wondered what he was thinking about.  If it were absolutely nothing, it wouldn’t have surprised him.  Matteo had this peculiar knack for getting lost inside himself, a sort of meditative state that he often envied as well as admired.  Nothing ever seemed to bother him.  He could never understand how or why. 

The driver was singing along with the radio in an accented English.  Did he even know what the words meant?  Gianni just wished he would sing a little more on key.  He glanced at Matteo, who was already looking at him, a smile pulling at the corners of his lips.  Gianni smiled back then returned to looking out the window. 

On the road ahead an old man in black pants, blue shirt, black vest and coppola walked beside the road.  The driver tapped the horn, not even attempting to make way for man, who barely glanced at them as they sped by.  Gianni turned his head to look back at the man who just seemed to be taking his time, his eyes down on the path in front of him.  He looked at Matteo again, who kept his eyes squarely on the landscape, again seemingly unaware that they nearly plowed into the old man. 

A road sign indicated the town was still a few kilometers away. 

Sei sicuro che vuoi che io vi lasci qui?  La città è ancora a poche miglia di distanza.  

Questo andrà bene, Gianni said.  Grazie.

Matteo opened the door and hopped out of the truck, pulling his rucksack behind him.  Gianni handed a twenty euro note to the driver. 

Dui americani autostop qui?  È necessario essere attenti qui, the driver said, raising his eyebrows.  In bocca al lupo. 

Gianni smiled.  Grazie. 

They watched the truck speed off down the road, lifted their rucksacks and began walking, the hot summer wind in their faces. 

––––––––

You know what I’m thinking about? Matteo asked. 

Gravel crunched under their feet. 

I can only imagine, Gianni said.  Let me guess.

Matteo smiled.  You got it.

Gianni laughed.  I’m sure they’ll be plenty of beautiful women here.  Just be patient.  So far it looks like there isn’t another soul for miles.

Yeah, I hear you.  It’s beautiful, though, isn’t it?

Amazing.

They paused a moment, looking out over the hills again.  Matteo dug his camera out of the rucksack and snapped a couple of pictures. 

I want to document everything, he said.  When we get back home, I’m sure this will make a great series.

Gianni smiled.  Somehow Matteo will manage to turn these series of photos into another one of his masterpieces. 

Matteo pointed his camera towards the olive trees.  You can feel the history here, can’t you?  What did that guy say to you, anyway?

He said that we had to be careful out here.

Why’s that?

Gianni shrugged.  Who knows?  Look around you.  Maybe he was talking about the landscape.

We’ve done this sort of thing before.

I’m not worried.

Matteo snapped another couple of photos. 

What’s to worry about? Matteo said.  How can something this beautiful be dangerous?

Gianni didn’t say anything. 

Shall we move on? Matteo said. 

If we don’t keep stopping we can probably make the town by nightfall.  What time is it anyway?

Matteo looked at his watch.  A little after three.

Gianni nodded, took a sip of water from his bottle of Poland Spring.  We should get there by nightfall.  I’m glad we decided to do this again.

Me too, Matteo said, hanging the camera around his neck.  This may be the last time we can do this, you know.

Maybe.  Maybe not.

I think I may have overpacked, Matteo said.  This bag is killing my back.

––––––––

They were still a ways from Alterocce, however they could see the town in the distance, built into the side of the mountain.  Matteo paused to take a photo while Gianni sat down on a rock by the side of the road to smoke a cigarette and give his back a rest from the weight of his rucksack. 

Have you ever seen anything so beautiful? Matteo asked.  I mean, look at this view!

Gianni looked around, the hot wind blowing across his face.  He placed the cigarette between his lips and reached into his rucksack for a bottle of water. 

You might want to drink one too, he said to Matteo, holding one out for him. 

Matteo took a couple of more photos, sat down beside his friend, taking the bottle of water from him. 

It’s unbelievable, isn’t it? Matteo said.  "This is that sort of spot that no photo could ever do justice to.  You have to be here to experience it."

How far do you think the town is from here?

From the looks of it?  I’d say another mile or two.  I mean, how the hell do we get there from here?

That way, Gianni said, pointing down the road. 

Are you sure?  It doesn’t look like this road goes out that way.

That’s what the guy said.

Are you sure?

Honestly?  Not really.

Matteo took a drink of water.  That’s comforting.

I’m not sure if we’ll make it by nightfall.

What are we supposed to do then?

We camp out along the road.

What about wild animals?

What about them?

There’s got to be wild animals out here, right?

I don’t know.

Gianni looked out over the ravine at the town. This was where his family came from.  It probably looked no different than it did in their day.  He tried to imagine how they got around.  It didn’t seem like a place where the majority of people had access to a car or even own one. Probably rode donkeys and mules down these mountain roads when they had to get somewhere. It’s must be different now. 

We should get going, Gianni said, standing up.  We may not make it by tonight but at least we’ll be at a lower elevation.  We can’t stay here tonight.

I hear you, Matteo said, hoisting his rucksack on his back.  He walked over to the edge of the ravine to look out over the landscape.  I got to tell you, honestly.  This is one of the most beautiful places I’d ever seen.

* * * * * *

They walked on for a few more kilometers before deciding they had enough.  It was nearly nightfall. 

They found an olive grove just off the side of the road.  They picked a tree, dug their sleeping bags out of their rucksacks. 

It’s awfully quiet, Matteo said. 

Yeah.  It’s great, isn’t it?

I’m still worried about wild animals.  There’s got to be wolves out here, don’t you think?

Wolves, mountain goats, donkeys, who knows?

Are you serious?

I really don’t know, Gianni said, lighting a cigarette. 

We should start making a campfire.

They walked around, picking up branches and twigs, paper, anything they could use to get a flame going.  Matteo gathered some rocks and made a circle while Gianni placed all the debris in the center.  He reached into his rucksack, removed a small can of lighter fluid. 

This is the way to go, he said, holding the can up.  Fuck what the scouts taught us.

He squeezed the liquid onto the debris, lit a couple of matches and set it ablaze. 

Thank God you remembered to bring that, Matteo said. 

Of course.  I remember what happened the last time.

We froze our asses off that night, remember?

That’s why this time I made sure not to let that happen again.

They each rolled out their sleeping bags and lied down on them.  It was still a little early to call it a night. 

This is the life, Matteo said.  I keep thinking about how we live our lives, you know?  It’s not right.  Men aren’t meant to be running around like fucking rats in a maze.  You need solitude sometimes, I say.  Look at that sky.

It’s something guys like us never get to see.

That’s a shame.

Well, we’re seeing it now. 

Forget what I said, let’s just enjoy it.  Why think about that hell hole right now.

Agreed.

Gianni removed his cell phone from his pocket. 

Are you checking to see if Rosa left you a message? Matteo asked. 

Doesn’t matter.  I can’t get a signal here.

Just as well.  Try not to think about her, will you?  It’s only going to depress you.

I know, but...

Fuck her, Gianni.  She was no good for you.  If you ask me, she did you a favor.

He tried to focus his attention on the moment, lying there underneath the olive trees, watching the sky slowly darken until the stars began to appear overhead. 

Now this is what I’m talking about, Matteo said. 

They didn’t speak for a while and just lied there, watching the stars, listening to the wind rustling the branches of the olive trees, the crackle of the fire.

* * * * * *

Gianni!  Gianni, you awake?

Matteo sat up, tried to see in the fading light of the campfire. 

Gianni!  Wake up!  Wake up, man!

What is it? Gianni said, bolting upright. 

I heard something.  Over there.

Gianni followed Matteo’s finger towards the bushes slightly uphill from them. 

What is it?

I don’t know.  I heard something over there.

It’s probably nothing.

Get your flashlight out.

Gianni reached into the rucksack, felt around for the flashlight, turned it on. 

Over there, Matteo said. 

Gianni shined the beam to where Matteo was pointing.  Something was rustling the bushes and waving the olive tree branches. 

It’s just the wind, Gianni said.  It’s nothing.

I’m telling you I heard something walking around out there.

Gianni focused the light back on the same spot, then moved it around a little until a gleam of light startled him. 

Holy shit! 

What is it?

He focused the beam back on the spot where he saw the reflective light. 

Holy shit, you were right, Matteo.  It’s a wolf.

What the fuck!  Don’t startle it.  Don’t scare it!

Gianni laughed.  You know for a guy who loves to have such adventures you’re a real pussy when it comes to wild animals.

Fuck you, Gianni.  Wolves are no fucking joke all right?  That’s all we need is for it to smell our food and before you know it the whole fucking pack of them will be surrounding us.

Let’s try to shoo it away.

With what?

Hand me one of those rocks from the campfire.

What are you going to do?

Just give me one, will you?  Hurry up.

Gianni couldn’t keep from laughing as Matteo scrambled for one of the rocks. 

It’s not funny! he said. 

He handed Gianni a rock, not surprisingly, one of the larger ones. 

Here, hold the flashlight.  Keep it focused on that spot.

Don’t fucking piss it off, man, Matteo said. 

Gianni laughed again, then tossed the rock about half a foot away from where he saw it.  They listened to the rustling of the bushes as the wolf ran off. 

Is it gone? Matteo asked, shining the light all over the area. 

It’s gone.  I scared it off.

Thank God.

You’re such a Mary, Gianni said laughing.  I mean, really.  I never saw this side of you.

Hey we all have our fucking Kryptonite, all right?  I don’t trust wild animals.  Blame the fucking scouts.

Something happen?

Yeah.  I was out camping with my troupe and we ran into a fucking grizzly one night.  Scared the living shit out of me.  I never seen anything so fucking big, man.  Freaked me the fuck out.  The other kids in the troupe made fun of me for a whole month after that.  Shit.  It’s fucking paws were larger than our heads, man!  I suppose those dopey kids couldn’t put two and two together.

Gianni kept laughing. 

Go ahead, laugh.  Don’t be fucking crying to me when one of those fuckers comes back and starts nibbling on your balls!

Go back to sleep, Matteo.

Matteo slipped back into his sleeping bag but was unable to get back to sleep.  Any noise, any rustling made him stiffen and unable to move.  He watched the campfire slowly die out.  He still had the flashlight in his hand and every so often he’d shine the beam on something or another to make absolutely sure nothing was out there. 

Gianni slept like a baby. 

––––––––

They were expecting a hotel but the address led them to a house near the top of Via San Marco, a narrow strip of road barely wide enough to fit one car, much less two and pedestrians.  From in front of the house they could look out over the valley, almost to the point where they had camped out the night before. 

There was a brick wall in front of the house, which followed the curve of the street to the higher elevation.  It was a dangerous turn.  Just before the wooden gate that led into the property was what passed for a sidewalk, not even close to being wide enough for two people. 

Are you sure this is it? Matteo asked. 

Gianni checked the paper again.  Via San Marco 14.  This is it.  I thought it would be some kind of hotel too. 

Perhaps it’s a bed and breakfast.

The entered the yard.  A steep, stone stairway, led directly up to the patio of the house. 

We’re going to have to navigate this fucking thing every day? Matteo said.  At least we’ll get some exercise.

Tell me about it.

The weight of their rucksacks made taking the stairs extremely difficult, and had to stop a few times before they finally reached the top. 

The higher elevation isn’t helping matters any, Gianni said. 

Thank smoking, Matteo said. 

Thanks, smoking.

They looked out over the valley towards the mountains and the rest of the town.  It appeared to be built on multiple levels, with numerous stairways leading to streets above and below from where the house stood. 

This is going to be a royal pain in the ass, Gianni said. 

Matteo didn’t say anything.  He didn’t have to. 

Gianni knocked on the door and ran some rudimentary Italian through his head.  When the door opened he was surprised to see a young woman, perhaps thirty-five years old  with dark brown hair and lovely green eyes.  His eyes scanned her figure. 

Are you the guys who called? she asked in English. 

Uh...yeah.  You’re Rebecca?

Hi, Rebecca Rossi.  Pleased to meet you.

She held out her hand.  Gianni took it.  It felt small and cold in his large hand. 

Is everything all right? she asked. 

Yes, everything’s fine, he said, it’s just that for some reason, I was expecting someone different.  I had the impression that you’d be much older - and Italian.

I am Italian, she said with a smile.  By way of Buffalo.  This is my family’s home.  It’s been in the family for generations.  I usually spend the summers here.

Gianni smiled, looked at Matteo who already had that look on his face that Gianni knew so well. 

They introduced themselves.

Please, come inside.

The house was huge, decorated in typical Mediterranean decor, filled with natural light, the breeze flowing through the open wooden shutters.  There was no sign of an air conditioner.  Ceiling fans turned slowly, helping move the mountain air through the rest of the house. 

This is some house, Gianni said. 

Thank you, Rebecca said, leading them to the solid oak dining room table.  We try our best to keep it up.  It’s a very old house.  It was probably one of the first houses built in this town.  It used to belong to my great-grandfather, who passed it down.  Like I said, it’s been in the family for generations.  My husband and I usually spend our summer vacations here.  Sometimes we rent out the upstairs to visitors for some extra cash but we usually don’t get many visitors in this town.  It’s sort of out of the way.  That’s why I was surprised by your email.  How did you find us, anyway?

It’s listed on a website. 

Oh, the website, right.  My husband takes care of all that.  I don’t really know much about all that. 

Gianni quickly glanced at Matteo.  He was amused at his friend’s disappointment. 

I’m surprised to find another American here, Gianni said.  That makes things much easier. My Italian is very basic.

Well, they speak mostly dialect here, she said.  You may run into some people that don’t even speak Italian but many of the locals know English.  Hell, everyone seems to know it these days.  Can I get you guys something to drink?  I have some water, coffee...

Coffee would be great, Gianni said. 

Yes, a coffee for me too, Matteo said.  Thank you.

They both watched her walk off toward the kitchen. 

Too bad she’s married, Matteo whispered.  Look at that ass on her, that body.

Take it easy, Matteo.

Just saying.

I hope you like your coffee strong, Rebecca said from the kitchen. My husband bought this really expensive espresso machine and this is the only thing I have to make it.

The stronger the better, Gianni said. 

The walls of the dining room were decorated with flowers, plants, jars of olive oil and other sorted nicknacks perched on thick wooden shelves.  A few paintings hung near the entrance, mainly Mediterranean scenes, landscapes and fishing villages mostly, giving a sense of warmth to the house. 

Rebecca came back with the coffee. 

So what brings you two to Alterocce?  This isn’t a place where Americans normally come. We get many Europeans, other Italians, but hardly Americans.

Both our families come from this town, Gianni said. 

Really? Rebecca said, lifting her eyebrows.  Perhaps your ancestors knew mine.  It’s a very small town.  Everyone knows everyone here.  That’s the one thing wrong with a place like this.  Everyone tends to be in everyone’s business.  What’s the family name?

Mine is Radicci, Matteo said.

How about you? Rebecca asked Gianni. 

Mazzaro, Gianni said. 

Mazzaro, Rebecca repeated.  Interesting. 

Why is that interesting?

Nothing it’s just that ... there hasn’t been a Mazzaro in this town for a long time.

I take it you’re very familiar with the history of this town, Gianni said. 

My husband knows more.  His family is from here too.  Mazzaro.  Interesting.

Gianni looked at Matteo. 

Let me show you where you’ll be staying, Rebecca said. I’m sure you’re going to love it. I’m not sure what impression the website gave the two of you but I think you’re going to be pleasantly surprised.

They followed her to the stairway just off the living room.  Along the walls of the stairway were more paintings of fishing villages and olive tree orchards. 

Are all these paintings by the same artist? Matteo asked. 

Yes, me.

They’re amazing, he said. 

Matteo used to be a painter, Gianni said. 

Used to be? Rebecca said. 

I switched over to photography, Matteo said. 

You’ll get some wonderful pictures here, I’m sure.

They paused before a large wooden door adorned with large black and brass fixtures.  A large slide lock held the doors closed. 

Just wait until you see your space.  You’re going to love it, Rebecca said, having a little trouble pulling the slide lock back.  Just a moment.  Sometimes it gets stuck.

Here, let me help you, Gianni said, taking hold of the lock with his large hands and pulling it back. 

Okay, ready? Rebecca said, both her hands on the handles of the door. 

She pulled the heavy wooden doors open to reveal an enormous, spacious room. 

This is amazing, Matteo said. My God, look at this place.

I bet you were under the impression that it was just a small room, right?  Most people think that. I don’t know why.  I guess it’s the way my husband advertised it. Everyone seems very surprised when they first see it.

The room was decorated much like the rest of the house. Two large wooden shutters opened out to a view of the mountains and the rest of the town above and below. 

This way are the bedrooms, she said. 

They followed her through the room and down the hallway where two rooms stood on either side.  They weren’t large rooms but they were good enough. 

You even have a little kitchen area over there, she said, pointing down the hallway towards the entrance.  It isn’t much but you’ll be able to cook your own food if you like.  There’s the small refrigerator next to the sink.  Out this way is your private space.

She walked to the other end of the room and opened the sliding doors which lead to a private patio. 

Holy shit, Matteo said.  Look at that view!

I told you you’d love it, Rebecca said.  This whole upstairs area is yours.  Your entrance is just off this patio, those stairs to your left.  That leads you down to the back of the house.  When you come in and out you have to go around to the back of the house to access the stairs.  What do you think?

It’s absolutely amazing, Gianni said. 

Let me get you the keys and then I’ll leave you guys alone.  I’m sure you’re exhausted from your trip.  Just give me a moment.

They watched her walk out of the room through the big wooden doors. 

This is fucking incredible, Matteo said.  "Who the fuck would have thought this!  We struck gold here, my friend."

I’m speechless, Gianni said, and for the price?  I mean, I guess they don’t need the money that badly, huh?  Imagine what you could get for a space like this?

Well, it’s probably because they don’t get many visitors, like she said.

Perhaps.

Rebecca returned with the keys. 

If you need anything, please, don’t hesitate to let me know.  When my husband comes home, I’ll introduce you guys.  I’ll leave you alone now.  Enjoy your stay.  Oh, one other thing.  I’m going to lock the doors we came in through.  You won’t be able to go out that way.  That’s our part of the house.

Understood, Gianni said. 

Remember, let me know if there’s anything you need.

They watched her walk out of the room, push the doors closed.  They waited until they heard the snapping of the slide lock before saying anything. 

She’s one lucky fuck, Matteo said. 

Tell me about it. 

They stepped out on the patio, looked over the landscape. 

This is going to be great, Matteo said.  Can you believe this?

Which room do you want?  Does it matter?

No, they’re both the same.

I’m going to unpack and lie down for a while.  I’m wiped.

Don’t you want to walk around the town?

Later.  Right now I just want to sleep in a bed.

* * * * * *

Gianni opened the two wooden shutters to allow some air into the room.  He then dropped his rucksack onto the bed and began to unpack.  His hand felt the rough leather case he had packed at the very bottom of the bag.  He let his fingers rub it briefly before slowly pulling it out of the bag.  He held it in his hand, examining the weathered brown leather, the flood of memories overwhelming him.  He held the case to his nose and smelled it, that familiar musty worn leather smell  that immediately brought his father to mind.  He unzipped the case and removed the tarnished trumpet, then put it down on the bed.  He removed the mute from the front part of the case, rolled it between his hands. 

He picked up the trumpet, affixed the mute and sat down on the bed, looking out through open window at the mountains. He placed the trumpet to his lips and began playing All That I Want, a tune his father had taught him when he was a little boy.  At first he played softly but soon discovered that, the mute was sufficient to tone down the noise.  His playing was a little rusty, he noticed, being that he hadn’t really played in a long time.  Rosa never liked it.  Rosa didn’t like Jazz.  Rosa didn’t like much music at all, something that he always found inconceivable.  That should have been his first clue what he was in for once he got involved with her.  He could hear her voice: Put that damn noisemaker away!  You know you can’t make a living off that fucking thing.  Concentrate on your career! and on and on and on.  Why he ever even listened to her was a mystery to him, again something inconceivable. 

He stood up, still playing, and walked to the open window, pointing the trumpet towards the mountains.  He listened to the tinny, muted notes echo in the distance and suddenly felt alive, as if he were rediscovering a part of himself that seemed long dead. It was time to get back to basics, to remember what it was that gave him joy in this life and the hell with anyone who didn’t - or didn’t want to - understand. 

––––––––

Carlo Dazieri had heard it before, a long time ago when he was a child.  It had been years since he heard that tune.  He removed his hat, wiped the sweat from his forehead with his arm, turned his head trying to pinpoint exactly where it was coming from but it seemed to be coming from all directions. In an instant, a flood of memories, the good times and the bad. 

Giving up on trying to locate it, he put his hat back on and walked up the road, humming the tune to himself, smiling but at the same time feeling a little anxious.  Hearing it now seemed strange to him.  All of a sudden, after so many years. 

May 1971

Sergio Dazieri looked over his shoulder at the old Victrola sitting on the glass tabletop, the needle bouncing between the lead out groove and the label.  He got up with a sigh, picked the needle off the record, and cranked the player before placing the needle down at the beginning of the record again. 

It was the third time he had played it, his grandson noticed, sitting at the large wooden picnic table, his skinny young legs swinging back and forth off the bench. 

Sergio took a sip of wine, looked up at the hot sun and slowly made his way back to his chair as the first strains of Hamilton Page’s All That I Am again came through the sound horn.  He swatted away a fly, wiped his forehead with his hand, took another sip of wine. 

You really like this song, don’t you, grandpa, Carlo said, his legs still swinging from the bench. 

I do, his grandfather said.  It brings back a lot of good memories for me.

How old is it?

Very old, Sergio said, sipping his wine.  Before your mother and father were even born.  It’s from when I was about your age.

When was that?

His grandfather looked at him and smiled.  A long time ago.  Ancient history.

You’re not that old, grandpa.

Yeah, sure, he said, nodding his head, again swatting away the annoying insect. 

Carlo walked over to the record player and stared at the old scratchy record spinning on the turntable. 

I never seen a record like this, he said. 

It’s a 78.  They don’t make them anymore.

Carlo smiled, looked at the record spinning faster than any of his ever did.

How come they don’t make them anymore?

Sergio shrugged.  Times change, I suppose.

Do you have a lot of them?

Too many.

Carlo, leave grandpa alone.  Stop asking so many questions, Carlo’s mother said, stepping into the yard with a tray of glasses and a pitcher of ice water. 

He’s not bothering me, Annunziata, leave him be.  Where’s Aldo?

I think he’s admiring your garden again, Annunziata said, placing the tray down on the table.  I think he’s jealous of how you’re able to grow things.

What’s so difficult?

Ask him, she said, sitting down on the bench, pushing her hair back over her shoulders.  It’s very hot today. 

Carlo sat next to his mother, rested his head on her shoulder. 

What are you bothering grandpa about?

I was just asking him about his records, that’s all.

Oh, his mother said, fanning herself with a napkin, then using it to mop the sweat off her neck.  Grandpa has a lot of records.

I know, he told me.

I already told him that, Sergio said, his head on the back the chair, his face turned towards the sun.  The pesky insect landed on his hand.  He swatted it away again. 

That’s the only thing I hate about this time of year, he said.  These God damn bugs.

Carlo laughed. 

Please, watch what you say.  Not in front of the boy.

Sergio opened his eyes, looked at the giggling Carlo.  Ah, I’m sure he’s heard his father say worse.

Aldo came back from the garden and kissed Annunziata on the shoulder. 

Please, she said.  Its too hot.  I can’t even imagine what this summer’s going to be like if it’s this hot already.

It’s not so bad, said Aldo, sitting down next to her.  Isn’t that right, Papa?

Sergio didn’t answer. 

Aldo laughed.  Whenever papa has this song on, you can’t talk to him. 

Carlo wanted a drink of water.  His mother poured him a glass. 

Drink it slow, she said. 

Aldo looked at his son, then at his wife.  Life was good. 

What took you so long? Annunziata asked. 

I was talking to Renato. 

Sergio opened his eyes.