Windows of the Vicolo San Marino
Romance, anyone? Anyone? An old-fashion 4-MINUTE Neapolitan story...
Windows of the Vicolo San Marino
In his apartment in the narrow Vicolo San Marino, he stands at the kitchen window, as he does every morning. Slowly drawing back the lace curtain, he sees her in her kitchen across the alley, one floor down. She’s serving coffee to her grandfather, who smiles and reads the morning paper. She kisses him and pats his shoulder. She adjusts her apron, smooths back her hair, and puts on her little round glasses.
Looking up, she sees her neighbor standing there in his window, as she does every morning. They look at each other for a few seconds, with only the slightest nod of recognition, then she turns back to the crockery in the sink, he sighs and leaves for work.
At two o’clock, he returns home for his meal. Maddalena, his aunt, has made his favorite pasta with ham and peas. She’s raised this shy young man since he was eleven, and will stay with him, care for him, until he marries. It’s what Italian women do.
He goes to the window and finds that his neighbor is on her tiny balcony. He watches her shake out a small carpet, and water her geraniums. She looks like an angel to him, in her white blouse. He gives her a nod. She smiles politely and goes back in to continue the housework. He passes his fingers through his hair, takes a deep breath, exhales.
They’ve never really spoken to each other. Though, once, he did accidentally run into her at the outdoor market. She was so startled to see him, she’d dropped a bag of oranges. He got down on his knees and helped her gather up the fallen fruit, saying, “Mi lascia aiutare!” She said, “Grazie”. He wanted to say more, he wanted her to wait, but she hurried away into the crowd.
He sat down at the table and wrote to her in his finest, most careful hand.
I see you every day in your window. I hope you are not offended. Would you allow me to speak to you sometime? Flavio in N˚ 12.
Doubting himself, though, he just left the note on top of his dresser for a few days. Aunt Maddalena saw it when she was dusting the furniture, and wanting to be helpful, she sent it off with the postman.
The next afternoon, Flavio received a note from his neighbor.
I see you looking at me from your window. I am not offended. I look forward to talking with you someday. Graciela in N˚ 7.
Another week goes by and tonight Vicolo San Marino is bathed in a warm Neapolitan rain. He sees that her apartment is dark, except for a lamp in the kitchen. She’s sitting at the table mending. The balcony door is open to the damp evening air and she’s singing to herself. She sounds like a little bird, he thinks, and is captured by that soft, sirenic melody for a minute or two. He wonders when he will have the courage to approach her. She’s wondering the same thing.
She abruptly puts down her sewing, leaves the table, turns out the light without even looking his way. He stands alone in his kitchen and finds himself overcome with disappointment.
Suddenly, he turns and grabs his jacket from the peg. He doesn’t know what he’ll say to her, but he has to say it now. He opens the door, and there she is, standing in the lane, dripping wet. “Ciao,” she says.
Her grandfather, behind the window, whispers, “O, Dio! Finalmente!” Aunt Maddalena, behind her window, whispers “Madonna Santa! Finalmente!"
Flavio takes Graciela’s hand and leads her to the little wine bar at the end of the lane. He finds he has more to say than he’d ever imagined.
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The addition of the father and aunt and their reactions added a bit of humor and bodes well for the success of the relationship. A tender love story, Sharron.
Yes, yes! Worth the four minute read!