A few locals suddenly stopped to stare at Sarah and Matthew, their probing eyes and curious glances making them both feel slightly uneasy.
‘Welcome to Fiorellino sul Monte,’ Matthew whispered under his breath, surveying their surroundings.
At the centre of the horseshoe of buildings sat one rather imposing structure, significantly larger and completely detached from the others.
‘Municipio?’ Sarah read from the brass lettering which ran above the collection of flags over the entrance.
‘Council chambers,’ Matthew translated, noting the numerousNotizie/Avvertimenti– all in Saverio’s trademark red text – attached to the noticeboards either side of the wooden double doors.
‘Of course it is.’
They crossed the piazza, taking note of the businesses: first on the left was a smallsupermercato, a restaurant, followed by the pompousmunicipio. To the right sat atabacchi, afarmacia, easily discernible by its trademark green cross, a pokey second-hand store with a cluttered front window display and a small barber shop.
Atop the row of businesses sat two further floors. Most were apartments, with some connected across the curve of the piazza by washing lines. Flower boxes boasting very little framed each window and balcony, and Sarah couldn’t help but imagine how beautiful the scene would look when spring’s renewal was in full swing.
Matthew scrolled through their shopping list. ‘Supermercatofirst,’ he said, turning to lead the way.
Eyes followed them as they moved between the three tightly packed aisles of the supermarket. Pivoting and shuffling past each other, Matthew and Sarah did well to find most of the items on their shopping list. Sarah was fascinated by odd-shaped jars of preserves and bags of dried products, most of which she relied on closer inspection of the contents to determine what they were. At the rear of the store, they found an unattended deli counter and a two-tiered fresh bread stand.
‘What are we missing?’ Sarah asked, rifling through her basket.
With arms full and both the mop and broom perched by his side, he said, ‘Just the cooking utensils. The pots and pans. But there’s none of that here.’
‘You grab the deli stuff and I’ll pop across and check that second-hand store.’
‘Great. Meet you in the square in a few minutes.’
Sarah left her basket at the lone unattended check-out before making her way across the piazza.
The tangled mess of odds and ends which met her gaze in the front window of Seconda Mano, Seconda Vita did little to convince her that she would find what they needed. Nevertheless, she entered with both hope and curiosity. What would she find in a second-hand store in the middle of a tiny town perched on the top a hill in central Italy, she wondered? The smell of stale air and used clothing confirmed: all the things you usually find at a second-hand store, only Italian.
‘Buongiorno,’ came a soft disembodied voice. Sarah turned on her heel, trying to locate the person who had greeted her. ‘Mi scusi. Eccomi qui.’ A man in his thirties with kind, sallow eyes and dark brown hair suddenly came into view from behind a large stack of books on the cluttered counter.
‘Ciao,’ Sarah returned politely, acutely aware of her lack of Italian. She pleaded to herself,Please let him speak English!
‘Cerca qualcosa di particolare?’ His gesture to the contents of the store indicated to Sarah that he was offering assistance.
She approached the counter, half expecting to disappoint him with her reply, ‘Inglese?’
‘Of course.’ His tone and mannerisms remained the same, yet his voice seamlessly transitioned to his second language. ‘What can I help you with?’ With an educated air, his clear diction and perfect pronunciation immediately set her mind at ease.
On an exhale, Sarah replied, ‘Pots. Pans. That kind of thing. And all the strength and patience you have in stock.’
Nodding to himself, the man smiled. ‘Allora. I have one cast-iron pot. A saucepan. And a moka. No pans.Mi scusi. And whatever strength and patience you find in here, between the war memorabilia and lampshades, you can have. For free.’
She grinned back at the man. ‘Deal. I’ll take them all.’ She began poking and prodding her way through the masses of clutter in the poorly lit store. Moving quickly so as to avoid keeping Matthew waiting, she suddenly came to a halt. In the corner, between a wicker-woven rocking chair and a collection of encyclopedias, stood a bicycle painted in a vintage duck egg blue.
‘It’s in working order.’ The shop owner must have noted her interest.
Sarah rang the bell, delighted to hear its jovial trill. ‘How much do you want for it?’
‘That is a Bianchi. Circa 1940. It has been rebuilt from genuine parts, but it’s not in its original form. One hundred euros.’
Running her hand over the raffia-woven basket tied across the handlebars, her lips moved faster than her head. ‘I’ll take it.’
‘Would you like to try it fir—’
‘No.Grazie. She’s coming home with me.’ Sarah ran a hand along one of the handlebars. ‘My Grandmother used to have a bike in this exact colour.’ She sighed with nostalgic whimsy. ‘I loved it. Always envied it, I guess.’
