Rolling Up the Streets

I talked to Tim today. He said the boys are doing well, but my beautiful Golden Retriever, Chase, is not doing well. He has been to the veterinarian once, and has another appointment today. From Tim’s description, Chase does not sound at all good. I will pray that if he cannot be reasonably helped, that he will go gently. I don’t want anyone I love to suffer. He has been a faithful and loving friend.

Unable to find peace tonight, I walked the town until past dark. Eventually I sat on the steps in Piazza della Repubblica and watched the town close up. My dad would say they were “rolling up the streets”. One by one, lights in each shop were extinguished, shutters closed and locked, or metal blinds rolled down over doors and windows so that almost no trace remained of what was a thriving business thrumming with life just moments before.

I observed a man walking slowly through the piazza tonight. I see this man often as he frequents the café where I drink coffee in the morning. I noticed him wandering the town yesterday morning at 6:30, aloof, mysterious. I suspect I could walk out at 2:12 in the morning and see him meandering the streets, silent, expressionless, with only the glowing red tip of a cigarette to denote his presence. There is something almost dangerous about him, yet I don’t feel fear…more a sort of curiosity. Who is this short, spare man with the cold eyes who never seems to change expression and whose voice I’ve never heard, although he must speak when he orders a drink at the café several times daily? What story has he to tell? He reminds me a bit of an Irishman I used to know who grew up at the height of the hostilities in Belfast, Northern Ireland. While not silent, having been gifted with the famed silver tongue of the Irish, there was a similar sense of mystery and danger about Seamus. A man who would slit another man’s throat to protect what’s his. A man who has seen things I know nothing about. I, so protected in my safe little life know little of the baser instincts of man.

I saw a dark-haired man leave Davis and Francesco’s hair salon as darkness fell. Perhaps he is David. I rather hope not as he was unkempt, with a pair of those thick, dark plastic birth control glasses, and a beard that far surpassed scruffy, having achieved the look of the beards cultivated by the men on Survivor after 38 days; swirling hair extending down the entire neck onto the chest rather like a hairy turtleneck sweater. I, of the drawn on eyebrows, cannot imagine a cultivation of hair such as this. I generally prefer my stylist to be nicely groomed, with a shiny head of locks. Fortunately, soon after, a well-groomed man resembling John Cusack stepped out of the salon and locked the door for the night. Ahhhh, that must be Francesco. I think I’ll make my appointment with him.