’S’i’ fosse focco, arderei il mondo
S’i’ fosse vento, lo tempesterei
S’i’ fosse acqua, i’l’annegherei
S’i’ fosse Dio, mandereil’en profondo’
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I was sat opposite Francesco (Sozzi), on one of the round small wooden tables outside the Molo. He was already there when I’d arrived around 9:30, it was an early start for Piombino’s standards. He had on a slate grey cap, like the ones in 1930s England, he pointed out. ‘Peaky Blinders’ he said in his italian accent with a grin on his face. Francesco was in the camp along with Matteo Canessa of the more ‘impegnati’ studious and serious Italians, who from my experience, spent less/no time trying to speak English with me, even though they could probably speak it better than Giovanni, Luigi and the other minchioni who liked to speak English badly with me the whole time we were together. For me, I was glad I got a mix of the two, I also enjoyed hanging out with Giovanni and seeing him try his best to attempt speaking English. Consequently, that evening with Francesco, we spoke exclusively in Italian, no matter how much I struggled or failed to clarify my thoughts. On occasion when there was the odd word I thought Francesco might be able to guess from the English, I would tell him it in English and see if he could tell me the italian. It was actually on this evening that I learnt the italian for ‘suck my dick’, ciucciami’l cazzo, which, I could have guessed to be honest.
I had the cardboard wrapping of the boxes that toscanello cigars come in and I’d filled them with a few rollies that I’d rolled at home whilst I had dinner. It was a terribly windy evening down by the sea on piazza bovio so I knew it would be hopeless rolling anything there.
Me and Francesco spoke unhurriedly, mostly about university and studies, the differences between italian and British universities intrigued me, and at this point I was set on doing a phd in Italy, so I was soaking in all the details I could. Francesco was in his third year of studying engineering at La Sapienza in Rome. He mostly studied nuclear energy he told me. He explained that there wasn’t a single nuclear reactor in Italy, as a matter of fact generating energy in this way was illegal in Italy. I thought this amusing, Francesco would have to move to France if he ever wanted to be a practicing nuclear engineer. Mr Sozzi - I don’t know why - had a fascination with different beer types, which was partly why he’d chosen for us to meet at the Molo, Piombino’s only Birreria, whenever the owner come out to ask us for drinks, they (Mr Sozzi and Mr Molo owner), would speak at length about the different beers on the menu (there must’ve been around forty total. I knew diddle squat and in point of fact, didn’t really want to be drinking beers. Beers gave me the most visceral hangovers, tantric they were, the only hangover that I really felt in my body and not in my soul. Despite all this, I was too polite to say anything to Francesco, I didn’t want to spoil the fun he was having going through the menu. However one thing that did interest me was that some of the beers were 12, 13, even 16% . Now this is I had to see. As Francesco talked me through the menu, I perfidiously suggested that each beer we ordered be 2% stronger than the previous we’d ordered, that way we would progressively increase our percentage. He agreed to the game. Despite having been out most evenings in Piombino, I was yet to get plastered the way I’d got used to doing when I went out in Edinburgh. Tonight - being my penultimate night - would be the night I decided. I must’ve revealed this to Francesco at some point, or at least he would’ve figured out my plans for himself.
What better company than Francesco I thought, he was someone who drank, but was also a sensible chap. No minchione. The optimal Piombinoman for the occasion. We could talk seriously, open up, heart-to-heart, but in a dignified way, we weren’t divas either, not in the slightest. We started at 8% with a fruity Belgian beer brewed by monks and recommended by the Molo’s owner - the grand birrone general.
It was a busy summer’s evening, nearing ferragosto as we were. Oddly windy and chilly for the height of summer. Streams of people passed down the descending cobbled streets behind us all night long, the sea scirrocco, the night’s sky buio, nero. Word was a storm was approaching, that was due to hit Elba and Piombino later in the night. By 10:30 our two 12% beers arrived. We kept looking at the menu after each beer to come to a decision on what our 14% or 16% of choice should be. Wincing at the prospect of what this non-stop bombardmento of beers was going to do to my body, I eventually confessed to Francesco that I would rather get drunk off amaros, mixers, liquors, aperitivos, anything but more beers, especially as he was going to have more after we hit our 16%. He seemed a touch disappointed, but showed mercy, and helped me order amaros from the beermeister when the time came. A couple on the table next to us, introduced themselves and we started talking, Francesco more than me. They were a little older than us, maybe thirty, they had jobs, proper jobs, and weren’t students. They lived in Turin and were travelling through Italy for two weeks or so. The man had his leg in a cast and had a crutch, he’d had an accident mountain climbing the previous week they explained. We must’ve spoken with them for about an hour, as the weather continued to worsen, the wind picked up, it became trickier and fiddlier to roll cigarettes, a slight spitting of rain. The couple left for home around midnight, they had to continue their travels the next day they said, they waved at us as they ascended the street back up into town. Francesco and I slumped into our chairs, we ordered two more rounds.
‘Ohh, tra mezz’oretta andiamo fare un giro al porticciolo’
‘Va bene’
We settled on the plan to go for a wander by the old harbour, we should drink up now, we’d only have a couple cigarettes left to smoke down by the dock. At one in the morning, there were still crowds round by the molo and other bars behind the comune. Francesco and I payed up inside before we slunk off. Slipping down the road that ran behind the museum at the base of Piazza Bovio, that used to be the main school, my grandfather Irio had gone there. Before that in the 19th century, it had been a jail, many of the windows were still fashioned like those of the prison, they hadn’t changed. The boats swayed silently in the harbour to one side and the cobbled streets rose up into the town on the other. We sloped down the via, nearing the shore at its foot.
The thunder rolled over Elba, as we drunkenly clambered onto a stone wall and sat there with our feet dangling over the giant rocks and boulders in the porticciolo. I was so sfatto, thank goodness we had a toscanello each, they were the last two. The thick cindery smoke came out the crooked cigars in the midnight rain, as music started playing from Sozzi’s phone.
‘Acqua che spacca il monte, che affonda terra e ponte. .
E il lenzuolo si gonfia sul cavo dell’onda,
E la lotta si fa scivolosa e profonda’
‘Quattro pensionati mezzo avelenatti,
Al tavolino,
Li troverai là col tempo che fa
Estate inverno’
DeAndre songs kept playing whilst me and Francesco looked out at the storm, our conversation stirred, grew heavier, more serious. We confided a number of things to one another, our challenges and struggles. I must’ve told him fleetingly about the miseries I was writhing in, internal deepening conflicts. The sky darkened, the mist murkier, spray from the waves, piercing flashes from the lightning would spark up the horizon, in blinding shards of white light. Francesco told me his dad had died when he was fourteen. I hadn’t realised he was without a father, this hit me like an invisible punch. Un colpo. I put my arm over his shoulder and told him I could only hope it would make him a stronger man.
‘Ma Francesco prima che muoi, cos’è il tuo dovere, il tuo sogno?
Il mio e trovare un amore, e scrivere il piú grande riccordo di quel amore’
‘Il mio è semplice’ lui disse
‘Avere una famiglia, mantenere la mia famiglia, e proteggerla’