Stories

  Willy was peculiar. He was a man who always seemed sad, ashamed, and deeply pessimistic. Every evening, he used to dine at a highly popular restaurant in the center of the city. Between 6:00 PM and 9:00 PM, the place was so packed that getting a table was nearly impossible. Those who arrived alone were usually forced to sit wherever they could find an open chair. Laughter, loud voices, live music, and the constant rattling of plates and cutlery filled the crowded air. Some diners, like Willy, came early and stayed late; apparently, they deeply enjoyed the music and the vibrant hustle and bustle. Willy always sat alone at a table for two right near the front door. However, his melancholic expression and downcast eyes rarely invited anyone to sit with him. But one day, a stranger walked in, caught Willy's eye, and smiled warmly. Willy, despite his usual dark mood, found himself smiling back. The man sat down across from him, and for the first time in years, Willy was able to exchan...

 I did not visit Elba as a tourist. I went there to search for my wife Emma’s grandfather’s birth certificate. Together with our daughter, Laura, we visited Poggio, the mountain town of her ancestors. The island cast a spell on us as we toured it, yet I could not help feeling a strange, heavy sadness while walking those ancient streets. At the town’s San Defendente church, the wooden pews bore small metallic tags engraved with the surnames of the families who had donated them. Looking closely, I gasped; I recognized many of those names as the exact surnames of my childhood classmates back in my Venezuelan hometown. Today, Romans and Milanese own most of those ancestral houses, using them as seasonal holiday homes. Emma's grandfather had once owned a vineyard in the vicinity, but the phylloxera epidemic and cryptogamic blights decimated the vines. Left with nothing, he sold the ruined farm and migrated to the Venezuelan highlands to cultivate coffee. Because he died as an Italian ci...