The Young Marine

In an attempt to make the shaking go away I decide to spend the day exploring the city. A slow walk through unfamiliar streets without map or purpose. As long as I keep myself busy, I can handle the wait for him to come back.

Seven, they say, in a lifetime. Seven shakes of the heart. Seven flips of the stomach. Seven spins of the head. Seven times of being scared. Seven times of feeling young… I thought I had used mine up. And here I am. Shaking, flipping, spinning, scared. And feeling young.

I should have walked these streets days ago, I think to myself, passing the church and entering a network of narrow pathways. Stairs up and down, lizzards rattling in the few dry leaves fallen from an ivy roof, shabby shrines with plastic flowers and dirty light bulbs. In a particularly sunny street I find an old barber shop. The barber himself has spotted me already. Like a genie in a bottle he is right there in my way, speaking to me in German.
-Hello! Where are you from?
-Norway.
-Norway? Lovely! What are you doing here?
-I’m on vacation.
My German is pretty rusty, but I find the few nouns and verbs necessary to make myself understood.
-Why don’t you come in and have a cup of coffee?
Before I know it the old barber has shuffled me inside the barber shop and is pouring espresso into a tiny cup.
-My wife made this. She’s upstairs.
He points toward the ceiling, the barber shop is part of their house. Such a small world here, the supermarket just around the corner. I’m charmed by his hospitality, and since I don’t have any particular plans for the day – other than waiting – I accept his friendly invitation and sit down in one of the old barber’s chairs for a chat.
-So where did you learn to speak German?
-In the navy! he exclaims proudly. – I was in the Italian navy, of course, but I met many Germans on our adventures! I worked on a boat like this!
He fetches a calendar hanging on the wall. It has posters with modern military ships.
-Of course the boats didn’t look like that back then. You see, this was fourty years ago, when I was still a young man…
I sip my espresso, which is heavily sugared. The barber shop is quiet, no customers, no phone calls. As if the old barber reads my mind, he says:
-I have a group of customers who just called and said they would be thirty minutes late, so I have time… Norway is a beautiful country. Midnight sun!
-Yes, that’s right… But there’s no midnight sun in Oslo, where I live.
-No? You live in Oslo? What do you do for a living?
-I work in publishing. I’m a literary agent.
-Good! My daughter… I have a daughter who’s… older than you. She’s a doctor. She lives in Rome…
A sudden sadness in his eyes. I wonder if my own father is just as sad because I left my childhood city.
-You wish she lived here.
-Yes. But she has her family there. Too far to commute… She comes to visit us some weekends, though. Sometimes she stays from Thursday to Sunday…
Silence. Then:
-But Norway is a beautiful country! Send me a postcard!
-I guess I could…
The next second he’s on his feet, walks over to a cupboard, where he picks up a card.
-My name is Giorgio. You have my address there. Send me a postcard from Norway! You can write in Norwegian, English, German! It doesn’t matter which language you use.
-Sure. I could do that. I’ll try to scribble something in German…
I put his card in my wallet. A sleepy fly is crashing against the glass door, the buzz a chainsaw in this quiet. The five empty, worn-down barber’s chairs look small and sad. Grooming products lined up against the mirror are grey with dust. I’m shaking again, a restlessness urges me on.
-I guess I better be going now.
-No, don’t go…
-Yes, I have to.
-But you’ll come back, right?
I feel my own resistance as a piercing reflex. I guess I’m not grand enough to sacrifice more time on this old stranger. But he disregards the obvious answer on my face.
-When are you leaving?
-Uhmmm…. On Monday.
-Monday? That’s… that’s four days! …Four days! Are you saying you have no time at all to come back for a coffee?
I lie. I tell the old man a lie.
-My friends and I have plans… Listen, I have to go now.
-No, don’t go!
The insisting tone of voice confuses me. What is it with this man?
-Yes, I have to. I need to go to the supermarket.
-It’s closed down.
-No, it’s not!
-Yes, it is! I should know, my brother used to run it.
I don’t know what to say. Gone is his friendly hospitality.
-You will come back, he says, slowly advancing towards me.
-I…
-You have such beautiful blue eyes…
He takes my face between his hands. I freeze in panic when his grip tightens. He kisses me. A wild look on his face as he kisses me passionately on my mouth. Not once, but twice.

His hands drop. I leave the old barber without saying a word. One thought in my head: the supermarket. But he was right. It’s closed. I feel sick to my stomach. And yet I can’t shake the bad conscience as I pull out a wet towel from my purse and wipe my face.