The Visitor
Between the hours of four and five, there can be reliably seen a young man supping in the corner table of Emilio Petralia's restaurant. His wife disliked him. He dined for hours, always alone, on meats and cheeses and fruits with a great, mechanical enthusiasm. His sunken complexion grew red with wine-drunkenness. Finally, at a late hour, he would rise, dust himself off, and leave wearing the lean hunger and dissatisfaction of someone who had not eaten at all.
"Tonight's the night," Sylvia Petralia whispered to Emilio. She glanced to make sure the young man in question had not heard. "You've got to get him out of here."
"He's done nothing wrong, my dear."
Just then there was a great clatter as the young man knocked a glass to the floor. He made a motion of regret, then defeat, gathering the broken shards with a napkin and placing it at the far end of the table before resuming his meal.
Sylvia glared. "What now? Shall we bring him another?"
Emilio placed a hand on Sylvia's arm, willing her to ease. "I'll go and talk to him, alright? We can reach some kind of agreement."
"Today?"
"Right this moment." He slipped around Sylvia to get the kitchen, for mere politeness insisted that it was still his intention to bring the young man another drink.
As Emilio approached, the young man scarcely seemed to take notice. Spread in front of him was many an empty plate and glass. Slowly he raised his head. His eyes were a dullard's eyes, unseeing and uncomprehending. His speech was uncertain and thin as he thanked Emilio.
Emilio thought of his promise to his wife. The young man unnerved him too. Best to be done with the matter--but a moment's quiet first? He began to retreat when the young man spoke again.
"What is your name?"
"Emilio Petralia."
The young man nodded. "Drink with me, signor?"
Emilio hesitated.
"Oh, go on."
"Of course." He pulled out the seat across and sat, pouring wine for himself and his guest, who continued to eat, birdlike, from his plate. "Where are you from, young man?"
He smiled. "A little town, a little ways from Munich."
"So you are--?"
"Oh, yes. Decorated for bravery, long ago." Emilio noted a smear of sauce on the young man's yellowed shirt.
"How are you finding Italy?"
The young man's mouth pulled to a side. It might have been a smile. "I like it very much."
"Do you really?"
"Lovely country, lovely countryside. Lovely people, hospitable."
"We were, we were. Now we are...not so lovely." Emilio broke a piece of bread as to occupy himself.
"Don't speak of such things. You will be lovely as you were in the days of Constantine." The young man said things like they were the start of a great comedy that he himself found unamusing.
Emilio experienced a strong dislike. "You speak of what you don't understand."
"You're right, sir. I don't understand very much at all. I apologize."
There was a long pause, and the young man straightened. "I need to tell you. I keep telling it. I'm afraid if I don't, I'll forget."
"What will you forget?"
"My girl." And the young man smiled a young man's smile. "Katherine. Do you she think she misses me?"
"She does. Do not fear, she does."
"I do not miss her, not really. But I miss..." His fork paused midair. "I used to bring her little gifts. It would make her so happy. I would put thought and care, a ribbon for her hair, chocolates when the sugar rationing began. And she wanted me to promise her to see her again...if she could see what a blithering invalid I've become."
"You were stationed here?"
"No," said the young man neatly. "I have come a long way to see fair Italy. I have come through London bright with fire, and soon I will go elsewhere. I don't know where, but I will go."
"Why not go home?"
"Why do I hide here like a coward? I am a coward. I cannot go home. I am--how do you say--deserter? Criminal?"
Emilio might have received some degree of satisfaction. So he and his wife had been right, about the young man, who sat at his post like death. But instead he felt an odd coldness.
"But why do you not go home to your family?"
For a time the young man looked at him. "They are all dead, Emilio Petralia."
"I am sorry."
"Do not be sorry for me, my friend. I am not so sorry for myself."
"But you are alive and they are dead."
"And is that not a gift? Is it not?" The gentle words were touched with anger, each one carved from unyielding stone, wrenched from the earth. "Where there is life there is....there is goodness, there is hope, there is the promise of more." He drank deeply. "That is what your people tell me. It's the incredible resilience of the human spirit, and the indelible soul.
"You disagree, I presume."
"I go to your churches. I listen to your priests. It soothes me. I sit there as long as they'll allow. They're so--they're so beautiful. One could weep, yet I do not weep. I listen to the music. I know that people far more hopeless than myself have persisted with dignity and elegance, have bled for their faith."
Emilio shook his head. There was nothing to be done for the young man. He would leave here and shoot himself, if the night was merciful.
"Let me ask you a question. I've been asking this question of everyone I meet. How do you do it?"
"Do what?"
The young man raised his arm, gestured to the restaurant that had survived the bombings, the streets that were rubble, the sky that was unspoilt blue. "Any of it. Kiss your wife and children."
"I suppose I do it the same way any man does. What do you do?"
Very darkly, the young man replied. "I amuse myself."
"Seems a form of hell."
The young man inclined his head. "What else is there?"
"So much," Emilio said softly. "So much you do not understand."
He shook his head. "I don't understand. I don't understand any of it, anymore." He stared at Emilio. In his eyes was a question, a terrible question. "I like to watch people riding bicycles. Some of them wear helmets and some of them carry baskets of flowers--terribly romantic, you see. Some of them go at dizzying speeds. People with their sweethearts. Those people are alive. Those people are alive in a way I'm not.
"I like to feel the sun on my face." He hummed. "Like a cat." He turned to the weak warmth of afternoon sunlight, which came through the window to age the furniture. And indeed an expression of contentment smoothed the agony of his face.
The young man paid his bill, and he bid the Petralia family farewell. He walked with the tottering, feeble step of a man gone simple with age. It seemed to cost him great effort. Emilio watched him stop to admire the flowers.