Empty alleys out there, crossed only by the freezing January wind.
Spirals of smoke rise slowly, blending each other on the way to the yellowed ceiling.
Water condensed on the windows, draws abstract lines and shapes as it flows towards the ground.
Reddened faces silently scan the flames of the fireplace looking for answers that will not arrive.
Jacks and Kings thrown on the table move “scopa” card game to victory or defeat.
Smell of sweat and breath of wine.
Men argue, laugh, scream and swear.
A drunk man sometimes cries.
And from all those mouths, stories continuously flow, containing other stories, containing other stories and so back for centuries.
The white-haired old man watches over this humanity so that it does not cross the banks of an ancient coexistence.
Her daughter pours glasses of dark red wine, jumping in and out of all those conversations.
A child behind the bar counter observes, listens and absorbs everything.
Sometimes he goes down to the cellar to fill flasks of wine or get beers. Then he runs up to not miss too many words.
One day he will go away from there. He decided it one evening while observing at sunset the great city down in the plain, up to the Madrona Belvedere.
Those stories, settled for decades, will only be the first layer of his inner foundations.
He will study, travel, work, build his way out of there. Sometimes he will come back to greet the ghosts of those men he met as a child.
But the only thing he is sure, is that the beginning of everything was to be the only child admitted to the adults’ assembly in the Osteria dei Cacciatori.
