The office was full.
With only one booth open there was only one thing to do. He kept calling, at the top of his voice, until they sent for the manager.
“Ingegnere, mi dica?”
“Who is running this place?” he said. “I comunisti?”
The Engineer always rose early. Though that morning he had special reason to, as he prepared his packed lunch, comprising two doorsteps of bread and tomatoes, sprinkled with oregano, and slipped it, along with a bottle of Monticchio water into his duffel bag. By the time, however, he had finished his servizi, it was ten o’clock and his anger still had not cooled. He was not, in his heart, litigious he told the person in the photo beside his bed. Only the rest of the world is litigious. If the person in the photo did not exactly concur, neither did she object to his argument. Bundling his duffel bag into the boot of the car, he turned the key in the ignition. “Titti,” he said to the air. “It’s going to be a fine day. I feel it in my bones.”
The Engineer took the sea road going south out of town. He accelerated up past Bread and Tomato Beach, tooting his horn at a car straddling the road. He just managed to overtake before the road became one lane.
At San Giorgio he joined the statale. He swung in and out of the lanes, overtaking lorries and holidaymakers. About three quarters of the way he stopped at the Tamoil garage and asked for ten Euros of petrol. “Ingegnere,” said the pump attendant, “shall I wash your windscreen?”
“Not today, Mimmo,” he said. “I’m in a hurry.”
“Where are you going?”
“Fishing.”
“Chi dorme non piglia pesci,” said the pump attendant. “He who sleeps never catches fishes.”[1]
The Engineer waved as he got back in his car and rejoined the statale.
There it was, as he came over the rise, just beyond the sloping olive fields: the sea!
The Engineer left the statale and took the complanare that ran parallel with the olive fields to San Vito. There were several tracks. Shortly, he saw the green dustbin that marked the turning. He slowed as he came up to it and turned down the dusty track, on either side of which was a crumbling drystone wall where sprouted prickly pears.
Cars were already parked along the track. In spite of this, the Engineer managed to find his spot under the shadow of the pine trees.
He picked up the silver sunshade from the back seat and placed it across the windscreen. Then he went round to the boot to get his gear.
Walking down the final stretch of the track, he came to the sandy cove where people lay among the beached fishing boats and the seaweed.
The Engineer walked for about five minutes, keeping to the path at the top of the rocky beach from where he would pause from time to time to enjoy the view.
On the downward path, he could see punto piatto where the rocky beach flattened out before the inlet.
The Engineer was in for a surprise. Most people could not be bothered to walk this far down the beach, but today punto piatto was occupied. In a depression, a few metres down from the path, was a makeshift capanna or shack, made of bamboo shoots and dry palms.
As he approached, the Engineer could also make out several half naked figures, spread out on the rocks around the capanna. A black Labrador poked its head above the parapet. But the half-naked figures remained supine and oblivious to his presence. “Non hanno pudore! No shame!” he muttered to himself as he cut down from the path to his usual spot on the edge of the “punto”.
The sea, however, was in a benign mood; ripples of water lapped against the rocks.
The Engineer put on his wet suit bottoms. He unwound the little net from the float and dropped it in a puddle of water and strapped his fucile to the side. When he was ready, he went down to the shore holding his flippers and mask and dragging the float through the shallows above the rocks.
Then he sat down in the shallows, put on his flippers and mask and slipped over the edge of the rocks.
Once in the water the Engineer lost track of time, as he always did until the shadow of the sun played on the large boulder where he would prop his fucile. I must have been in the water a good five hours, he thought. “Niente male,” he muttered to himself, feeling the weight of the net in his hand.
The Engineer looked up towards the capanna. The students had multiplied, as had their dogs. Music blared out from a large ghetto blaster. A topless girl practiced juggling three balls, while two naked young men stood scratching themselves and appraising her skills.
“Scherzi, Fredo. Quella era più brava. You’re joking, Fred. That one was the best.”
“Chi è piu brava è sempre più brava. She’s the best, no question.”
The Engineer frowned at the vulgar snatch of dialogue. He took one of the octopuses out of the net and threw it from a height onto the rocks. He picked it up and repeated the process. One of the students came over in what appeared to be a loincloth.
He sat down on a rock and regarded the Engineer.
“What have you got there, Professore?”
It was one of the students. He was sitting on a rock in what appeared to be a loincloth.
“Octopus.”
“Quanti? How many?”
The Engineer did not answer, so the student did it for him.
“Four if you include this little one…That’s a good catch. Bravo!”
“And a sea bass?”
“It’s not a sea bass,” said the Engineer.
“Then it must be a sargo. I always get confused.”
The student called over to his friends. “The Professor has caught some octopus and sea bream!”
His friends wandered over to take a look.
They watched the Engineer as he began to arrichire another octopus by throwing it against the rocks.
“What’s he doing?” said one of the girls.
“He’s tenderizing it.”
“I can see that…”
“Excuse me,” said the Engineer. “I need to get my things.”
The girl was standing in the Engineer’s eye-line. She was wearing crotchet bikini bottom, no top.
“Chiedo scusa,” she said, stepping out of his way, as the Engineer rummaged in his duffel bag.
“What’s he up to now?”
The Engineer filled a plastic bag with sea water. He shook the bag back and forth.
“Geniale… It’s like a washing machine,” the girl said, giggling. “Now we know what to do with our dirty undies.”
So began the occupation of punto piatto.
They were not communists, but they might have been the children of communists. They called themselves freaks.
It was such a perfect word to describe these hairy topless girls, and hairy bottomless boys with their noisy guitars and dirty noisy dogs. Freaks!
If the Engineer was disgusted by such exhibitionism, however, he refused to buckle. He continued to fish through the summer, stubbornly refusing to vacate what, after all, was the best place to fish. He was damned if he was going to move away from punto piatto for the benefit of the freaks.
The office was still full.
With only one booth open there was only one thing to do. He kept calling, at the top of his voice, until they sent for the manager.
“Ingegnere, mi dica?”
“Who is running this place?” he said. “I comunisti?”
“Engineer,” said the manager, “I can assure you that there are no communists in this office. Come posso aiutarla?”
“If you are not communists, you must be freaks. How long do I have to wait to get served around here?”
The Engineer went down to the water’s edge. He took his float and dropped it in the puddle. He put on his wet suit bottoms. “Titti,” he said to the air and the photo in his mind’s eye. “It will be good day. I feel it in my bones.”
“Chiedo scusa, professore… Do you have a needle?
The Engineer looked up. Squinting into the sunlight, he saw a young Tarzan. It was the boy in the loincloth.
“A needle?” he said. “What do you need a needle for?”
“It’s my friend, Titti,” said the boy. “She’s trod on a sea urchin.”
“Davide, sto morendo. I’m in agony,” said the girl, hobbling up behind him. “Has he got the needle?”
The Engineer searched in his duffle bag.
“Here,” he said. “You better sit down on that rock.”
The girl did as she was told. “Give me your foot,” he said.
The girl winced.
“It’s painful.”
“My wife used to say all medicine is painful otherwise it is not good medicine”
The Engineer removed the spina. “Here it is,” he said. “I got most of it.”
The girl smiled and thanked him.
“It’s nothing,” he said. “Remember when you get home you must bathe your foot in soap and warm water.”
“Of course, professore.”
She got up and put her foot down on the rocks.
He watched her as she went back up to the capanna.
A few moments later, she came back with a piece of foccaccia.
“È fatta in casa,” she said. “I made it myself. Would you like to try some?”
“È buonissima,” said the boy, Davide. “We’ve got some sea urchins.”
“Well,” said the Engineer. “We better be careful with the spine.”
The Engineer fetched the knife from his duffle bag and proceeded to cut them open. The boy, Davide worked with his own knife. “Not like that,” said the Engineer. “Like this.”
The Engineer showed the boy Davide what to do. When they had finished cutting open the sea urchin, the Engineer lifted up some small rocks and fished around until he found what he was looking for. “Salt and pepper.”
The boy Davide and the girl Titti laughed.
“Ragazzi,” said the Engineer, “if this is the kitchen, here is the dining room. We have of course the sea view.”
A few days later, the Engineer was driving along the complanare when he saw the mini-bus.
It was parked behind a gate that led down one of the tracks. There was a group of young people standing by the gate, including the boy, Davide and the girl… Titti.
The Engineer pulled up at the side of the road.
“Ragazzi,” he said, “cos’ è successo?” What’s happened?”
“They have locked the gate.”
“Well,” said the Engineer. “Let me see about this.”
The Engineer went round to the boot of his car and rummaged around.
“Eccolo,” he said. “Here it is. The communists have no right to block the access to freak beach.”
Everyone clapped and shouted:
“Bravo, professore!”
The Engineer took the bolt cropper and snapped the padlock.
The students opened up the gate and drove off, waving and smiling. Although he struggled to admit it to himself; when the Engineer got home, the woman in the photo had a smile for him, too.
[1]Or as we might say, the early bird always catches the worm.