I couldn’t tell what it was coming towards me across Piazza della Repubblica from Via Filippeschi. Two bright, clear lights, one at ground level, the other a meter and a half above, more or less, with little blue sparks dancing around the lower spotlight. For a moment it seemed that after decades of expectation fed by popular culture an alien invasion were finally under way. Or was it a crack in time admitting a sanitation worker from the future? A techno angel?
I apparently read too much science fiction as a youth. It was Cho, daughter of Grazia, both women of fire and wind. She was speeding along on a one-wheeled electric vehicle wearing a helmet that sported what, were it on an automobile, might be called a fog light.
She stopped, dismounted (however that’s done), and covered the upper spot with her hand rather than turning it off. Very brief small talk ensued, then she switched to English so we could exchange on a meatier level.
“The government is declaring a nationwide lockdown.”
“I heard. Restricted travel…”
“No. More. The only shops allowed to stay open are those that sell food, and the pharmacies. Certain hours for banks. Everything else, closed for two weeks, then we reassess. I’d say more like two months, but we shall see.”
“Supermarkets?” I asked, thinking of Metà.
“Supermarkets sell food.”
“Wow.”
“We’ll get used to it. But it’ll be hard for shop owners, especially if it goes longer than two weeks. Has to be done. My mother isn’t going out at all. If you need anything…”
“I still shop. I pick quiet times when there are few people and give a wide berth to those I meet.”
“And walk at night. Very wise.”
She mounted her wheel, removed the hand that covered the light, and was off in a blaze.
That was last night. The headlines this morning confirmed Cho’s report. They also announced that the single case of the virus in Orvieto, a female nurse, is in grave condition. As I read that, I felt the whole town rooting for her. Those who pray, pray. Those who don’t, profoundly trust in her recovery. Doesn’t matter which, we want her well.
This morning’s walk took me onto the ring trail that follows the base of the cliff called the Anello. The sun was warm, the grass so green it looked impossible. Mustard is starting to bloom, not yellow yet, but attracting bees. The birds tweeted messages to one another, none of them angry or insulting or divisive – at least they didn’t sound that way to me.
The walk through town on my way home confirmed Cho’s news, as well. Caffe Montanucci, the center of town for many, was closed. The only other time I’ve seen it dark was when Reno, the supremely generous pater familias, died in December ’18. Bar Sant’Andrea, another main gathering place, had blocked its entrance with chain and recycling bins. Almost all of the smaller shops and eateries were quiet and waiting, most with its own version of a sign explaining why, expressing unspoken hope, wishing the reader well, and affirming that we are in this together and will reach the other shore on the strength of that togetherness.
The big bookstore under the Tower wins the award for saying it all in as few words as possible – somehow fitting for a bookstore. To translate the photo above, “We’ll see each other soon! #allwillbewell #Istayathome [not shown] The Orvieto Staff.”
Metà reduced its number of concurrent customers to six; either a recalculation on their parts or a misunderstanding on mine. They are well-stocked and cheerful and a blessing to us all. The blue-eyed checker wore a mask today and assiduously helped a man even older than I empty his walker, bag his goods, and pay out of his coin purse, a sweet gentleness pervading every gesture between them.
The pharmacists were some masked and some not, and reminded me not of all of Harpo or Groucho, not a one.
Marina stood under an overhang on Corso waiting on her phone, a striking new hair color and a bottle-green jacket radiating confidence and purpose. She flashed a brilliant smile.
“How are you doing with all this?” she asked.
“We survive, don’t we?”
“And that is wonderful, isn’t it?”