I think his name is Fabrizio. On his receipt the business is registered under Fabrizio Something – though it proves nothing, that could be his grandfather’s uncle. But it’s a good hunch, so let’s call him that for now. Although I’ve come to him whenever I was here over the years for dried fruits and nuts, and regularly since I’ve been living here, we never arrived at an exchange of names.
Because he’s kind, simpatico, and happy at what he does, all those I know who have visited Orvieto have specifically commented on Fabrizio and how he’s treated them with the most courtesy of anyone here. He deserves the stellar reputation.
During my last extended stay, I discovered that eating dried fruit has a marvelous effect on the regularity of eliminative functions, so I visited Fabrizio at least once a week for una manciata o due of dried apricots, strawberries (delicious!) kiwi, pineapple, and papaya. Those are my favorites. But it wasn’t just the dried fruit. Fabrizio likes doing things with a flourish. So, the plastic glove goes on with a snap, the handful of fruit is placed in the plastic bag with a twist of the wrist, and the bag is tied up with a few more rotations of the fingers than is physically necessary to do the job. Numbers on his cash register are punched with the sort of spritely rebound I imagine Franz Liszt may have cultivated for the piano.
Great entertainment coupled with genuine kindness is rare and worthy of praise.
Fabrizio has had Competition. Another vendor of pretty much the same stuff occupied a stall right around the corner. But while Fabrizio’s stall was vast and protected by a canopy that folded out from his blue van, The Competition had a folding table crowded with plastic tubs and a beach umbrella. I shopped The Competition once when, as he later told me, Fabrizio thought it was going to storm and didn’t show. The Competition pointedly mentioned that his own fruit had no added sugar. As far as I knew, neither did Fabrizio’s. That business tactic rubbed me the wrong way, so afterwards if Fabrizio was ill or afraid of bad weather, I got along on what fruit I had.
Now to be sure, The Competition is very nice, the product was as good as – and in the case of the apricots that particular week, a little better than – Fabrizio’s, but the flair was not present, the conversation was conventional, and there was, even though it was Saturday, no “buona domenica” upon conclusion of business. I’m being picky, maybe even unfair, but that’s what insane loyalty does to a person.
Last spring as I readied to leave, I put the leftover dried fruit – my previous purchase from Fabrizio – in a sealed container and hoped for the best. When I returned three months later, it was still plump and soft, moist and delicious. So, I had no reason to visit Fabrizio until a couple of weeks ago. Besides, my first week here was the last week of the Folk Festival in Piazza del Popolo where the market is traditionally held, so all the stalls had been moved down to Piazza Cahen without anyone having informed me. (A shocking oversight.) A week later, the market returned to its customary piazza and I found my way back to purchase dried fruit and nuts, but I was cautious about stocking too much food with the house in chaos, so took only two handfuls of apricots and strawberries. Fabrizio seemed pleased to see me, we shook hands, he transacted business as usual, but – as I noted even then – with a little less flair and verve than is his custom.
I also noted that just one stall over was The Competition, now spread out in much the same manner and order as Fabrizio’s stall, with both a canopy and an equally lavish display. As I turned to leave, Fabrizio called me back. “I should tell you, I’m only here on Saturdays now, only on Saturday.” He seemed a bit stressed. There was no “buona domenica.”
I went back yesterday morning truly in need of several manciate of fruit. No blue van. The Competition was in, or very near, Fabrizio’s spot.
Now, this is the time of the feria. Everyone who can possibly manage it will take off work for up to a month sometime between mid-July and the end of October, and so may have Fabrizio. But because I am of the theatre, I prefer to imagine every possible variation of behind-the-scenes intrigue, just to be safe. Here’s one of my typical scenarios.
Licenses first granted to his family in the 15th century were purloined by devious and malignant notaries who gather after midnight beneath Torre del Moro dressed in large-hooded cloaks to collect kick-backs from a vast fruit and nut syndicate that desires Fabrizio’s entrepreneurial demise for his having so openly enjoyed the vending of his product. All this anticipates resurgent family warfare, a bellicose remnant of medieval Orvieto when intramural struggles were the norm and clans built towers in order to protect their sundries from below and stone their enemies from above. A desperate struggle ensues between the incomprehensible power of the corporate shill and the spunky little guy, followed by the defeat of our flourishing hero, and his wait – crouching bitter and glum in a protracted skulk beneath the steps of Palazzo del Capitano del Popolo – while he plots his terrible revenge.
That drama may not even distantly resemble reality, but who cares? During this, the age of Facebook, reality proves increasingly difficult to pin down, anyhow. To indulge, however, in a short fact-based(ish) speculation: none of the vendors is from Orvieto. They all have regular spots at markets all over the region. Fabrizio and The Competition may, in fact, have worked out some sort of trade; Thursdays in Orvieto for Mondays in Fabro. Fabrizio may be back at market in a week or two.
Or maybe he won’t. And what then?
That is why I find it most satisfying to picture myself seeking out Fabrizio’s home base to demonstrate my insane loyalty by renting a car for quarterly runs to purchase huge sacks of dried fruit that last three months in sealed containers. At a certain age, flourish and a hearty buona domenica is more than worth the trouble. In the meantime, and regards regular bowel movements, I will have to rely on fresh fruit and prayer, because damned if I’m going to shop The Competition until I know exactly what happened. Or such is my mood at the moment. As we know, even a short bout of constipation is capable of undermining the staunchest of resolves and the most fanatic of loyalties.
* * *
BREAKING NEWS: September 24, 2016
As I approached the mercato this morning, at about where Piazza Vivaria spills into Piazza del Popolo I caught a glimpse of the blue that distinguishes Fabrizio’s van. My heart (and my digestive tract) leapt in anticipation. And there he was, his goods spread out facing opposite from his usual direction and nose to nose with The Competition. The effect was similar, though not the same, as one of those aisles in an American supermarket where all the products are variations on a very slim theme, like potato chips.
He was doing a brisk business from others of his insanely loyal customers. When he glanced my way, there was a little jolt and smile of recognition. He served his product with the same joyous vitality and flair as ever. It was almost as good as reconnecting with a long lost cousin.
I was afraid you’d disappeared, I told him. “There was a little bit of trouble with my spot, but that’s all resolved. I’m here on Saturdays for sure.” The cloaked notaries sprung to mind, but I said nothing. I got apricots, strawberries, papaya, and the good feeling of having a piece of my world slide back into place.