Le api - Lucio Corsi [ENGLISH VERSION]

II.II

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now playing:

Gianni Morandi, Favole di mare
Gianni Morandi, Il mondo di frutta candita

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

The songs are playing. Enea laid down beside me, almost like a rug. The bicycle is back on the ground. Lucio is testing it on the grass, and nearly slips because of a hole.

"Did you see? Good as new!" he tells me, sitting on the saddle. The record player's needle scratches against the vinyl, the album is over. "Do you want to put another one on?" Lucio asks, grabbing the last slice of the peach.

"It's your turn now, you choose," I shrug. Lucio pulls out another cigarette.

"Then come with me," he gestures with his hand and whistles at the dogs. As they cross the garden, Era and Enea dart into the living room.

"May I?" I whisper, putting one foot inside the house.

Lucio gives a small smile as he picks up the ashtray from a corner. "Please, go ahead!" he replies, mimicking a deep male voice. The cigarette keeps burning, leaving trails of smoke in the air.

Inside, it's pleasantly cool, and all around there are perfectly balanced furnishings: dark leather sofas, colorful curtains, oriental rugs, mirrors with wooden frames, a big bookshelf, a chess set, and a painting of Pierrot.

A sad Pierrot, surrounded by blue shadows.

"My mama painted that," Lucio says as he kneels down and opens the shelf. "Do you like it?"
His voice is muffled, trapped between the cabinet and the vinyls. He flips through the records with his fingers and hums a tune with the cigarette in his mouth. I lean in to get a better look.

"It's very nice," I nod.

Before Lucio drops ash on the rug, I hand him the ashtray.

"Thanks," he smiles sincerely.

You're very nice too.

"You know," he continues, "I wish I could paint like my mom. Then again, not knowing how is also nice. I'd love to be more around watercolors, to discover how it makes me feel... what I can create."

I murmur, nodding. "Do you mind?" I say, reaching for his cigarette. Lucio smiles at me and shakes his head.

The Pierrot vaguely resembles the boy.

"Did you have art at school?" I ask as he passes me the cigarette. A vague memory of middle school classes comes back: plastic holders, perspectives exercises, and wax crayons.

"Yeah, but I wasn't very good at school. I wasn't interested in following lessons. But art always seemed interesting."

I take a drag and let the cigarette burn. The filter is now the point of contact between his lips and mine. An instinctive thought I brush away with a puff of smoke.

If that was a kiss, it tasted like tobacco.

Lucio scratches his cheek, blushing a little, then leans over to look for something in the room.

"Damn, it's not here..." he clears his throat. "We'll go with this: The Greatest Hits of Gianni Morandi. Is that okay? It's been a while since I last listened to it."
He bursts out laughing, and I follow hysterically.
"What? You don't like it?" he adds, laughing.

"Gianni Morandi?" I give him a pat on the shoulder and follow him down the hallway, giggling.

"Don't underestimate him, he's got some good songs. And anyway, it's one of my grandparents' records. We have tons, this used to be their house." He says, pointing at the rooms around us.