Headphones
Horse Doctor
Judgedom of Sardinia
18th May
On a late spring day, in the midst of May, not a single cloud could be seen sailing through the vast blue skies above Tubero. The sun had just risen above the distant low mountaintops, its rays quickly bringing warmth to the otherwise cool morning, transforming what had been a somber scene of tightly stacked buildings into a brilliant spectacle of soft yellow, ochre and tangerine facades. Sparrows came down from the eaves for their morning dust bath, chirping away by the sidewalks and minding not the busy forest of pedestrians moving past them, only the rare close encounter with a leather shoe provoking them to take flight. Men in thin modest suits and fedoras. Women adorned in cloches and light or pastel dresses above the ankle. Each was distinct yet moved in unison, creating an ensemble of buzzing conversations with the occasional jovial laugher or cackling call of a gull on a roof. They flowed through the streets like a vivacious wave, assembling and dispersing whenever they pleased, but none was more lively this early in the day than the piazza, where the so-called “News Wall” stood.
It was a light red building, four floors in height, the first of which was much taller and began with a series of white pillars and arches that provided free entrance into an open space the width of the second-floor room. The noteworthy wall was, in fact, the outer side of the solid wall of the first floor that came after and had a number of enclosed bulletin boards where the newspaper and printing agencies on the upper storeys hung some of their latest releases to be read free of charge. It was an island in the restless sea, where people slowed down their pace, stopped on their own or waited for friends in order to have a look at the freshly pressed pages.
Seeing groups who browsed or stood to chat on the side was commonplace, but on this morning the shade cast from the second floor could not hide the unusually large crowd that had formed in front of the News Wall. Its members were predominantly men who, after scanning every glass case, grimassed in displeasure and, more often than not, gestured disapprovingly and complained outloud to strangers and acquaintances alike. The source of this agitation that went beyond regular commentary was the lack of news regarding the murder of Sardo Ramene.
An accountant by education, Mr. Ramene had been a well-known and beloved citizen, whose high class and remarkable business success had not weaved him a veil of daffodils. Throughout his life he had remained grounded, lending a helping hand to many in Tubero and earning a much-deserved good name. When his dead body was found along with that of his guard on the outskirts of town three days ago, it was as though lightning had struck and set the community ablaze, creating a restlessness that had never been seen before. Two days had passed since the first report had been published, yet The Custas Vegadas, the biggest newspaper in town, had nothing new to lock in the bulletin boards, causing tension to rise in front of the building and people questioning their ability to even write a decent paragraph.
And yet not everyone had this case at the front or the back of their minds. On the main street a group of ladies were walking with a skip to their step, deaf to the world as they talked and laughed on their way, led in the centre by one Maira Mura. She was the young and creative designer of Clear-and-Cute fabric house, whose voice rang like a swallow and yellow dress matched well with her white gloves and short curly bob as she and her coworker friends headed for their workplace.
“There she goes, that Maria.”
“That’s Maira from the Muras, nor Maria. She chortles as if a man wasn’t found dead yesterday.”
In two nextdoor balconies two older women commented on the frivolous fashionista, one hanging her sheets, while the other leaned on the railing and took her coffee cup from the wooden board they had tied between the balconies.
“She’s too airheaded. If the Blue Flamingo was open, she’d be dancing the night away, the audacity.”
“Mmhmm, and her brother would’ve to be refusing her suitors. As if he doesn’t have enough headaches. By the way, did you know? I heard there’s a guard on Freesia street.”
“Really?”
“Heard it from Zulia. Her son Efis had to go there for his watch.”
“Ai! Poor Bubore. He doesn’t have it easy either.”
Freesia street was named as such because of Amore flower shop, one of the oldest businesses still in operation in Tubero, which had grown in popularity after being the first to bring and sell the aforementioned aromatic flowers. However, today another establishment was catching the public’s attention.
“Thank you. You may now go over there and I’ll be with you shortly to take your measurements.”
The tailor on Freesia street, Mr. Bubore Mannu, offered a gentlemanly smile under his moustache at a regular customer who had come in and carried on as usual, even if the other man had evidently been mindful of his words. After it was mentioned in passing that Mr. Ramene had visited this shop on the day of his murder in the article by Custas Vegadas, several journalists, information brokers and even regular folks had come and tried their luck. But no matter how many times they asked what look Ramene had in his eyes, what air he exuded or how broad his shoulders were, Mr. Mannu would always give them the same simple recollection of events. Under the pressure of this unprecedented interest, the elderly tailor seemed to be handling each meeting with ease, yet even so, would glance every so often out the window with caution and scratch his white beard.
On the street not too far away was a man leaning his back on an ornate dark green post clock. Just as he tipped his flat grey cap down, a Guard came from behind him and stood in his way.
“Excuse me, sir, but I’d like you to reconsider your intentions.”
“What?”
“Given a recent pattern on this street, I have reasons to believe you intend to cause a disruption of public peace.”
“Hah! As if! Are you a fortune-teller or something? I’m minding my own business, waiting for a friend.”
“I am a counselor witch, sir. While I can’t say what you intend to do precisely, you’re not the first person with such colourful notes here. Just the first one today.”
The man with the grey cap fell silent, surprise and indignation mingling in his unblinking gaze.
“Either stay put or move along, but don’t disturb other people.” the officer ordered and watched as the man clicked with his tongue behind his teeth and turned around to leave.
“Pesky guards. Why aren’t they all at the beach or snooping around the fringe?” the man muttered after some distance as he entered an alley.
The officer, too, moved on with his work, glancing up at the hands that ticked away the seconds and minutes after seven o’clock, paying little mind to the curious passers-by. Whether the latest headline was about the first bloom of the red poppies or the first big murder of the new century, it was habitual for the locals to want to catch a whiff of anything that smelled enticing. As comically incapable of discretion as they were, however, they had a keen sense of when to keep their nosiness under the brim of their hats and when it could venture just a tiny bit further. But there was another routine that most Sards, not even the Guards, could resist and that was their morning cappuccino.
Away from the bustling boulevards with discussions that bubbled and brewed, there was a smooth cobblestone street where burgundy and cream roses bloomed. Their scent, a gentle caress, floated in the air together with the dull chime of metal against ceramic and the faint bumping of cups as they were put onto their plates. In front of its three-storey home, the green louvered shutters of which stood proudly against a brilliant orange exterior, Cafe Ambrosia was hosting a number of people who were delightfully enjoying the start of their day with a cappuccino and butter cornetto. Among them was a short slender man by the name of Eugeniu D’Amore. He sat alone at one of the few small round tables, his broom resting beside his seat as he read in silence from a notepad in one hand whilst the other pressed against his chin in a fist. With a sigh, he closed his eyes and adjusted his glasses, the hand that had held the notepad flipping it closed and tucking it away in the inside pocket of his coat. A small white cup with a golden line levitated slowly from the table and entered his grasp, the coffee within still just warm enough to soothe his cold fingers. After inhaling the revitalising aroma, a smile appeared on the man’s lips, but as soon as he took a sip he abruptly spit it back and jolted forward, pupils narrowing at the scene before him.
Three students were flying on their brooms to school, guffawing above the buildings as one hung upside down and another was at a 70 degree angle, pretending to be a rider atop a rearing horse. Slamming his cup on the table, Eugeniu grabbed his own broom and shouted:
“Costa, I’ll pay you later!”
With that, he took off into the sky, hollering after the adolescents:
“YOU BRATS! You’re violating broom flight safety protocol! You’re getting points reduced from you beha- DON’T TRY TO LOSE ME! YOU AINT FLYING AWAY FROM THE LAW!”
At ground level, the waiter watched as his customer took off into the distance with an indifferent expression, before resuming with serving two cappuccinos with glasses of water to the elderly couple beside him.
“Those kids. They’re about to get an ass’s ears.” the old gentleman grumbled.
“Come now, didn’t you play chase with the lambs when you were a little shepherd?” the aged madam chuckled.
“Running in the mountains is one thing. I was working, wasn’t I? I wasn’t hanging up in the air being a monkey. Why do they let them ride brooms so young? Good thing a Guard was around to whoop their scrawny-”
“Awwh, enough of that.” the old woman elbowed her husband, then addressed the waiter. “Costa, dear, you’ve been running around the tables since down. Go and have a bite. Us old folks will be fine.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Fenu, but I have already had breakfast.”
“Let the boy do his job, Rinna. He’s not like the suit-lovers, who sit around all day in an office. He’s got real work. Back in the day, I didn’t even have time to grab a bowtie like his when I went out to-”
As the curtain of reminiscence lifted before the white-haired gentleman’s eyes, the waiter took his leave, a round wooden serving tray under his arm. He was simply known as Costa, Costa the Italian, and was the only barista of Cafe Ambrosia. His tall figure moved swiftly between the tables, dressed in a clean uniform that followed the typical 3-2-1 rule of his profession. Three blacks - the bowtie, the vest with a low buttoning stance and the trousers. Two whites - the ironed shirt and the long apron tied around his waist under the vest. And one colour, represented by the sleeve garters, which today happened to be the shade of newly unfolded linden tree leaves. Rather than going inside when reaching the door, Costa turned around and scanned first the cafe, then the street, green eyes calm and unblinking whilst two seagulls flew overhead. Judging by their southern direction, maybe they too intended to drop by for breakfast, only a saltier establishment was likely more to their liking, the tune of which could be heard from afar like the distant roar of a beast.
Down at the docks, the cacophony of people and cargo had been in full swing since the crack of dawn. Seafarers rushed up and down ladders, eager to moor and complete the final stage of their journey. The large trained hands of longeshoremen grabbed hold of crates and bags, whilst crane hooks lifted heavier shipments high above their heads. Orders were hollered left and right. Each type of good had to be stacked just right by currents of passing figures whose dusty flat hats stayed on by some sort of miracle.
The counters had it no better. They observed the accumulation of items and, whenever they happened to believe that the total amount was checked and they could move on to the next batch, a forgotten box would get tossed onto the pile, forcing them to tally again, hissing at the carriers to mind their movements.
Inspectors from customs passed through the crowds of workers or flew above them on their brooms, beholding this haphazard work of art in its entirety and scrutinizing its details, looking for signs of misconduct. Some also patrolled around the tall yellow brick warehouses, where all which landed had to be stored, while one or two others, given the time of day, stayed close by the shoreline, taking over the work of their colleagues to watch over the little stream of people who were coming out of the water.
Like little foals eager to gallop on a vast sunny pasture, children of all ages rushed with the waves to the pier. The older ones climbed up the ladders alone, whilst the younger ones were usually accompanied by a parent or who carried their bag and reminded them to first get dry by turning all of the leftover seawater into thread before going anywhere. These were the seafolk, residents of the underwater town of “Tubero” which was located on the seafloor not too far away from shore. With glistening eyes and the ability to have their hair go from soaked to flawlessly styled, one would think that there would always be a sense of mystery floating around their elegant figures. However, reality was almost ironically unlike the myth, as many of the parents struggled to get their children tidy or sit still enough for them to do so. Seafolk had their own language composed of not sounds, but gestures and, alas, you couldn’t get the message across if your first-grader was distracted by a cat or a bell or a cloud or anything that wasn’t their parent. One mother had to resort to grabbing her son by the chin and having him look her straight in the eyes as she cut through the air with her free hand.
~ Now listen here, you little sprat. ~ she gestured in seasign ~ You will be going to school and back. No side-quests. Why? ~
~ … Because a bad lady is at the News Wall. ~
~ Because a bad lady is at the News Wall! ~ her brows were tight at first, yet softened ~Now off you go with “Giacomo”. Have a good day. ~ she kissed her son on the cheek and let him go.
The moment he was free, the boy bolted to join his friend.
~ What was this about “a bad lady”? ~ the mother of “Giacomo” waved from not too far.
~ Just muddy water! ~ the first woman replied ~ That red-eyed current hopper was seen at the News Wall. My “Fabio” is so scatterbrained, he’ll swim right into a ship. ~
Despite not using their voices, which very well existed and were the same as the people from land, their gestures were as loud and clear as the cries of the fishmongers which beckoned the public to come and buy today’s fresh catch.
Such were the little things that made up this seaside Sardinian town. Its inhabitants sailed through its streets with the wind of life, though death mingled in words that escaped their lips. Perhaps the only quiet place in Tubero was the hall of the church, where father Polycarp stood in silence. Long did his gaze remain unblinking before the icon of Saint Nicolas. Then, he closed his eyes and held his right thumb, index and middle finger together so that he may cross from right to left on his chest, sending his prayer up to the heavens.