Now, he woke up clearheaded. And that felt good. Good enough to mostly override the sense that something was missing. From his days, from his life—something was just missing. He tried filling it by throwing himself into the bar. That worked during the day. In the evenings, he tried filling the void with books. But though he enjoyed reading, particularly the memoirs that made him feel close to the writer, he still felt restless. He’d tried to center himself by tracking down the Moroccan immigrant and pushing himself past his fears of rejection to pantomime his willingness to help the man learn Italian. It was a heartwarming distraction, at least for now. But at times he still couldn’t help begrudging his two-dimensional life.
Edoardo’s breath lost some of its scorching exhaustion, and he inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with clean air. As a tendril of breeze drifted across his face, he watched the leaves of the trees trip across the achingly blue sky. For right now, this was enough.
From a distance, he heard the sound of approaching cyclists. Faster than he anticipated, the voices drew near, cheering their arrival at the tallest peak in the region’s hills. He heard the smacking of high-fives and laughter and hoots as the cyclists squirted water at each other. Edoardo closed his eyes and offered a prayer that his oasis wouldn’t be breached. The last thing he wanted was to play the smalltalk introduction game with a bunch of strangers.
But like most of Edoardo’s fervent prayers, this one went unanswered and the group fanned out around the peak looking for resting spots. A young man in professional-looking royal-blue bike shorts and jersey startled at the sight of Edoardo sitting tensely on the bench. “Oh!” said the biker, “I didn’t see you there. Beautiful day for a ride, isn’t it?”
Edoardo nodded.
The biker didn’t seem to notice Edoardo’s reluctance to engage and went on, “Did you ride up from Girona?”
Edoardo shook his head, “No. Santa Lucia.”
“Santa Lucia?”
Edoardo sighed lightly, “Yes, it’s a few kilometers into the hills from Girona.”
“Ah! Right! That’s where the Sagra del Cinghiale is, right?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
The biker nodded and then gestured to the bench.
Edoardo sighed inwardly once again before nodding and then scooting over to make room for the cyclist.
“I saw signs for the sagra in the Girona shops. We’re here from Rome, my friends and I, just for a weekend of biking. Is the festival worth coming back for?”
Edoardo turned his head to look at the cyclist, trying to convey his reluctance to talk right now. He wanted to sit in the quiet and enjoy the feeling of his heart rate slowing down and his muscles shivering out of their clenched position. But the man was smiling and leaning toward him. His light brown eyes were framed with dark lashes and in those eyes Edoardo saw true interest. He warmed to the openness on the biker’s face, the dimples framing his easy smile.
“Well, we call it the Sagra del Cinghiale, but the real star is the olive oil. We’ve been growing it from these trees for a thousand years.” Edo’s expression came to life as he told the cyclist about how the festival always opened the olive harvest season, and the subsequent pressing of the oil. The man leaned forward and asked, “Is there another sagra for the oil like in other towns?”
“No,” Edo furrowed his brow at the question. “I never thought about it, but the pressing of the oil is just for us.”
The man nodded in understanding, and asked, “So then, what happens at the Sagra del Cinghiale?”
Surprised by how much he was enjoying a conversation he never wanted to have, Edo went on, telling him about the sagra’s giant fire, how the smell of roasting cinghiale drifted all through Santa Lucia, and how old ladies surreptitiously shoved their potatoes into the ashes for their own contorni. The biker smiled when Edoardo described how the next day’s clean up would invariably dislodge several forgotten and charred potatoes, along with small items poked into the ashes by children. The chuckles turned to laughter when Edoardo confessed that as a child he had once stuck a plastic pig in the fire, in his quest to be like the men.
The biker held out his right hand, “I’m Arnaldo, by the way.”
“Ciao, Arnaldo, I’m Edoardo . . . Edo. Ciao.”
“Ciao.”
A voice called out from the groves, “You alright there, Arnaldo?”
“Yes, yes, I’m fine. Come meet a new friend.”
Edoardo was surprised to find that his irritation at having his silence intruded on had vanished, and smiled in greeting as one by one the men stepped forward to introduce themselves.
Two arrived holding hands, one tucking in his shirt with his free hand. This set off a titter from the assembled cyclists, one clucking, “Really, guys. You couldn’t wait till we’re back at the hotel?”
The taller of the two raised his eyebrows and mugged, “And miss an al fresco situation? Not a chance.”
Arnaldo turned to Edoardo and smiled, “I apologize for my friends’ lack of chasteness. They really are a stand-up group of guys. Not always entirely . . . seemly . . . but good guys.”
Edoardo fought down a confusing mixture of panic and intrigue. “Are you all . . . together?”
The men laughed before settling down on the ground to lean back and stretch out their legs. Arnaldo frowned in confusion, “Together? No. Just those two are together.”
A voice from the group rang out, “He’s asking if we’re all gay, Arnaldo. How thick can you be?”
Edo shook his head and stammered, “No, really—”
Arnaldo smiled and touched Edo’s hand lightly, “It’s okay. We are. Well, except Silvio there, who insists he’s straight but hangs with us rather than go on dates
