by Edana Minghella, in Liguria, Italy.
We made a mistake.
We prepared well for the mistake. We showered and dressed, co-ordinating everything Italian-style. We printed out the forms that you must show if you are going out, and completed them together, carefully. We felt a little nervous. We checked each other’s answers. We had two forms each; one for going out, one for coming back. We put on some lippy. We gathered our shopping list and carrier bags.
Stepping out into the village “borgo”, the medieval lane that leads down towards the town, a mile away, we are spotted by a neighbour leaning out of the window to hang out her washing. Another good drying day. The windows of this colourful borgo, with its tall pastel pink and ochre and umber houses, are decorated with lines of vests, nighties, pants, billowing like flags. Our spirits are lifted. We are fortunate.
Ciao, our neighbour says. How are you? But where are you going?
We’re fine, we say, smiling. We’re going out for food. Do you need anything?
No, no no! She cries, her voice concerned. You can’t both go. Just one person per family. If they catch you, they will fine you! And which supermarket were you going to? You can’t go to the big one. It’s not within our borders. Be careful!
We stop dead, our faces fall. I feel sick. We thought we understood. We didn’t. We didn’t at all. We return home, shaken.
Later, I go to the smallish local supermarket alone. Outside there is a semblance of a queue, although it’s almost unrecognisable as one. People, standing solitary a couple of meters apart, clutching a carrier bag or two, waiting to be called in to the shop. Most people are wearing masks or scarves around their faces. The solemnity, the silence, are a shock. This is an extraordinarily friendly town. The social connectedness of our community is something that I have treasured so much. The usual greeting from strangers is a smile and a buongiorno, from acquaintances a how are you and have a good day, from everyone else kisses and handshakes and a stop and a chat. This new gravity is chilling. My brother rings me and I am aware that I am the only person in the queue speaking. I hear my voice, stupidly loud and probably animated, and it feels utterly incongruous.
I wait for perhaps 20 minutes but it seems longer. Only four or five people are allowed into the shop at any one time, so that a distance of at least a metre can be maintained between us. We are given disposable gloves that we must wear while shopping. The atmosphere is subdued, but in other ways everything is normal. There are no gaps on the shelves, there is plenty of fresh produce available, I can buy everything I need. Leaving, I thank the masked and gloved check-out assistant for coming to work and keeping us fed. I feel a bit tearful.
As I exit the supermarket I see the uneasy faces of the waiting customers. No smiles. No connection now other than this shared anxiety. I think, it’s not just lives this virus is stealing. It’s life.
But trudging back, despondent, through the narrow streets, I notice something else. Draped from several windows and across the ubiquitous washing lines, not washing this time, but sheets painted with rainbows and a message, of solidarity, of collective hope. Andrà tutto bene: everything will be all right.