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Babà

An encounter set in the beating heart of Napoli, Campania, which promises to leave you filled for a lifetime.

By LBPublished 3 years ago Updated 3 years ago 5 min read
5
Babà
Photo by Théo Roland on Unsplash

Hiding emotions from my face had always been a struggle, but cloaking unadulterated contempt proved impossible.

I was trying with this encounter, but years of gratifying men’s advances with fake shy smiles followed by the same hollow words of appreciation now bored me. Instantly reacting cold was almost an involuntary tick at this point. I didn’t mind usually. This man though, he seemed happily plain and humble - two characteristics which are as rare in men as wings are on pigs. The reticent nature of his advance had already dragged this whole parry out far longer than I usually cared for. The whole time, his eyes had been violently darting past anything which could obstruct his intense leering. Naturally, I allowed my gaze to dance playfully across the bohemian décor of this Italian café - making sure to avoid his inquisitive eyes after each break from the pages I fingered of my worn collection of Keats, sitting contently in my lap. The combination of eighteenth-century romanticism and those slate eyes would prove devastating if I were to rest on them for any length of time. They were undeniably beautiful though; I stole back glances of him as he busied himself ordering espresso. I can only imagine eyes as alluring as his had to be a gift, sculpted by the hands of Himeros himself. In spite of all the casual rejection I was attempting to project, his zeal clearly overcame him… and there in front of me was the anticipated box.

Sometimes I missed the abrupt advances which were characteristic of English boys. Giving me their boxes with the same haste in which they would recoil after my refusal to swallow what they were offering. Although it did save time, in hindsight their boxes would always – and I really do mean always – contain snakes. Some would have the decency to choke you only as you swallowed them, but most would bite you even before you could get a grip on their heads. At least from my experiences so far living in Italy, the contents of these boxes have been far less sinister and crude, which made them all the harder to refuse.

My mother always told me as a child that I had a particular look which could freeze hell over, given the chance - She was either mistaken, or Lucifer was taking a vacation. In this moment, both eventualities seemed as ominous as the other, as I wilfully tried to conjure this historic power of mine. I did not succeed, and he was strolling over. Impossibly, the most melodious chain of sounds fell from his mouth, “Posso sedermi qui?” (May I sit here?). I responded in my unavoidable English accent, “Sì. Non aspetto nessuno.” (Yes, I am not expecting anyone). His eyes lit up the moment my lips parted, “Sei Inglese?” (You are English?). I can tell you with more certainty than I have ever felt in my 24 years of living that I have not once, ever been asked this question with as much delight. Amusement thawed my icy features with embarrassing haste.

Continuing the conversation in English, whilst answering all his probing questions on how I ended up here in this particular café down a lively side street in Napoli… there was still the matter of the box. That brown, plainly wrapped box evoked nothing but dread. Unbeknownst to him, there would come a time in this conversation where I would have to see what his box contained and ingest its content. There was no choice once the box was opened - whatever it contained had to be swallowed. Passed down from generation to generation, girls would be told that delightful, sweet treats would be offered in these boxes, supposedly filling you for a lifetime. I had yet to discover such treasures, much like every woman I knew. The friends who tried to convince anyone who would listen that they had found a pleasant treat often would leave out the part of the story where it turned bitter, and sour in their mouths as they gulped it down.

Most women often settled for the snakes – I guess taking comfort in the company of the devil they knew.

I once had a teacher who sat the whole class down one hot summers afternoon. In his hands were a small, silver metallic tin which was only the size of a pack of cards. He asked us all, with our beautifully overactive imaginations, what we thought he kept in his tin. The most common answers at first were chocolates, or a pack of cards on account of its size. When he planted a seed in each of us by asking, “Why does it have to be something nice?”, you can imagine the forests we grew, and frolicked in. We all set to work naming everything insidious we could think of that the tin could house. Much to all of our dismay, when our teacher opened up the tin… nothing fell out. No dead mice, or clown tricks. No chocolate, or stack of cards.

From that day, I decided that what was in the box was irrelevant. I would always believe that it could contain something I wanted, or something pleasant. I had forgotten the lesson I learned that day until this moment - sipping espresso in a humbly beautiful coffee bar; down one of the liveliest streets I ever had the honour of walking down; in a city that filled me with more life than I thought possible; across from one of the brightest souls I could remember encountering.

My fingers pried at the lips of the box’s lid, curling the fragile cardboard corners in my fatuous haste. Inside I found a Neapolitan Babà. This time my eyes must have painted joy across my face as obviously as Van Gogh’s brush struck ‘A Starry Night’ into existence. Confirmed by the way my lips were mirrored by this man’s moustache smile, I started to chew his offering. The rum which saturated the pastry started to trickle down my throat.

In truth, I don’t know if this morsal will fill me forever, like the stories I was told as a child. What I do know is that this rum will intoxicate me for a lifetime.

* Enjoyed your trip to Napoli? Next coffee is on you. Every penny counts! *

Short Story
5

About the Creator

LB

Poet and short story writer from the UK, living in Napoli.

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LB xo

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  • Kelzang Dorji9 months ago

    https://vocal.media/education/luna-and-the-whispering-tree-a-tale-of-adventure-and-unity-0lmt0556

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