Short Stories: Univocal

Giacomo Bianchi was above all else a facilitator of human happiness. At least this is how he would describe himself should he order one drink to many on a cool fall night. Such was the case tonight when upon reaching that sublime point, where in the company of dear friends, one is likely to poetically expound on the nature of the world and their place in it.

Tessa’s laugher reverberated off the plaster walls of his now closed restaurant. “Giacomo you are a very fine chef indeed but that might be a stretch.”

Giacomo swirled his wine watching the deep maroon and red hues catch the light. “Perhaps.”

“Oh do not be offended.” She teased. “Be proud your trattoria is excellent.”

“Clearly” Giacomo’s hand panned out across the ten empty tables and narrow bar at the back the windowless room. The trattoria had been his dream since he was a boy. The reality had been more challenging than he could have imagined. Years of work nights, without sleep, and decades of practice.

“It is late and you were busy early on.” Touted Marcio, whose relentless positivity had made him both a fantastic friend and bartender.

It was true, for a few hurries hours no chair had been vacant, no glass unpoured, or plate not scoured for every crumb of food. In the early hours of the evening, when the sun had still warmed the narrow ally off the Campo Dei Fiori, his two exterior tables had been filled as well. For their second night in business it had been a strong showing Giacomo conceded to himself. Though no turn out would have sufficed or quelled his desire to drive the restaurant forward. Certainly not this one he thought.

“Come on this place is beautiful, the food is sublime, things will improve.” Tessa said as she topped off their glasses. “Now, Cin Cin!”

Their glasses came together with a familiar clink, then they reclined in silence finishing their portions of the bottle respectively.

Giacomo studied the space with a sense of pride. He had stripped and painted the wood beams which crossed the ceiling himself. The walls, which bared a fresh coat of lilac paint had been another project he had taken on. In the kitchen there was not an oven, appliance, saucepan, or spoon he had not personally placed. Even the bar with its travertine top he had helped carry into the space in order to save on labor costs, nearly gluing himself to the frame in the process. No every inch of that space bore his blood and tears much in the same way the food bore his soul. If it failed, he would have failed in every part of himself.

Looking at his friends Giacomo resolved to never let it fail. He had defined himself as the curator of this place, its builder and steward, as such he could not let it collapse. After all, there would be no happiness in failure.

Univocal: having one meaning only, unambiguous

Author’s Note: I have been toying with the idea of what it takes to make a passion succeed despite clear odds and how we define ourselves as one thing or another. Day 10/365 done.