Umberto, the sage | by Theamalficoastwriter

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Umberto, the sage

Umberto was eighty years old, maybe older.

No one knew for sure, not even him. Every morning, before the sun rose above the hills of Minori, he would drag himself to the alley where the air was still cold from the night. There he would place his fruit crates (four, no more) and his iron scales, heavy for his bones.

Ripe figs, bruised apples, a few lemons that the sea had left behind after the rain: that was all he had. Yet he arranged them carefully, as if he were setting up a display for a king.

He always wore the same jacket, a little loose on the shoulders, worn at the elbows. Gray, but still clean. He kept it buttoned up even in summer, as if the fabric could protect him from the judgment of the world. “You can tell a man by how he wears his jacket,” he used to say. And there was something proud in his voice, a distant echo of when poverty had not yet entered his blood.

Every now and then, a passerby would stop: a woman buying two apples, a boy greeting him respectfully, a curious tourist. He would weigh the fruit slowly, check the scale twice, then wrap everything in a sheet of newspaper.

When the sun set behind Ravello and the alley was empty again, Umberto would sit on the step next to the empty crates. He would look at the scales thoughtfully… Then he would unbutton his jacket, just one button, and sigh.

That night, a cold wind blew down from the mountain.

The next morning, the jacket was there, neatly folded on the wooden crate, but he was gone. Inside, the remaining lemons seemed yellower than usual, as if they had stolen some of the sunshine he had loved so much.

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