Manutentore.

1.

Naples, 1979.

Every tired blink out of the small taxi window was met with colorful buildings and beautiful paved streets he had only seen in postcards, but the jetlag hazed everything. 10 hours of restless flying, carrying his luggage around from shitty taxi to even shittier taxi like a pack mule, to now this.

He sat with his chest hugging the back of pleather passenger seat, extending his hairy arm to show the driver the little post it note with an address scribbled on it.

He could remember the weeks prior of him at Francis's avant-chic flat. He had the stupidest grin plastered on his face, buzzing with excitement from his voice, to his restless legs. He was newly employed, moving to a country he'd never been to before, to a city only seen in trickets that his long time friend would constantly gush over. 'Milan and Venice are so overrated,' as Francis would say. Antonio sat at his friends vanity, the rotary phone pressed to his ear, speaking to the stranger only known as "Francis' estranged-inlaw", who offered him a studio style room to stay in, $20 a month, the same room Francis stayed in years prior, "in the nice side of town"' of Naples, Italy. The older man would slur the pronunciation of the city over the phone. It would be hard to say no to such a deal, especially when hotels got expensive quick. Francis hovered over him the entire time while his ear stayed glued to the phone, writing down the current note stuck to his hand;

"Romulus Varrone. (He's the landlord.)

address details,

phone number,"

It was written in his sloppy cursive all those months ago, now slightly smudged at the corners from the sweat of his hand.

The charade game between the taxi driver and the man in the back finally came to an end as the breaks squeaked, blinking at each other in the rear view mirror. "That's it?" The driver simply pointed to a building, confirming with him in a language he could barely understand.

His calves felt like jello as he got out, popping the front trunk of the yellow cab to grab his miscellaneous suitcases and leather shoulder bags before stumbling up on the curb. The building was sun bleached pink, 6 stories, with some kind of vine plant swallowing the side of the old building. Rows of balconies were strunged together by laundry lines hanging with silk bras, and work slacks. When he heard the chug of the fiat taxi leaving him, he pulled his tired posture up into something friendlier, a stance that said he was ready for this- when he really wasn't sure what he was getting into.

He kept the same posture and grin as he pulled open the door, being met with a staircase so narrow he wasn't sure if it was going to break beneath him, and a room with emerald green curtains on the numerous windows labelled as 'Ufficio' right next to it. With every step up the stairs, he felt a nervous sweat pin pricking the hair on the back of his neck.

Maybe this was overstepping some boundaries on Francis' end; who just calls up an inlaw and asks for them to house a complete stranger? But he couldn't overthink it, that was Francis' issue anyways. He heaved his luggage in the dim yellow lights up to the 2nd story, looking down at the note in his hand. Apartment number 102, which wasn't very hard to find, was right next to the stairs.

Inhaling back all of his doubts, he knocked. Only the sounds of rummaging and random footsteps could be heard on the other side, until the door swung open. And just like that, there was a face to the voice over the phone.

His nostrils were flared, the curly salt and pepper hair on his scalp framed such a big dimpled smile- he looked more neanderthal than homosapien, with his gut sticking out of the doorframe to greet him. He only wore a red velvet robe and pajamas, making the other man feel almost overdressed.

"Hey! Antonio, right?"

"Uh, yeah! Romulus?"

Hearing that, Antonio was immediately greeted with a firm grip on both of his shoulders, and a drunk laugh kissing him on both cheeks, his breath reeking of cherry cigars and booze.

"God, Is that really what Francis told you to call me? He's so weird- Just call me Roma. I hope the flight over wasn't too bad for you."  Rome pulled his guest in past the door frame, being met with a new smell, this time of something appetizing, with the sound of a vinyl whirring somewhere further in the condo. The door was slammed behind him, and he felt jolted awake.

Posters of naked pinup girls and family pictures framed the warm walls that led them to the living room, "Put your shit down here, and put these on."  Rome cursed endearingly, patting the arm of his floral grandma-style couch and pointing at a line of fuzzy pink slippers next to the hallway.

"You guys do that too? I haven't put slippers like these on in years since living in America. You have a really nice place.'' Antonio endeared back. The luggage slouched off his shoulders, his shoes followed, and Rome watched it all, laughing at the compliment and nodding at the weird little similarities of cultural niches, mumbling a soft "I didn't know Spaniards offered that too," as he leaned into the nearby coffee table, decorated with an ashtray, and some magazines.

"So, are you hungry? My son is cooking up something for all of us to just sit down and get to know each other too. Since y'know, you're new, we're new."

His hands did as much of the talking as his gravelled voice, Antonio simply followed along behind him to the dining room.

"I am pretty hungry, and of course. I get it, I don't want to be much of a stranger."

"Neither do I. I do have to warn you that my family is a bit unconventional. It's better that you get it over with and to meet us all now."

Unconventional was fine if it meant $20 a month to stay here. The dining room walls were a deep red, leading to what he presumed was the kitchen door, and a patio door that led to the balconies he saw outside.

A kid that didn't look older than 14 popped in from the kitchen with his fists full of forks and knives, Rome immediately gesturing to his son proudly, startling the pasty teenager in the process as he was grabbed, and shown off.

"Oh there he is, This is my son Feliciano-," Rome went on about how this house is just all boys, Feliciano does some of the cooking, and he's good at it too, apparently he's a very smart kid. He waved while his dad bolstered about him- "But he doesn't know a lick of English."

Rome pulled out a chair and both settled down at the round table as Feliciano now worked around them, dipping in and out from the kitchen. Plates, napkins, glasses.

The older man noted further on his last sentence as they sat, twiddling their thumbs,

"Not a lot of people here know English, some sides of town speak Spanish, and some barely even know Italian. I had to learn English in the 50's, I was deployed with the American Army to patrol Berlin for a couple years, it just stuck. My oldest son knows English too."

Rome readjusted the forks and plates Feliciano put out as he explained the confusing language situation Antonio was about to live in, but the last sentence was what visually stumped him more than anything else.

"Your oldest? You have another son?"

"Francis never told you about him? Yeah I do, he's more your age." His squinted eyes glanced over at some framed pictures hung on the wall, just bringing up this other son made the older man sink into his chair, give a pestering look at his wristwatch, his tone soaked in a mix of what seemed like dread and annoyance.

"Actually, I invited him to eat with us, since he lives here. He's the one you're sharing a bathroom with- I hope he's not too much of a hassle." Antonio didn't mind, he thought the whole time over the phone and connecting the dots, he'd be sharing with Feliciano, which was fine with him. He lived in a dorm before with a neurotic punk jockey and a French guy, nothing could be as worse than that. But this other son. As Feliciano started to bring in steaming pots and bowls, he- whoever he was, was about to be late for their little introductory dinner..

"I think we'll get along just fine."