The Balcony Above Naples – Part 1: Washing on the Line

The alley in Spaccanapoli was so narrow that Giulia could touch the balcony opposite with a broom. Every morning, between the scooters and the shouting, she hung her washing across the gap on a long, sagging line. Every morning, the man on the other balcony hung his own.

She had never seen his face. She had seen his shirts, dark blue and checked and very carefully ironed, and a pair of enormous, stripy socks that she suspected were a deliberate provocation.

"Those socks are an insult to the neighbourhood," she called across the gap one morning.

There was a pause. Then a laugh, deep and surprised, from the other balcony.

"They're a gift to the neighbourhood," said a voice. "My sister knitted them. She says I need more colour in my life."

"Your sister is right."

"My sister is always right. It's very annoying." A head appeared over the railing: dark curls, a day's worth of stubble, eyes that were warm and amused. "I'm Enzo. I'm a teacher of Latin. I'm terrible at hanging washing."

"I can see that," said Giulia. "Your sheets are on the floor."

He looked down, horrified. Sure enough, a white sheet had slid off the line and was lying in a heap on the cobbles below, where a dog was sniffing it with great interest.

"Oh, no," said Enzo. "Oh, Lord."

Giulia laughed so hard she had to hold on to the railing. "I'll come down and get it," she said. "And then you can buy me a coffee."

"You're very bold," said Enzo, peering down at her.

"You're very slow," said Giulia. "It's a balcony, not a cathedral. Come down."

He did come down, a little breathless, as she came out of the front door of her building with a broom in one hand and her hair falling out of its clip. The dog had lost interest in the sheet and was now sitting on the step, looking up at them both with an expression of smug innocence.

They retrieved the sheet together. It was damp and smelled of lemon soap, and Enzo held one end while Giulia folded the other, their hands meeting in the middle, awkward and warm.

"Thank you," said Enzo. "I'm very grateful. And I'm a terrible host, but I make excellent espresso, if you'd like one."

"Only if you tell me why you have such terrible socks."

"They're a dare from my sister."

"Then I'll drink your coffee," said Giulia, "and I'll decide if the dare was worth it."

They drank espresso in his flat, a tiny room full of books in three languages and a window that looked straight across at her own balcony, her washing line still sagging in the breeze. Enzo watched her look at it, and his mouth curved into a slow smile.

"You've been looking at me for months," said Giulia.

"I've been looking at your washing," said Enzo, very seriously. "It's very beautiful. You fold everything into perfect squares."

"That's a lie."

"That's a poem," said Enzo, and then, more quietly: "Can I ask you something?"

"Yes."

"Would you like to walk down to the sea with me this evening, and see the sun go down over the bay? Not as neighbours. As two people who've been watching each other's laundry for a year, and would like to see if the rest of the view is worth it."

Giulia's heart gave a quick, pleased jump. "Yes," she said. "But only if you wear the socks."

"Green?" asked Enzo, grinning.

"Green," said Giulia. "Very green. And you're buying the wine."