If nothing else, I knew that Giovanna Lucia Cappelletti of Copernicus House, was a regimented woman. I knew that she was a proud woman; a talented, appetising woman. I knew these things because I’d watched her long enough to know her ways, habits, movements, and soon became an admirer of them, and in turn, her. Giovanna (or Gina as her husband drunkenly bellowed out to her), was old enough to be my Mother— perhaps even my Grandmother, in some parts of the country. Still, I did not care. I’d grown sick of women— women my own age in particular; the sallow, shallow primadonnas who’d filled my address book and my bed for far too long, and had no doubt that this woman was the antidote needed for the poison that was my generation.

In the beginning, I knew her only through fleeting glimpses. From the mildew-lined panes of my bedroom window, her figure was a determined, nameless mystery. It was as if, one day, she just seemed to manifest out of thin air— a labouring, sexy phantom, when in reality she had in fact lived beneath me for some seventeen years, too calling the flats, home. The Cappelletti's: number eighty-three. In hindsight, perhaps she woke something in me that allowed me to see her. Or maybe, life woke something in her that allowed her to appear to me. Either way, not after long, Mrs Cappelletti was all that I could think about. Sunday became my designated day for watching. Each one was as meticulously the same, as the other: her body and its labour, my much-needed communion and sermon. She would start with a cup of coffee beneath a striped awning. Hurried southern voices would sound from the grate of her silver radio, in between long sleepy sips. Once finished, she would take a telephone call, nattering with Mediterranean passion. Then, ‘till around noon, she would tend to her garden, barefoot— planting, sowing, pruning, watering, casting down that which had lived its life, making way for potted newness, optimistic sprouts, sacrosanct seeds. Runner beans, broccoli, turnips, squashes of bizarre and regal cultivars, stripy tomatoes, friarielli even. Lunch would always follow— oftentimes, thick rippled slices of beef tomatoes and fresh, glistening mozzarella fresh from the deli in Willesden Green, drizzled in olive oil that I watched her press by hand. She’d usually break after eating ‘till five for her daily telenovelas, weary feet set up, secret cigarettes ablaze, the sound of melodrama rising up to my room from her ajar window two floors down. She was back in the garden. Just before dusk, working her ageing hands until they could no longer be seen beneath the blanket of night. Her handiwork seemed to make me forget that I was stuck in a rundown estate, in an equally rundown part of town, with its dealers, and workshy addicts, and unwanted kids by the dozen.

During her weekends, the lawn would be mowed, the bird feeders would be filled, the laundry would be hung. I would watch her handle the damp layers with their various shapes and shades like rare delicacies, presented for punters; her figure-free dresses, beige brassieres, modest mumsy pants, well-holed nightwear, attaching them to the thin blue line authoratively, wooden peg by wooden peg. Mouth ajar, heart in my neck, I always dared myself to steal an item, but never did. Simply by eavesdropping, I was able to learn much about the woman. A homemaker since marrying at eighteen, hailing from a small farming village in the south of the old country— a fact affirmed by her complexion and rounded face. She came from peasant stock, who knew too well about poverty— failing crops, crippled livestock, infants sallow from starvation. She had three children, but only one, Annie, was ever seen. Her husband, Cosimo, with his wheat-brown vest and fedora— a kind-faced, bushy-browed old-timer, around a decade her senior, notoriously slammed doors, smashed crockery well into the dead of the night like a mad bastard. More than once, I would hear him stumbling in, drunk, gone midnight, waking me with the commotion of thumping folk songs, raucous whoops, the selfish clinks of grappa being knocked back. The aubergine-coloured marks around his wife’s face, neck, arms that would follow the next day, were as ripe as they were heavy on her ageing form. Still, she had a beautiful singing voice. In her garden, she would often warble in a generous soprano whilst pottering, tracing arias and operas note-by-note with their crackled voices, accompanied by opulent orchestras. She was a talented cook: veal escalopes, meatballs crudely rolled with spindly hands, frattaglie she would slice with hefty chops— sometimes fish of some sort, or scruffy arancini served with cooked peppers in a marinara sauce. When the weather was fair, she would eat dine, alfresco in the garden, alone. Occasionally I fell asleep with the taste of stewed, sun-sweetened tomatoes on my tongue, the aroma of rosemary steeped game in the evening air.
My obsession came quickly. The woman was in my blood, and my flesh, and my mind and I wanted no one else. Almost overnight, I stopped dating; I pulled back on socialising and even took a hiatus from painting. Perhaps you’re thinking that it isn’t normal for men of my age to give women like that, much thought, but there I was— it felt normal to me. ‘She’s a genius,’ I would often say to myself, believing myself when I uttered the words, ‘She’s a goddess and doesn’t even know it.’ There was something so subtly erotic about the woman; something respectfully arousing. The way that she carried herself. The way she worked, even with the most mundane tasks. The way that she dug, and fingered, and wrestled, and pruned, sweat pouring down her face, moulding her allotted plot of land; rhubarb-red-liked creamy soles, dirty; bulky breasts swaying side to side like two scamorza beneath a baggy, washed-out, mumsy, moth-eaten tank top. The many silver strands amongst her thick black, curly hair did not look like a deficiency; markers of unflattering ageing, but earned— feminine— mysterious. As her vase-like figure bent, and stooped, and wobbled,  I would sit wondering whether the hair on her scalp matched that of her vulva. The perspiration, that marked her clothes and glistened her tan skin, left me lying awake in bed, imagining the very same happening by way of my own hand. I waited for each Sunday as if it were Christmas Day.

The day we first met, was a Saturday. Opening the scruffy, steel door one morning, I noticed a woman suspended in despair. Surrounding her were shopping items— scattered produce, fallen, rolling around naughtily into the yolky mess of broken eggs, a lake of overturned honey, a cracked bottle of wine, streaming down a curb into a drain, neighbouring green glass shards. Her eyes, visibly glossy, narrowed in shock and shame. A stream of passers-by walked past without stopping to assist; traffic rumbled, screeched along the busy road behind her. The thin white plastic carrier bag that had dug into her palms was torn, flapping like a shipwrecked mast. Down at a crouch, she scrambled about the pavement with sizeable thighs like a territorial crab, ready to strike defensively. Only when she looked up, did I realise who it was exactly that I was looking at. Her face looked more kneaded, in person. Lines were embedded in her brow like neolithic runes. Without a second thought, I began retrieving as many items as my hands could manage. I offered the bough towards her. The woman looked me up and down. She eyed me with suspicion and combed back stray hairs around her ear. Her eyes were as dark as walnuts; she smelled of braising liquid, concentrated washing powder, and shame. She wore a brick-red jacket, with a sweater beneath it, three gold necklaces hanging around her exposed lean neck, the longest, home to a detailed crucifix. Her black hair looked both feral and tame at the same time, ringlets of bushy hair flowing forward like eager fusilli. Her earlobes, oversized and quaint, were studded with two simple pearls, her left nostril, with a black mole. A bra strap, peeking over a hammy shoulder was drumstick-lolly-pink. Dirt rested beneath chipped, painted nails as if the most natural thing in the world.

‘Mrs Cappelletti? I asked, ‘Are you alright?’

She blanked me, eyes both low and stubborn. She didn’t ask how I knew her name. I saw what I was sure was the flicker of a smile fade as quickly as it came upon thin, wrinkled lips. I had waited for this moment for months, and finally, there it was, upon an imperfect, yet gleaming platter. I scrambled for as many things as I could. I rolled a grapefruit away from a dustbin, and scooped a jar of pickles, surprisingly still intact, away from a gutter. ‘Here you go, miss. There. There we go. What happened? Are you alright?’

‘Guai a te! Don’t you dare.’
Her look was one of horror. ‘You put that back, at once.’

‘Take it, look. And this too. These are still good.’

‘Are you deaf?!’ she retorted, ‘I—am—fine! I am fine. My daughter— she works at NatWest. Do you know the NatWest? Well, she is the head banker, I’ll have you know. She will be along, soon. She’ll be helping. You— leave me be. Leave!’

‘You need help,’ I pleaded, ambiguously. ‘It’s not a big deal.’

She sucked, hard against stunted, stained teeth. She cursed venomously in her language.

‘Stop making such a fuss! It’s just shopping. Oh, I’ve got enough problems. I’ve seen what kids like you do. This is a private matter and it doesn’t concern you. I do not concern you.’

Each of her words felt like a flurry of jabs to the gut. Through her thick jumper, I could see the bottle-top markings of her nipples, bosoms pressed unflatteringly against a cheap, nylon webbing of fibres. I laughed. I looked up and down the road. I placed each item down on the pavement in a neat semi-circle.

‘Perhaps, if you don’t want help, you should be more careful. An old woman like you— well, you should be thankful that I bothered to stop. Yeah— more careful. I was only trying to help. You see, that’s the way I was raised. But, suit yourself. You have a good day now, Mrs Cappelletti.’

Words were leaving my mouth before I could censor, edit, approve. I was shaking and my world was shrinking around me, second by second. Still, I spectated. I watched as she reached, pathetically for a sooty cabbage, mid precarious stoop. I could have pushed her over, right there and then. I could’ve done it, I swear. From behind us, a spritely hooded kid appeared from a huddled group, kicking the vegetable beyond her reach. His comrades cheered, egging him on to pass, a haze of ganja smoke drifting along with them, each wanting a turn of their new makeshift football. They jeered into the distance, only turning back to mock the woman. She growled. She screeched in their direction, like a mandrake.

‘Bastards!’

In a verbal barrage, she cursed at their fading huddle, a sharpened mother tongue as her weapon. I leaned against a brick wall, in both shock and admiration.

‘Animale. Your mothers. Mothers? Oh, the shame! Your mothers. Bad women, raising bad men. That’s what it is. Simple and pure. No respect. Bastards!’

I watched as she hoisted handfuls of produce into her upturned grey sweater, forming a makeshift sack beneath her bosoms. Her cheeks looked bruised and sorry and the frown on her face looked fragile. I was rooted to the spot, somehow, and had no desire to leave.

‘You know,’ she started, blushing, shrunken, ‘You know— I didn’t want that, anyway.’ She nodded in the direction of the smashed wine bottle. I watched her try and claw, and kick, and shimmy as many items her way, whilst cradling the items in her jumper. ‘No, no, no. It was reduced, you see. It was nothing. Cooking wine, you know? Chicken piss. No, it was of no value to me. My husband does not drink wine. I do not drink at all. Really.’

That was the moment I first noticed the blood. Down the side of her shin, a line of crimson flowed from a breach in her black tights. There was something biblical about the sight, but what that was, I couldn’t quite say.

‘Mrs Cappelletti,’ I said, full of shock, ‘You’re bleeding! Your leg.’

Cautiously, she stood, raising the limb, balancing the load. She inspected the gash this way and that, indifferently.

‘How do you know my name?’ she asked, finally.

‘You’ll need to go to the GP. You’ll need to go to the hospital. Is there anybody I can ring? Your husband perhaps? Your daughter?’

I watched her examine her leg, swivelling it this way, and that, like an animal toying with its food. After a minute or so, she shook her head, with resignation and shrugged.

‘I am tired and I am going home.’

***