The second-floor hallway still smelled acrid from the fire, a sharp tang mingling with the old varnish on the poorly painted walls. It was morning, but the light struggled to pierce the opaque glass of the window at the hall's end.
Dafne took a deep breath. Her fingers gently touched the wood of the neighboring door, almost as if asking permission from fate itself.
Knock, knock.
Silence for a second. Then, a voice emerged from the other side, drawn out, wrapped in a lazy humor.
— Who is it?
She smiled, despite everything.
— I found.
The doorknob turned slowly. The door opened just enough to reveal half a face and a curious look beneath well defined eyebrows.
— I found... who?
— I found it hard to find you at home to apologize.
The man leaned against the doorframe with practiced languor. His arms were crossed, one corner of his lip raised in a half smile.
— Lucky for you, my doorbell has a habit of ignoring the world.
— Thank goodness my pun does not.
He tilted his head slightly, as if appreciating a painting with an obscure meaning.
— "Get in touch"? That sounds... official. I would say you are just knocking on my door.
— This is your first time.
— Excuse me?
— Calling you. At the door.
A second of silence. He blinked slowly. The smile grew.
— That sounds dangerous. Or promising.
Then, in an almost theatrical gesture, he broke the pose and looked at her head on, his eyes now more lively, his tone more direct.
— I confess, I do not remember any previous visits from you... unless the collector changed his perfume and pronouns.
— Maybe I am the exception.
He laughed softly, a hoarse and brief sound, more ironic than amused.
— In that case, feel honored: I will make sure to invent a rule just for you.
She leaned in a little, her voice lowering in tone, not in intention.
— Are you going to tell me why you came? Or can I pretend it is because I miss you?
— Can I be honest?
— I would be offended if I was not.
She looked away for a moment. Her voice came out without flourishes, vulnerable.
— It was a horrible morning. The smell of smoke is still on me. But... finding you was a relief.
Something changed in his gaze. His arms were still crossed, but his body straightened slightly. A silence crept in between his words.
— Convenient.
He tilted his face, eyes now half closed:
— Are you the neighbor with the fire?
She nodded lightly.
— I am. And I am sorry. Really sorry.
He closed his eyes for a moment and sniffed the air with dramatic exaggeration, like an actor on an imaginary stage.
— So the person responsible for the aroma of charred ham on my carpet has a face. And it is funny.
Dafne let out a nervous laugh.
— It was an accident. When I realized, the oil was already... up to my ankles.
He frowned, as if trying to visualize the scene.
— An almost mythological image.
— Figure of speech.
— Thank the World Soul. One fire is enough.
He turns to the side, his hand on his chin, his pose half philosopher, half buffoon.
— And the Reds? Did they come for the grand finale?
— Of course. She answers with a half smile. I did not call a plumber, if that is what you thought.
Safo raises her arms in a brief, almost sacred gesture, as if posing a rhetorical question to the universe.
— And, since we are talking about a show... what is the cost of a production as epic as yours?
She hesitates for a moment, then gives her answer with the frankness of someone who has already lost everything there was to hide.
— More than ten silver ingots. Floor, ceiling, the faith of the neighbors... I cannot afford it all now.
He casts his eyes at the charred ceiling above, as if consulting the gods to confirm a sentence.
— Normal. Tragedy rarely accepts installment payments.
Dafne takes a breath, as if forcing herself to keep up the pace even among the rubble.
— I just wanted to apologize. In person.
Safo runs her hand through her hair with that air of someone who knows the right time to dramatize her tiredness.
— And I... thought I would still be able to eat after yesterday's involuntary barbecue.
— I am really sorry... She says, in a tone that carries more truth than defense.
He raises his index finger, didactic, but with a shine in his eyes that denies any real severity.
— My dear, a self respecting cook either makes a lifelong pact with the Red Order firefighters... or learns, early on, that the kitchen is a temple. Not a bonfire at a rural festival.
She tilts her head, her voice with a sharper hint of irony:
— Did not it occur to you? Or did the oil decide to grow legs and go dancing around the house?
She laughs, in a nervous gesture, her shoulders compressed by so many guilts at the same time.
— Talking to people was already a drama. Imagine dealing with the owner, the building manager... waiting for you...
He rolls his eyes like an actor tired of rehearsals, but the smile that returns to his lips is full of charm and a certain studied exaggeration.
— I am going to have to ask Bibi for an advance... moral damages, at least.
Dafne blinks, surprised:
— You work at Bibi's bar?
His eyes shine not with vanity, but with the pleasure of being where he is seen.
— I do some things... I help here, there... sometimes I make an effort, sometimes I just adorn. But I am always there.
She disarms her body a little, as if she were finally standing on solid ground.
— I am the singer. Every now and then.
He leans in half a step. The light from the hallway touches his face in a slanted way, half provocative, half sincere.
— And is not it that the phantom of the opera from upstairs decided to show up?
He looks her up and down with restrained but calculated admiration.
— Honestly, I thought it was the building manager's invention. An excuse to make me stop listening to my music in the early hours of the morning.
A pause. The air between them seems thick, but not uncomfortable.
— It is a pleasure to meet you... outside of the legend.
She smiles, unhurriedly.
— These pleasures usually do not last long.
He points at her with two fingers, as if granting a rare toast.
— This one has already lasted longer than I expected. And, look... You have good jokes. That always counts.