The Grace of a Name and a Gentle Touch

Day 13

Claudio has a tender touch.

On each of the days we have stopped into Patricia's vegetable shop at the lower end of town, her husband Claudio — the silent, tall and lanky counterpart to her boisterous, short and stocky persona and frame — is puttering quietly around on the front porch, stacking crates, rearranging boxes; occasionally restocking a bin inside the store. Patricia holds forth from behind the counter, bantering, weighing, calculating and making change.

For the longest time we didn't even know his name. When we asked around town, people responded with a blank look, realizing that they didn't know his name either. Everybody knows Patricia. He, on the other hand, is something of a shadow around the edges only discernible with peripheral vision.

But the village grapevine finally bore fruit, and from friend to friend to friend to friend, the answer eventually made its way back to our query. "Claudio. His name is Claudio."

And so I have been calling him by name whenever we stop by the shop. "Buon giorno Claudio," I'd call out as we passed by on our way through the door. And he has smiled.

While in Assisi yesterday we stopped by a cheese shop and purchased an ovaline of fresh mozzarella with the thought of making a caprese salad today for lunch. Of course we needed a tomato, and knew that Patricia, who has very precise ideas about such things, would steer us wisely through the vast array of varietals to the best one for our needs.

All was as usual as we approached the store, except, for a change, we were the moment's only customer. Stepping up to the porch and making our way toward the door, I hesitated a moment for the obligatory greeting.

"Buon giorno, Claudio," I said before continuing on my way. And that's when I felt his hand. As gentle as my father's touch, Claudio patted my shoulder as I passed, and quietly but earnestly responded in kind. "Buon giorno."

That was all. It's not like the clouds parted or the birds began to sing. It's not like we exchanged addresses to be added to each other's Christmas card list. And it's entirely possible that I read more into that simple gesture than he intended. But I believe there was something special about that tender touch and those quiet words spoken. It was an acknowledgment of being noticed — a recognition of being recognized. By name.

Once inside and true to form, Patricia volubly took charge, steering us to the correct tomato. We counted out our change and headed back outside where Claudio was puttering with his crates.

We smiled as we waved for what was likely the last time. And my smile lingered; perhaps his, too — mine at the joy of fitting in; his at the knowledge of being known.