Writing Historical Fiction | Zio Peppino, the Man, the Myth, the Icon
PART FIVE IN THE HISTORICAL FICTION SERIES: VARSALONA
Marisa and I walked down the hill until we reached Piazza Pepi. What I would soon come to know as the Societá Operaia Castronovo (or, as I call it, the Social Club) is located in Piazza Pepi.
The town’s senior men congregate at the Social Club, often sitting on chairs they’ve pulled outside to keep an eye on the piazza’s comings and goings — like me. Emboldened by Marisa’s presence, I looked right at them and brightly said, “Buongiorno,” to which they tipped their heads and quietly replied in kind.
Marisa later taught me to say “Sa’benedica” (Give me your blessing), a trendy Sicilian greeting a century ago. She laughed when she told me, imagining how the men would react to a foreigner using ancient slang in the Sicilian dialect.
We made it through the piazza to coffee bar #2, and I followed Marisa inside. Standing next to the bar was an adorable older man who made a surprised/excited face as we walked in, a big smile on his face.
Marisa introduced us, and I began to explain the purpose of my visit to their little town when Zio Peppino interrupted me long enough to make sure we got our coffee orders placed. He turned to the man behind the high bar, his little head barely reaching over the top of it. The guy behind the counter smiled at him, then at me, with a look that said, “I know, he’s adorable.”
Zio Peppino means “Uncle Joey” in English, and Guiseppe Benincasa had this nickname because he was a respected elder in town and a friendly, funny uncle-type that everyone loved. He told me that his grandfather had gone to prison to protect Varsalona and that he knew quite a bit about him from the stories his father had told him as a child. At 92, his generation would have grown up with the bandit tales, which would grow into legends.
Zio Peppino insisted that we have lunch with him, and he told the guy behind the counter to get things ready because we were going to have lunch right there. That’s when I realized that there was a door at the side of the bar, and when the barista went through it to warn the kitchen that there would be three people for lunch, I saw that there were a few tables inside the small room and an old TV mounted high in the corner, blasting a soccer match.
It felt as though we had walked into their home, and I pictured someone scooting out a back door and hastily making a run to the market to prepare a special lunch for the American visitor, the Vice-Mayor, and the town icon.
