English Narration/Fiction
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Middle Aged (35-54)Accents
Italian (General) North American (General)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
I often have lunch at a Trattoria close to my house. It's a hole in the wall. So if I don't get there by noon, I won't get a seat, then I'll have to wait until after two. I eat alone next to others eating alone. There are people I don't know though. I frequently encounter a familiar face. My father cooks and his daughter wastes the tables. I believe the mother died when the daughter was a young girl. This father and daughter share a bond beyond their common blood, one that's been fortified by grief. They're not from around here though. They work all day on a noisy street. They come from an island, they store the sun's blaze in their bones, barren hills dotted with sheep, The mistral that turns the sea. I picture them together on a boat have anchored in front of a secluded grotto. I see the daughter diving off the prow and the father holding a fish that's still breathing in his hands, technically the daughter isn't a waitress, given that she's almost always behind the counter. What can we get you? The menu is handwritten on the blackboard. In a compact whimsical script. I choose a different dish each day of the week. She takes the order and then tells her father was always in the kitchen what to prepare. When I sit down, the daughter brings me a bottle of water, a paper napkin, then resumes her place behind the counter. I wait for my trade to appear, then stand up to retrieve it. Today. Among the tourists and employees have re grant my neighborhood. There's a young father with his daughter. She's around 10 years old with two blond braids, hunched shoulders, a distracted gaze. Normally I see them on Saturdays, but there's no school this week. It's easter vacation by now. I know the drill. The daughter refuses to sleep at her father's house. She'll only spend the night with her mother. I used to see them back when they were a family of three in this very Trattoria. I remember when the mother was pregnant with the daughter and how excited the couple was. I recall how intimately they would speak to one another and the good wishes expressed by those sitting around them. They would come to have lunch here even after they became a family, they turn up tired and hungry after going to the playground or shopping for food in the piazza. I felt a connection with the little girl, an only child like me seated between her parents. It's just that my father never liked eating in restaurants. Last year the mother moved out of our neighborhood, leaving the father behind and he's frustrated. I'd say exasperated by the daughter who remained so loyal to her mother, who refuses to stay at his place in the house where she was first raised in the room, always awaiting her arrival. The daughter plays with her cell phone while the father attempts to speak to her to convince her. I feel sorry listening to him plead. I feel sorry for the parting of ways between this father and daughter and for the demise of the marriage. Apparently the mother left because he was cheating on her. A passionate affair that's already ended. How was school last week? He asks. The girl shrugs, can you give me a ride to a friend's place tonight? I thought you and I might go to the movies. I don't feel like it. I want to go to my friends. What will you do there? I'll have fun and then I'll go home to mom's. The father gives in. He stops trying this week to convince her. Now he two looks at his cell phone, she only eats part of her dish and he finishes it for her.