TARTUFO
An Italian Village Story

Tartufo - An Italian Village Story

This is the story of a village, a small Italian village, and its inhabitants. A village where life revolves around simple, traditional things: family, work, the bar, and the church. A village where nothing extraordinary ever seems to happen, and yet (or perhaps precisely because of this?) the rumor mill is constantly churning. Nearly all the stories whispered about are baseless, made up, serving only to spice up daily life and bring a touch of color to an otherwise dreary existence. This is true for most stories.

Only occasionally, in a single village, something truly extraordinary happens.

Such is the case this time in the village at the heart of the following story, where the actions of a few men from a distant past suddenly take an unexpected turn, throwing all the residents into turmoil. But before this happens, mysterious events unfold—events whose significance only gradually becomes apparent, lifting a small corner of the veil.

Come, read along, and uncover the secrets this village and its inhabitants hold.

Appreciation of important Italy bloggers

"Stef has a fluid writing style, and one literally glides through all the stories. As a result, it reads easily and quickly. Stef observes excellently and reports with a lot of humor about everything that happens. He takes the Italian situations as they are and passes no judgment on them." - Jeanette van de Lindt Bazarow.com

The book reads like a breeze, with short stories that showcase the original blog posts, and can be described as a combination of "Help, I Bought a House in Italy" and the enjoyment of La dolce vita. - Aniek Rooderkerken, Italie Uitgelicht

Antonio

When he got up, it was still dark. Yesterday morning, it had already been light when he had prepared to head uphill. But after yesterday, he had decided to rise earlier. It felt as though the earth had been pulling harder at him over the past few months. The climb was becoming more arduous, and yesterday he had almost been late. Well, almost. In fact, he was late by a few minutes. But no one in the village had noticed. *Chi se ne frega*, what difference did those few minutes make? Non siamo svizzeri — they weren’t inhabitants of the land that had invented the precision clock. That’s how they thought here, in this little hamlet where nothing ever happened. Why did he even bother? He sighed.

Antonio gave himself a quick wash, rinsed his mouth, made a cup of coffee in the kitchen, and ate a piece of bread. He topped the bread with a thin slice of the black truffle he kept in the fridge. He needed it for the exertion he endured every day. In the evenings, he’d treat himself to another piece of truffle. As he closed the door behind him, he took a deep breath. The path uphill. He had half an hour. Yesterday, it had taken him almost 20 minutes when he’d left at a quarter past eight. Too tight. If everything went well, he’d have ten minutes to spare today. The sun was up now, so he didn’t need a flashlight as he did in winter. He also didn’t have to wear his heavy coat anymore, which made a difference. Oh, wait—the drinks! Almost forgot.

The first stretch uphill was still flat, and he made good progress, but after the first vineyard, it got harder. He felt his legs trembling with effort at every step. It seemed as if gravity had suddenly grown much stronger. He resisted the temptation to sit down for a moment. He didn’t have that kind of time. Gasping, he dragged himself forward. For a moment, he paused to look up. The first houses of the village were still out of sight, and even the stern church tower, which jutted straight into the sky, wasn’t visible yet. How much farther? But of course, he knew exactly—after 20 years, he was familiar with every pebble on the gravel road. A wave of dizziness swept through his head. The sun was already burning his tanned scalp. Move quickly before it got truly hot.

At the next bend, he fell into a rut carved out by the water from the last rainstorm. Ouch, damn it, my ankle, he thought, and before he knew it, he was lying on his side on the path. He immediately tried to get back up but realized he lacked the strength. He lay down for a moment and panted. Another attempt to rise failed. Then just stay like this for a while, he thought and closed his eyes. He felt dizziness overtaking him, and a chaos of images began to whirl in his mind like a tornado. He saw the faces of his old tormentors, still boys. Their mouths moved, but no sound came out. Yet, from their lips and their scornful glances, he could tell what they were saying. All the painful scenes from back then flashed by in an instant, merging, repeating, enlarging, or disappearing until suddenly there was silence. Antonio now felt his strength slowly draining from his body. Strangely enough, it was a peaceful feeling that he surrendered to.

Hours later, Antonio was still lying on the path. His eyes were open, staring directly into the sun, which now hung high in the sky. But they saw nothing anymore. A mysterious smile played on his lips, but whatever had brought him joy in the final moment of his life, we would never know. Or would we??