Enzo

When I arrive at the coffee shop, my new Italian friend already has a table. A soggy tea bag lies under a thin film of water at the bottom of his cup, which it seems he has been ignoring for some time now. Several pages of handwritten notes are set out before him on the table, on which he is scrawling something intently when I break his concentration. “Enzo,” I say at volume that is, as he will later inform me, appropriately American, “Good to see you.”

Neatly dressed in an oxford, v-neck sweater, dark pants and thick-framed glasses, Enzo is unapologetically Italian. He looks the part of a race-car driver at home the day before the Grand Prix. If his receding hairline and graying stubble are any indication, he is perhaps in his late twenties or early thirties.

“So where is the chessboard now?” he asks as he scoops up his notes into a brown leather messenger bag. It takes me a second to realize that he is referring to the conversation we began after the lecture I met him at earlier this week. Immediately, we start talking philosophy.

The notebook filled with questions lies forgotten in the bottom of my backpack as we bounce from one subject to the next. It gets to the point where neither one of knows what the other is talking about any more, and I’m not sure I even understand myself. But the enthusiasm with which he approaches our conversation makes this seem altogether normal. Of course we are talking about Seneca over a coffee roll. Of course we are debating the merits of Fascism. Doesn’t everybody do this?

Two hours later, we are still there talking. Finally, I remember to ask him about himself. “Where are you from?” I start. “Rome,” he says. “Mio dio! Look at the time. I must go.”