On the Wild Side

After a few days in Florence, getting lost wasn’t such a problem. The maze of streets and squares was almost familiar.
With newfound confidence I started veering away from tour groups (mostly Russian and Chinese)  into dark, twisting alleyways unchanged since Medieval times. Refreshingly deserted, these pathways ooze character – shuttered windows stare down from mysterious worlds.
Meandering through a network of lanes as dusk lowered itself delicately over the city last night, I half expected to bump into da Vinci on his way from a hard day’s helicopter designing. Instead an old man bent over his walking stick hobbled toward me. We paused together at the entrance of a still narrower lane veering to the right, which I was about to plunge into.
All of a sudden four youths, probably migrants from North Africa, hurtled toward us. Their eyes were wild with panic. Their faces gleamed with sweat. Each one clutched about half a dozen imitation handbags, straps flying like banners in their wake.
I’d seen those boys, or their associates, in the squares hawking their wares. Whenever police appear, they flutter away like seagulls.
Selling copies of designer handbags is a crime. It’s said to cause serious harm to fashion houses, which I don’t entirely understand. If you could afford a $4,000 clutch why would you bother buying a $10 one from a dodgy guy outside a cathedral?
The old man and I froze, uncertain if we were about to flung on to the cobblestones. But with the elegance of Olympic sprinters, the boys veered to the right, scuttled down the narrow lane and disappeared.
The old man and I waited for pursuing policemen who were bound to turn up any moment.
No doubt they’d ask if we’d seen anything, and I found myself in a moral dilemma. Would I tell them the truth and usher the cops down the little lane, or would I remain silent to protect these 21st Century entrepreneurs?
I wondered what the old man was thinking. Would he help the police give chase? Yet again I wished I could speak Italian.
As we stood there, the old man inched closer toward me. I gradually realised what he was doing. Between the two of us we were now standing equidistant across the entrance to the little lane, forming a human blockade, though not exactly an intimidating one.
We waited for the police. They never arrived.
The old man turned to me and smiled. His twinkling eyes said it all – the youth of today. The things they get up to!
I smiled back and continued down the little lane.
The boys had vanished into the sultry evening air.