If it wasn’t for the fact that he had a glass eye, I would’ve sworn the man known as “the cousin” was staring at my cleavage.
I was in a town called Santo Padre delle Perriere in Sicily talking to the man who owned the holiday apartments. He was also in charge of putting up the Christmas lights and taking care of the priests who came from the north of Italy , as well as the owner of a glass eye positioned to stare slightly down and centre. “The cousin” is called Peppe. Peppe has blue eyes, both of them, and hair dyed jet black. No one messes with Peppe. He practically owns the town, all four streets of it. His cousin owns the bar (the Italian coffee shop) up the road , the only busy bar for kilometres. I realise later, just by being at the wrong place at the wrong time through no fault of my own, that this is because of his mafia contacts rather than his good espresso.