Colourful neon signs from nearby cafes and shops cast their reflections onto the worn cobblestones of a Roman street. Deep into the night, a muffled, cheerful murmur lingered as she walked toward her car. An even clicking, marking every second step, grated on her nerves.
"Damn park stones," she said aloud. Several times she tried, in vain, to scrape it against the pavement to dislodge it from her sole. She pressed on briskly. Now, she focused on aligning the clicking with the rhythm of the music drifting from the opposite bank of the river. "Ha!" she thought with satisfaction. The brief sound, like the ting of a triangle, fell perfectly in line with every even beat of the drums. Triumphantly, she reflected on how easily she had solved a problem that had irritated her entire system. She continued to walk, now unhindered, in an enchanting rhythm. A trail of artisan boutique perfume lingered behind her—the first she had launched, for friends only, after changing her career and way of life.
"Miss…" a voice startled her. It came from the right, just beneath her arm. Recoiling, she turned toward the man. A homeless man sat on the pavement in filthy rags, his face tanned and wrinkled, with a grey beard and matted, oily hair. He smelled unpleasantly, surrounded by a pile of cardboard, tote bags full of broken things, and discarded clothing. She looked into his sunken, emerald-green eyes. The clarity and transparency of that gaze caught her off guard. She began hurriedly digging through her purse, trying to find a coin, without averting her eyes from his.
"That is not why I addressed you," the beggar said in a quiet, measured voice, one that belonged more to a university lecture hall than the street. She felt a knot in her stomach, and her cheeks began to flush.
"No need for blushing," he continued. "We are all somewhat absent today, doing so much by rote. My request is of a different nature."
"I'm sorry, I'm not sure I can help you… It's late, and I'm really in a hurry to get home," was all she could manage. She looked around. She was completely alone with him on the street.
"Your perfume, Miss… the scent of dried orange peel… it reminded me of my childhood, you see… I grew up on an orange plantation in Liguria. But I will understand if you truly are in a hurry. I simply felt a desire to share a piece of the joy of that memory with someone." He paused briefly. "I wish you success in all you do," he added sincerely. Nostalgia followed his gaze wherever he turned his head.
Leticia felt a powerful urge to help him. The frequency of his voice, the restraint and unpretentiousness of his words, effectively deactivated her fear and her innate aversion to anything that did not exude beauty.
"I'm sorry," she said, looking past him. She gave herself a few seconds to gather the strength to meet that sight again and the nostalgia in his eyes. "How can I help you?" she finally managed to whisper. The tenderness in her voice was in unusual harmony with the beggar's baritone—utterly unexpected given his tormented appearance and life situation.
"The pebble in your sole. I heard it even before you stepped onto the cobblestones of this street. Would you mind if I helped you remove it? I noticed a change in the rhythm of your steps, following that sound. There is a restlessness in your gait. It would be a pity to wrinkle and fold freedom under discomfort."
"Oh…" escaped Leticia. In a hundred lifetimes, it would never have occurred to her that anyone but herself would pay attention to a pebble in her shoe. "I would be so grateful…" she said with relief, "…but I really couldn't…" She looked away again; the intensity of the situation was mounting.
"Allow me." The beggar extended a bony hand toward her foot. She struggled internally with the sight of long, cracked, coarse, and dirty nails, which would otherwise have triggered a gag reflex. Leticia still looked at him uncertainly.
"Don't worry, Miss," he said warmly. "How old are you?"
"Forty-two. I turn forty-two tomorrow," she answered, trying to lean against the car parked behind her.
The beggar smiled for the first time. "At forty-two, I thought I was at the very top of the world," he said joyfully. His face lit up. One could see that the memory had transported him to an entirely different place. Again, he reached for her foot. Leaning against the car, Leticia dared to extend her leg.
"I'm really uncomfortable, honestly… Please, don't!"
The beggar had already grasped her leg with his left hand, holding it firmly. He paid no heed to her plea. Leticia tried, unsuccessfully, to pull her leg back. With his right hand, the beggar lightly felt the bottom of her sneaker, found the pebble, and skillfully pried it from the rubber. He showed it to her like a trophy, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. He gently released her foot and placed the pebble on the palm of his left hand.
"Forgive me for not letting go of your foot immediately," he said again in that nostalgic voice.
"It doesn't matter," she said, her voice thin and dry. Leticia's words now came from her throat, half as strong as they had been just moments ago. "In any case, thank you, Mr…?"
"Ikario."
"Mr Ikario. Thank you, once again." Her voice was still weak. Reflexively, she wanted to return the favour; she found it difficult to accept people doing something for her. She fumbled through her purse again. "Here." She handed him a bottle of Ragazza Madre perfume. "Sun-drenched fields of blooming oranges, joy in the ether," was written on the label beneath the name.
Ikario waved it away. "Please, Miss, that was once my life. The perfume will certainly be of more use to you than to me. There is no need."
Leticia looked at him resolutely. She set the bottle down beside his feet.
"Take this little stone with you, Miss." He rolled it across his palm with his forefinger, inspecting it carefully from all sides. "Who knows when you might need it one day?"
"There is no need, Mr Ikario. It's just an ordinary pebble. Rome is full of them. Goodbye and thank you."
"Have a pleasant night, Miss Leticia," Ikario replied softly.
Leticia waved goodbye and headed to her car.
Ikario pulled a tote bag from a well-known supermarket chain toward himself and pulled out a small box that had once been used for drill bits. Through the plastic lid, instead of tools, one could see neatly arranged pebbles of various colours and shapes. In the centre, only one vacant spot remained. Ikario slowly opened the box, careful not to disturb the precise order, and elegantly laid the new pebble inside. At that moment, the gentle sound of a warm southern wind rustling through orange leaves emanated from the box. The wind was accompanied by the melody of an old lullaby, which, by then, only his grandmother, Leticia, still remembered.
He closed the box, and the sound ceased.
Leticia stared at the ceiling late into the night, reflecting on the entire experience with the polite beggar and the pebble. "Strange," she thought, "I don't remember telling him my name."
Ikario lifted the perfume cap, inhaled deeply once more, replaced it, and hugged the bottle to his chest. He felt his heartbeat spread through his entire body. Warmth flooded him, and a smile stretched his chapped lips.
"Even the pebble in your shoes is Love," he thought as the sun slowly crested over the rooftops of Piazza Navona.