every lady who took the morning bus into the benevento market knew they were giuseppe's long lost love. the old man boarded at l’arco di traiano each day and took his seat at the front of the bus, the same seat each day, left open for him without anyone needing to say a word. giuseppe did not so much sit in his spot as he plugged himself in. while waiting at the bus stop, giuseppe would stare out over the Calore Irpino river along whose banks who walked each day, in a kind of hazy silence, broken only once he had taken in his seat.

the bus that giuseppe boarded at l’arco di traiano each day ran express from the arch through the old roman ruins, to the open air market in the piazza castello where the day’s fish and flour would be sold. it was full each day by the time giuseppe boarded, having started at nearly 4am in the outer provinces, picking up girls sent out from home when it was still dark to earn a bit of money. they were the unmarried daughters of those descended from the samnites, the original inhabitants of those hills. their oldest ancestors were conscripted by the romans; their youngest, by mussolini. all ended up at the Cimitero di Benevento.

maria was one such girl. her grandfather had been a fisherman in brandisi until the war. when he was killed in an ally bombing, maria’s grandmother and only daughter settled in small town outside benevento where they settled for a generation. the older woman laughed the first time giuseppe left his perch at the front of the bus to take a seat beside her. from his jacket pocket he pulled out a small pad of paper and a graphite pencil, and without saying a word, began to sketch her likeness.

at first, maria noticed, the sketch was just an outline. a shape of the face, a curvature of the cheek, the arch of the cresting upper lip. it looked not unlike the daguerrotype her mother had taken thirty years ago while in vacation with her father in cartagena. maria never saw herself in her mother, but passing through giussepe’s eyes, the likeness became all too apparent.

the bus ride passed the old lombard churches. the image, as close a likeness as maria had ever seen, came to a natural resting place, but giussepe became suddenly dissatisfied. the intense gaze with which he had taken her in suddenly gave way to a distracted shaking of the head, a tortured turning over of the eyes, a sense that the likeness had fallen short.

the old man began to erase, strike out, redraft the lines that gave contour and shape to the face. giussepe did this for the last quarter hour of the bus ride into town. when the bus finally pulled into piazza castello, maria stood for her seat. the old women had moved on to their gossip and no longer took interest in giussepe’s antics. but maria turned back to see him sitting alone in the chair beside her, holding up a portrait to her of a woman from another time, another era, another life. he held it out to her, as if to ask a question.

but giussepe said nothing at all. nor did maria. the bus doors closed. giussepe did not leave his seat. the bus drove off into the afternoon. tomorrow, it would be a different country girl. tomorrow, another would come from another place. tomorrow, giussepe would go looking again. tomorrow, he would not find her either.