The Tao of Bruno

Just got back from Sardinia. Stayed in a little apartment close to the centre of Olbia, a small coastal city with a seemingly endless supply of unimaginably beautiful human beings. I went with my pal Dave, a stoic and quiet man who fights against his instinct to say nothing by taking me places to test his considerable language skills abroad. We share a love of beer. And most of the time we were sat on some sun blessed piazza or another, Ichnusa on the go, watching and sighing as yet another supermodel walked past cool as the breeze which punctuated the warm afternoon.

I met Bruno outside Cafe Cosimino on a Sunday afternoon in early May. He took the table next to ours. He was dressed in motorbike leathers and looked like PierluigiCollina. The moment our eyes met I knew two things instantly. One that, without any hesitation that he was going to engage at some point in conversation. Two, that this conversation would change my life. He took a seat at the next table to ours and I sensed about him the air of a man who did not lack confidence, who had supreme faith in his ability to bend the universe to his will. 

We have all known many men like this. Beware of false prophets. 

But this guy had an air of humility also, a joy for life and a desire to make human contact the mission of his existence. The way he ordered his pasta and made the young waiter feel like a man of the world without ever patronising him. The way he let the first forkful of food stay in his mouth long enough to provoke in his tongue a memory and sensation he was able to share with everyone nearby without making a movement or sound. He spoke slowly and with authority. He shook my hand. I knew instantly that he had The Force, the Light, or whatever you want to call it.

He told me he lived in Vicenza and was riding his motorcycle around Sardinia and Italy. He complimented my friend on his excellent Italian in a way that did not feel patronising. We spoke about the way having knowledge of other languages was so important in this world. We spoke about food, weather, beer and none of it felt like small talk. His voice was the warmth of the sun, his words the shade we sought.

The handshake that he gave us each on his departure was solid without being possessed by some toxic masculinity. My world was changed. He never told me his name. I knew it to be Bruno. He said arrivederci and rode off on whatever chapter of world history he was setting off the first domino for that afternoon. I felt like a disciple in the warmth of the sun that his shadow’s sudden absence cast me in. 

I arrived in Italy broken by everything, desperate for relaxation. The Sardinians seem to have a way of just living for each precious moment. Something about the perfect temperature, the beautfiul food, the slow and gentle stress free pace that everyone seemed to enjoy here was embodied in Bruno. I envied him his absolute command of the air around him, he was like Antoinette in Wide Sargasso Sea, part of the mountains and the hills, the sea and the sky. He belonged to the magic and loveliness of this special place. And whilst my thirst was mostly caused by the endless savoury snacks sent out by the kind waiters to accompany each fresh beer, some of it was inspired by Bruno of the Bike, an urge to taste this life he seemed to live so easily.

A few years ago I wrote a short story called The World's Most Famous Man. I was trying to capture life in a small town and how anybody can become the unwilling bearer of a secret mythology if they stand out in any way.  For the rest of our time in Sardinia, Dave and I's main theme of conversation was Bruno, where he was that day, the things he'd done, the things he would do. He was advising bishops before the conclave whilst sipping an espresso on a ferry to the mainland, fathering endless children on his way round the mountains, texting Zelensky and meditating with Keanu. In him we saw our lives as they could be. We vowed to live the way of Bruno from then on. Stressing the small stuff would kill us. Bruno was the Light. 

For the next 48 hours we were disciples. Zen as fuck. And then I got to Britain and my bus home was late and I was instantly me again. I had failed the first test of my new faith. When I got home, I sat with a late night coffee on my own balcony, enjoying the glamorous bin bags and debris of my street. I vowed to follow the Tao of Bruno. 

The World’s Most Famous Man

NOTE - this short story appeared originally in my collection, A Cure for Love (Typewriter Press, 2020) and one day it'll be in print again. Maybe I'll shove it on Kindle.

The last train of the day was the first train of the next.  

The station’s signal bell would clang out across the inevitable dankness a few minutes before midnight. Stood on the platform would be the guard looking out down the long straight track waiting for the small light of the 23:56 to make itself known. And then it would come at you, a ghost train from Swansea.   

The driver and the conductor alight because that’s what you do with trains. Before doing so they check the train for signs of life and bombs in the carriages. Finding none, they switch the lights off and creep away like tired parents from a shattered baby.  

For once, there’s a passenger on board. A stocky, mid-height fella built like a straight-to-video Rambo. He’s wearing a black jacket like bouncers wear with a logo emblazoned across the back. Despite the hour, he’s wearing shades which, combined with his full beard and handsome head of hair, give the impression of him being half-bear.  

He carries two gym bags and, if there was anyone about, you’d see them gawping at him. It’s a week before Christmas, gone midnight and colder than a loan shark’s eyes. But the shades stay on, offering some protection for his eyes from the icy wind that always visits come Christmas. The jacket will help too, but not much. It’s the shorts he’s wearing that would cause most concern though, skimpy little numbers, silky affairs revealing darkly tanned and muscular legs.  

Striding upward through the sleepy Welsh town he looks like the Terminator played by Dave Lee Travis. Or some sort of avenging cowboy from a spaghetti western designed by the Kids from Fame. No-one exists to challenge him as he moves slowly over the bridge and into the town seemingly impervious to the bitter night.  

Me, Skinny and the Bish are in the Fatted Calf.  Oh, and Beppo the cabbie. Beppo is sat a couple of stools down from us, talking to One-Eyed Barry the barman. The curtains are drawn, the lights are dimmed. We can hear the wind. The jukebox dies dramatically halfway through Otis Redding’s whistle at the end of Dock of the Bay so for a second it feels like Otis is in the room really giving his whistle some welly. 

We’ve already had a few drinks and are resigning ourselves to a wet walk home but Barry indicates through some subtle nodding that not all of his patrons need leave at twenty past. He’s a good lad, Barry. Bit of a past mind. Was in a stolen car when he was fifteen, which flipped doing sixty on the roundabout by Burger King. The flip killed his best mate who was driving and Barry was lucky to survive himself by all accounts. Died twice on the operating table. Came round a month later. Broken back, a fucked leg and one eye down.  Didn’t get probation or youth custody - magistrate reckoned he’d been punished enough.  

Unlike us three, beyond help. Old one eyes has laid on some after show chemicals and me and Skinny are polishing our young gums with speed whilst the Bish walks behind the bar and helps himself to a large Bells.  

“Lift home in a bit Bep?” says Skinny, oblivious to the large scotch Beppo is drinking. 

“I don’t like driving at night.” 

“It’s pissing down.” 

“I don’t like driving in the rain either.”  

Before we can address Beppo’s lack of professionalism there’s a knock at the door.  An insistent and assertive banging.  

Police? 

Silence.  

“Fuck,” says Barry.  

Another set of knocks.  

“Fuck,” we all say.  

Then a rap at the window.  

Barry picks the keys off the little hook above the till and moves towards the door. Limping still, fifteen years after the accident.  Not that that’s ever going to go away.   

We hear the door being unbolted, then opened, the rain rushing down Lammas Street like a small ocean walking past.  

“Any rooms?”  

This is a new voice. Not local.   

“Erm yeah. It’ll take me a few minutes but yeah. Come in.”  

The Fatted Calf is a hotel but no-one’s stayed here for a while. Wrong end of town, the guy’s clearly taken a wrong turn for hotels from the station. There’s a couple of rooms upstairs and Barry’s up there sorting things out when the stranger walks in to the bar, places his bags down in a corner, takes the stool next to Beppo and sits down. 

Skinny and I look at the Bish. The Bish looks at us.  

“Why is he wearing shades?” says Skinny. 

“It’s thingy,” I whisper. 

“Who?” says the Bish? 

“You know, out of erm, the cop films.” 

“No, no it’s not him. That’s erm Bob someone. This is that bloke from that thing with erm Clint Eastwood, the Western guy.” 

“Bollocks. You’re both wrong. It’s wotsit who played for Everton when we were kids.”  

And so on. Beppo moves over to our end of the bar, seemingly to conduct some business with the cigarette machine, but obviously to throw his theory into the ring. Four voices whispering animatedly whilst pretending to contemplate the varying merits of cancer sticks. 

 “It’s one of the Carradines. Not Kung Fu, the other one.” 

“Bollocks. It’s whatsisface out of Batman.” 

“Bennies? You’re mad. They’re fucking horrible.” 

“No, no it’s definitely the big bearded fella who played for England.” 

“Keith is it?” 

“Only wankers smoke B and H.” 

“Nigel?” 

“What was that thing with Michael Douglas? Streets of San Francisco. It’s him. With a beard.” 

“Not fucking Nigel Carradine is it? Dickhead.” 

“Used to go out with Christ, what’s her name, the Swedish weathergirl.” 

“Silk Cut.  Christ, Beppo. You can do better than that. Get some full fat Marlboro.” 

“That’s it. That’s who he is.” 

“He’s so famous that we’ve forgotten who he is.” 

“Yeah, Marlboro Lights. A safe smoke.” 

“Perhaps he’s Jesus.”  

The thought that the Messiah might be seeking shelter in the Fatted Calf hangs heavily in the air until sanity arrives in the form of the limping Cyclops that is Barry. 

“I’ll show you to your room.”  

The World’s Most Famous Man picks his bags up and moves through the little serving hatch and out of sight up the little staircase to the side of the optics. There’s a mumbled conversation we can’t hear followed by the strangely offbeat rhythm of Barry coming back down.  

Skinny and Beppo are negotiating a dry drive home in Beppo’s taxi.  

“Beppo, come on. Give us a lift. It’s fucking pouring man.” 

“I’ve had too many.” 

“No you haven’t. What’s your mum’s name?” 

“Mum.” 

“That’s good enough for me. No mental impairment there.”  

Barry pours himself a large gin.  

“Who the fuck is he then?” I ask him. 

“Mr. Smith apparently,” 

“I told you Bish, he’s a celebrity. That’s what they do. Smith my arse.” 

“I’m not sniffing your arse you bender.”  

Barry is giggling. Beppo has his hands in the air in mock surrender.  

“Alright, alright. I give in.”  

The argument continues all the way to me tipping Beppo an extra couple of quid. At various points in the journey The World’s Most Famous Man has played up front for England, fucked Carrie Fisher, been in films with Sylvester Stallone and David Niven and been one of the presenters on Good Morning Britain.   

“If he’s done all that, then good luck to him. He must be the World’s Most Famous Man,” says the Monk. 

 Beppo beeps as he drives off.   

“He’s not even Italian,” says Skinny. 

“Who now,” I ask. 

“Fucking Beppo” 

“That’s it. It’s him. The opera fella,” screams the Bish as we finally open the front door. 

“It isn’t fucking Pavarotti.”  

The World’s Most Famous Man never left the Calf. He stayed there forever, ended up working the bar. I never asked his name. No one did. Not even Barry who just called him Smithy whenever he asked him to change a barrel. 

All weathers you’d see him out in his wife beater vest and sunnies; his tan never fading despite the best efforts of the Carmarthen micro-climate. People would say hello if they drank at the Calf and Smithy would nod and flash those amazing Hollywood teeth. Other people would gawp at him and make their own observations as to who he was. He was thingy out of Star Trek. He was JPR Williams. He was Italian. He was German. He made porn. He dealt drugs. He was Mary’s cousin, you know Mary from the bakery on Pond Road. He was Gandhi, Superman and Elvis.  

He was the World’s Most Famous Man.