'The Man on the Ledge' by Reshma Ruia

The square is a bowl of sunshine. The noonday sun hovers above it, heavy and still. A man sidles up to you, his rounded shoulders blocking your way. He thrusts a small blue plastic fan close to your face. ‘Only 5 euros, Signor.’ His voice droops with heat. 

You beat him down to 2 euros, stuff the fan in your trouser pocket and hurry towards the café where the woman you are about to leave sits playing with her hair.

‘Sorry, I’m late,’ you say sliding into your chair. Fishing out the fan, you place it on the table; try turning it on, but the battery is flat. She smiles and says. ‘You could have got me roses.’ 

The old waiter with the sagging moustache and a silver salver in the palm of his hand is ready to take your order. His bored eyes skim over your face.

‘I’ll have a Campari,’ you tell him. His nod lets you understand you’ve been seen here before, but not with her. 

A sudden scream. The woman sitting next to you grips your arm. Her face turns towards the palazzo at the far end of the square. You follow her eyes. Someone stands on a ledge, his body pressed against the white wall. Arms spread out he is a bird ready to take flight.

‘He must be mad,’ she whispers.

The other customers push their chairs back, their cappuccinos and cocktails forgotten. Their mobile phones go up, ready for the shot.

 You get up and run to the building for a closer look. A bolt of recognition. The bird is the man pressing his fan in your hands. Sirens bleat. Police cars scramble into the square. Uniformed men swagger out, barking instructions into their walky talkies.

‘Are they shooting a movie?’ An American voice enquires.

A crowd collects. Strangers swap stories and bewildered smiles. It could be Christmas. Except for the fact, a man stands on a ledge ready to throw his life away.

‘Jump,’ you howl.  Hands cupping your mouth like a Tannoy.

‘But why should he? There is so much to live for,’ your wife says. She has become a stranger you don’t recognise any more. The weight of her head feels heavy against your shoulder as she slips her hand in yours.

‘Jump,’ you shout again, uncurling your fingers from hers. Slowly. One at a time.