Chapter 1 #3
‘You will get used to the ladders and stairs, I promise.’ Francesca flashed an infectious smile.
‘And I promise you, this ladder,’ she gestured to one behind her, identical to the one they had just ascended, ‘is always worth it. It takes you to the terrazzo above. You can head up once you have settled in. Take in the views. Mountains on this side, and sea over the other, beyond the piazza.’ Alessio tried to crane his neck for a better look, but could see nothing beyond the overhanging balcony above.
Francesca dipped a hand under the neckline of her dress and into her bra.
She withdrew a small brass key. ‘Your apartment.’ She knocked on one of the two doors behind them.
‘If you need anything after hours, we are just here.’ She motioned to the other door behind Alessio, and passed him the key.
Holding that little brass key seemed like an intimate gesture. It was warm to his touch, having absorbed the delicate heat of Francesca’s body.
If the key were this warm . . .
He caught himself. What was he thinking? The last few months had seen him close doors and end so many ties. A relationship? Sex? He’d made a mess of everything. But now, feeling lonely and detached from daily company, from closeness, from conversation and connections, he suddenly felt it all.
Instinctively his fingers wrapped around the key, squeezing it a little tighter.
Francesca motioned to the door. ‘Welcome home.’
‘Grazie.’ He leaned forward and unlocked it.
Francesca stepped aside to allow him to enter first, pulling his suitcase behind.
The apartment was exactly as the photos and description had depicted; quaint, tidy, ideal for one.
Immediately to the left was a line of built-in robes before a small kitchenette, the ensuite to the right, and beyond that an open-plan studio apartment.
The wall which extended from the kitchenette along the entire length of the apartment was lined with bookcases, each segment full to the brim with coloured spines and folders.
A double bed sat nestled against the right-hand wall, a small dining table for two at its foot, a couch and coffee table at the very end by the large window overlooking the piazza.
‘There’s no balcone, as there’s the terrazzo above,’ she said, walking through the space.
‘The washing machine is in the bathroom. The linen is all in the wardrobe. Towels. Spare sheets. But if you need more, just ask. And I’ve tidied away most of my personal belongings.
Please just ignore anything else you find.
’ She motioned to the kitchen. ‘Small but mighty. Plates and cups are up here,’ she opened the high cupboard, ‘and everything else is in the drawers. The stove is electric. There’s no oven, so please use the kitchen downstairs if you need. ’
‘If you need . . .’ I have no intention of preparing ANYTHING beyond coffee while I’m here.
Alessio knew she was just being kind and professional, so he forced his most genuine-looking smile, despite the gnawing jet lag. ‘I appreciate that.’
‘Do you like to cook?’ She leaned the small of her back against the edge of the kitchen sink.
Alessio stopped short. ‘Uhm.’ His stomach tightened, pinching as it always did when these kinds of questions now surfaced. Drawing upon Patrick’s, his psychologist’s, advice – ‘acknowledge the past so your future can be free of it’ – he answered, ‘I’m actually a chef.’
Am. Was. Ugh!
Her eyebrows rose with notable interest. ‘You’re a chef? A CHEF? Really?’
Confused by her jolt of enthusiasm, he asked, ‘Is that a problem?’
‘A problem? No, of course not!’ Her smile couldn’t be restrained.
He sat on the edge of the bed, allowing his weight to sink into the mattress. He felt each of the past twenty-eight hours of transit in his heavy legs. ‘I’m not currently working.’ Alessio paused a moment. ‘I don’t like the term “unemployed”, so let’s just say I’m currently between things.’
She smiled and looked about to say something more, but her attention was stolen by the tolling of bells from out in the piazza.
Alessio watched as she darted to the window and pulled the voile curtains aside. He checked the time on his phone. Twelve-fifteen. ‘That’s an odd time for the bells to ring. On the quarter hour.’
‘No. No.’ Her eyes never left the window, and Alessio could see how her grip on the curtains tightened. ‘It’s Impastino’s call to the townsfolk. Thirty-four chimes, calling everyone into the piazza for an announcement.’
‘Why thirty-four?’
She was now on her tiptoes, craning her neck to the right. ‘Because Impastino lost three hundred and forty men to the Second World War. It’s to honour them.’
Alessio’s expression flattened. ‘Three hundred and forty? That would’ve been—’
‘Almost half the town. Una tragedia.’ She continued to peer out over the open space, and Alessio joined her.
‘There’s a festival coming,’ she explained.
‘Our annual summer festival. The mayor – Felice Lorusso – he is going to announce the opening this afternoon and share all the details. I must go.’ She turned to face him, her smile returning. ‘Do you need anything else?’
‘No, thank you. Just some sleep.’
Francesca nodded. ‘I can imagine. Tranquillo. Get some rest.’ She gave Alessio’s shoulder a kind squeeze as she made to leave. ‘Tomorrow the restaurant is closed. We never open on Mondays. Please, join me for lunch on the terrazzo. I’d love to get to know you, seeing as you’ll be with us so long.’
Because there was no time or space available in his jet-lagged mind to reason his way out of his lodging – the bed was right there, and his head had taken to thumping – he nodded. ‘I’d like that.’
‘At noon. No tolling bells, I promise.’
Francesca burst back into the restaurant, bolted down the stairs from the landing and thrust herself halfway over the serving ledge into the kitchen. ‘Nonna! My God!’
Maria, who had been washing her hands in the trough, cried, ‘What?! WHAT?!’ She clutched at her cheeks with her sopping, soapy hands.
‘I got it! A sign! A SIGN!’
‘From your father?!’ She rinsed off and reached for a tea towel.
‘YES!’ Francesca darted into the kitchen and grabbed Maria, spinning her on the spot. ‘Last night before I went to sleep . . .’ Her laboured breath caught in her chest. ‘I . . . I asked Papà for help. I looked up at the sky . . . I begged for a sign.’
Maria raised an eyebrow. ‘And . . .?’
‘I told him that I was struggling to let go of the festival . . .’ The bells continued to toll out on the piazza.
‘Right now! It’s happening right now!’ Francesca panted.
‘I know Mamma wants me to just leave it alone and back away. But . . . I needed a sign from Papà to help me. I don’t want to give up—’
Maria’s eyes softened. ‘It’s not giving up. It’s accepting—’
‘Well, I can’t accept it. I refuse to! I said, “Papà, tell me what to do! There has to be another way around this! If you want this to happen, if you want us to find a way to compete this year, show me how to make it so!” And he has!’
‘But how? What was the sign?!’
‘I have hope, Nonna! And a sign! It just doesn’t make sense yet.’ With that, the final bell sent out its summoning call and Francesca bounded from the kitchen, disappearing out the restaurant’s front door.
Francesca squinted beyond the awning’s shade into the stifling summer glare of the open-air piazza, where, true to tradition, the thirty-four tolls of Impastino’s campanile had summoned its people.
Shading her face with a hand to the forehead, mostly in vain, Francesca jostled her way through the crowd beside the central fountain.
The townsfolk chatted and gossiped, pointed and gestured.
It was the sight of bald, not-quite-five-foot Felice Lorusso appearing up the path from his office at the comune, that made them fall silent.
In tow was Felice’s trusted assistente personale, Giovanni, with his even trustier foot-high wooden stool.
Francesca thought she could feel her heartbeat reverberate through to her toes. She shook out her hands and legs, hoping her anxiety was well hidden by the crowd swelling around her.
‘Grazie, Giovanni.’ Felice waited for Giovanni to open and stabilise the stool before he stepped on top.
Even then he barely came up to Giovanni’s shoulder.
Beaming his usual jovial smile, Felice – happy by name, happier by nature – cleared his throat, while Giovanni fanned him with a manila folder of documents.
Francesca’s eyes fixed on that folder; she swallowed past the thickening dread that seemed to lodge in her throat.
What are you going to do now? There’s no way out, except OUT.
‘Carissimi, it is that time of year again! The time of year we all look forward to here in Impastino; our annual summer Festa della Pasta.’ Felice threw his hands into the air as if conducting a colourful choir, and his enthusiasm was met with raucous applause and cheering.
‘I know. I know. Our greatest tradition. Centuries old.’ His fingers interlaced sagely over his rounded pot belly.
‘Given today’s outrageously hot weather, I shall make this quick, so that we can all get on with our day with a Spritz in hand. ’
Laughter rippled through the crowd, but Francesca didn’t add to it. She raised her thumbnail to her teeth and gnawed on it anxiously.
Felice gestured for the folder of documents, and after handing it over, Giovanni substituted his makeshift fan with the next best thing – his grey checked handkerchief.
‘The rules continue unchanged this year. We invite one representative from each of our four ristoranti to compete for the title of Sfoglino dell’Anno. According to our time-honoured tradition, this candidate must be the male head chef of the family.’
Francesca could hardly hear Felice’s words for the whoosh of blood pumping in her ears.
You. Are. Mad! Just walk away. Don’t put yourself through this . . . You’ve been through enough. It’s too dangerous!
‘Could the four representatives please step forward . . .’
The crowd came alive again, and from different parts of the mass of jostling locals, three men emerged.
‘Sebastiano Bellomo, of Lu Ientu,’ noted Felice, and he passed the middle-aged ginger-haired man a sheet from the folder.
‘Carlo Catalano, from U Ssale.’ Another sheet was gladly accepted, and lanky-limbed Carlo felt it appropriate to turn to face the crowd and bow melodramatically.
This was met with laughter and the banging of a hand drum from within one of the overlooking apartment windows.
Felice, clearly delighted by the joy of the crowd, acknowledged the scene with his own dramatic applause. ‘Elio Martino, of Da Martino.’
Mere mention of the name ‘Elio Martino’ saw the thrum of happiness among the townsfolk shift subtly.
It was as if the air tightened around them as a blond, blue-eyed, chiselled and toned man took the final step forward, accepting the sheet with a calculated steely nonchalance.
Suddenly six or seven more hand drums began pounding, adding a deeper, darker element to the tension of the moment.
Francesca took a cursory look over her shoulder at Da Martino and locked eyes with one of the waiters who was hanging out of the front door, cigarette in hand.
He acknowledged her with a tilt of the head, but the grin on his nicotine-stained lips quickly morphed into something more sinister.
She inhaled and turned to face Trattoria dei Fiori, wondering what on earth to do.
Felice’s expression became more hesitant and he shuffled the documents in front of him. Tentatively, he said, ‘And, to represent Trattoria dei Fiori?’
Francesca’s eyes met his and the two shared a look of loss.
Standing a little taller, Francesca gathered her curls and flicked them over her shoulders. ‘Our representative?’ she asked, stepping forward through the crowd, which parted to allow her passage, their curiosity evident on their faces.
‘Sì. Do you . . . have a representative this year?’ Felice padded out the words, careful of how delicately he had to tread.
The crowd had fallen completely silent.
Francesca felt vulnerable, starkly visible. Torn between her grief and her determination, she took another step forward, accepting the paper he proffered.
She looked down at the two final dotted lines.
Assigned Head Chef competitor . . . and Signature . . .
‘Or are you to withdraw this year, given the . . . circumstances?’
She shook her head and her gaze fixed on Trattoria dei Fiori.
Her pride and joy. Her family’s incredible legacy to the town.
Decades of undisputed, uninterrupted victories.
From strength to strength. And all because of her father.
Now everything had changed and it cut her to the quick.
With her palms now damp, and not because of the heat, she took the final step forward, her eyes still on their restaurant.
It was then that a figure appeared by the window of the apartment she usually called home. The curious handsome guest with wavy chestnut hair, hazel-brown eyes and tattooed forearms. He seemed to peer out over the crowded piazza for a moment before yawning and pulling the voile curtain closed.
Francesca’s heart suddenly caught a new beat; it was scared and cautious, but steeped in potential. A bright spark of hope reignited the flame in her spirit, and while it made no sense whatsoever, while it was dangerous, foolish and perhaps even illegal, she could see no other way out.
He’s the sign I’d pleaded for . . .
Into the yawning silence, Felice asked again, ‘Francesca. Do you have a competitor this year?’
To his obvious surprise, Francesca accepted the pen Giovanni offered with quivering fingers.
Crouching so as to use the creamy sandstone pavers underfoot for support, and ignoring the small internal voice that was trying to tell her this plan defied all reason and logic, Francesca wrote the two words which her heart summoned for her.
Alessio Ranieri.