Chapter 8
otto
Day three in town, time to find your feet.
Alessio welcomed the delicious radiating warmth of the sun on his skin. It was like a gentle caress; comforting, calming.
Francesca bounced through the beads and joined him in the piazza. She carried a number of reusable plastic shopping bags, which she caught between her knees to momentarily free her hands.
‘Shopping bags for the groceries. They don’t give you bags at the supermercato.’
‘Can’t you buy bags there?’
Francesca pressed a palm to his chest. ‘Alessio, let me teach you one important lesson about Italians, eh? Italians do not pay for plastic bags. It goes against everything we believe in. Because we all have collections of these things around the house. Under the sinks. In the cupboards. Special “bag-only drawers”. By the doors. In those hand-stitched bag dispensers. In Italian we say, avere un sogno nel cassetto. Literally, it means, “to have a dream in a drawer”. But that doesn’t work for Italians, as our drawers are full of bags!
The thought of actually buying one . . .
’ She feigned a melodramatic faint, drooping by his side.
‘It’s considered one of two things.’ She counted out on her thumb.
‘The first, it’s a sin, because why spend the money when you have them already in abundance?
Which leads me to the second.’ She added her index finger to the count. ‘People will talk.’
‘About what?’
‘About all the money you must have in order to be able to purchase your bags at the supermarket. It’s a small town.
Everyone will know in a matter of hours.
One signora tells another, who tells a zia, who calls a cugina, and then everyone knows that you’re well-off enough not to reuse your bags.
And what could you possibly have done to have earned such an outlandish lifestyle? It’s a brutta figura.’
‘So I need to remember to take bags from now on.’
‘It’s now a matter of your social security.’ With expert dexterity, she gathered her curls with one hand, and used the other to tie them together with a white silk scarf. He watched as the tresses flicked over her shoulders, kissed by the wind. He caught the delicious kick of Francesca’s perfume.
There’s the vanilla. Sweet. Innocent. Her shampoo, too.
‘This way,’ Francesca said, looping one arm around his, her bags tucked under the other.
Her body was warm and soft beside his. The way she caught him and pulled him tightly to her felt intimate, as if she were sharing a private personal privilege with him.
As they walked, with each rise and fall of their steps, her arm grazed his, and the continued sensation of their skin meeting sparked electricity at his core.
Enough! Groceries. You need groceries and amenities.
While a cheeky part of his brain tried to remind him – You know what else you can get from the pharmacy? – he tried to tamp down on the temptation he felt. Because, after all, he hadn’t yet even unpacked his suitcase.
‘Allora, Impastino is built on this hill, no?’ Francesca gestured in the general direction of the piazza.
‘From here at the peak, it all drops away. All the streets that run off the piazza descend – on this side to the Adriatic, and on all the others down into the valley of farming land, orchards, vineyards and olive groves.’
‘And your vegetable garden,’ Alessio added.
‘But of course. The most important of all the Impastino lands!’ She chuckled, and Alessio loved to hear this appreciation of his dry sense of humour.
‘Goes without saying.’
‘But this is the main street, so to speak,’ she said, indicating the wider path ahead that ran between the corner of U Ssale and Trattoria dei Fiori. ‘All the paths are lined with small businesses and homes, you know. But this one, Via dei Pescatori, is the largest.’
‘Pescatori?’
‘The fishermen. Because this is the route that the fishermen would take from the lowlands, up through the town, and across to the sea. You have to go up and over to get to the water.’
Alessio repeated the word. ‘Pescatori. Of course.’ He sighed. ‘That was an easy one. Pesce is fish.’
‘You will get used to it. You just need to flex that language muscle.’
Was he imagining the way her hold on his arm tightened? The way her right hand had reached across to pluck at his bicep? No he hadn’t. But the feeling of that purposeful touch sent a fresh rush of blood to his groin.
Seriously . . . at the pharmacy . . .
As they started down Via dei Pescatori Alessio relished the pockets of cooler shade that weren’t to be found in the open piazza.
Once they had passed U Ssale, they met a small panificio, the yeasty baked headiness spilling out onto the street.
Then there was a parrucchiere, with three washbasins by the right wall, and three cutting stations with circular mirrors on the wall opposite.
The dated seventies red vinyl chairs had clearly never been replaced, and neither had the front window signage of a female silhouette brandishing a dramatic bouffant.
Further along was a barbiere, marked by the red and white striped pole by the front door.
Then there were a number of small giftshops and clothing stores, and a cartoleria, with calendars and stationery filling the front window display.
Then Francesca stopped to point out the pescivendolo. The ice-filled display troughs holding the morning’s catch left no room for misinterpretation, and Alessio sounded out the word. ‘Pesci. Ven. Dolo. From pesce.’
‘Bravissimo. But attenzione.’ She lowered her voice and pulled her lips close to his ear, close enough that he could feel her warm breath on the skin of his neck.
‘There are two pescivendoli in Impastino. This one,’ she gestured with a flick of her chin, ‘and another on the other side of the hill. But only ever come to this one.’ She shook her head.
‘There’s a rumour that the other pescivendolo was selling frozen fish under the guise of fresh. ’
As much as Alessio wanted to laugh at the drama this must have caused in this tiny hilltop town, he kept his expression respectful. ‘Didn’t go down well?’
‘Oh, no no! Just the thought of this was enough to damage his reputation for good!’
‘When did this happen?’
‘Around thirty years ago.’
Alessio’s veil of nonchalance dropped away. ‘Thirty?! And the guy hasn’t been forgiven for a rumour?’
Francesca gripped him tighter. ‘In Impastino, food is untouchable. It is doctrine! Especially pasta! Don’t even think about messing with it. You will be exiled. And fish? Mah! This is a fishing town, centuries old. You mess with food, you mess with the very core of this town.’
‘What’s the poor bastard doing now?’
‘He sells some fish, but not a lot. He sells what he catches. No one will work with him. It’s just him and his wife.
And during the tourist peak he sells English-style fish and chips to the British tourists.
’ She waggled a finger disapprovingly. ‘This was almost as bad as the frozen fish rumour. The locals don’t go to him. ’
‘For such a small town, the stakes are obviously high when it comes to food.’
‘We don’t know any other way to be.’
They walked on, past the next business: a pasticceria, illuminated from within by the golden lights of the glass display cabinets.
Alessio couldn’t help but stop by the window with gold lettering and peer through.
Mounds of deep-fried golden delights, crumbly bites and custard-filled deliciousness awaited within.
A gentle waft of that sweet icing sugar–dusted world emanated out the door.
Vanilla. Bean, not extract.
Rose water. Turkish.
Pistachio.
Toasted pine nuts.
Chocolate ganache . . . at least 70 per cent cacao.
He salivated at the thought and his empty stomach churned with want.
‘You have all summer, eh?’ Francesca said, pulling him along. ‘They are always here.’
A low laugh escaped his lips and he patted his middle with his left hand. ‘A summer of that habit won’t do me any good.’
Francesca brought them to an abrupt halt in the middle of the street, causing those walking behind to detour around them. ‘But why?’
‘A summer of eating those pastries will hit me here.’ He caressed his middle once again.
Genuinely shocked, she said, ‘Alessio, but food is a . . . a . . . it’s life’s greatest pleasure. If that’s what your body is asking for . . . if it’s what you crave . . . why must you consider it a sin?’
‘Not a sin, just a treat then?’
‘Why are you limiting yourself of pleasure? Do you not enjoy eating?’
‘Of course I do. I founded an entire career on it!’
‘Then why the shame?’
He lowered his eyes. ‘I guess it’s what we’re meant to say.’
‘Meant to?’ she scoffed defiantly. ‘I hate those words.’ Turning them back to face the pasticceria, she said, ‘Alessio, if you desire it, you must have it. Life is too short to deprive yourself of the joys we crave. Go.’ She reached into her little shoulder bag, produced a five-euro note and handed it to him.
‘Enjoy the first of many guilty pleasures.’
‘What? No, Frances—’
‘Vai!’ she snipped, now pushing him through the door. ‘Buongiorno!’ she called out to the server behind the counter.
‘Buongiorno!’ the woman returned.
It was then that Francesca took over in Italian. Her hands moved with excited passion, and Alessio watched on as her reflection in the mirror behind the counter echoed her every move. He couldn’t keep up with her, so to be polite he just smiled and nodded along.
The woman, perhaps in her seventies, with a high knotted white bun of netted hair and thick-rimmed gold glasses, suddenly erupted in a toothless smile, pressing both hands to her bosom.
She rattled off some dialect, and for all he was worth, Alessio could have sworn she said the words famiglia, cugino and Australia.
Maybe she’s also got family back home? There are so many Italian–Australians originating from the south. Wouldn’t surprise me.
He nodded again and accepted her proffered hand from over the counter.
‘This is Ornella,’ Francesca clarified. ‘She’s waiting for your order.’
‘Right. Uhm.’ His eyes rolled over the offerings and eventually landed on an oval-shaped pastry resembling a small enclosed pie.
‘One of those, per favore,’ he said, his finger pressed to the glass. ‘What’s inside?’ he asked Francesca.
‘Due!’ she ordered over the counter, relieving Alessio of the five-euro note. ‘Inside? A little drop of heaven. That’s a pasticciotto.’
Ornella wrapped two pasticciotti in napkins and passed them over the countertop to the pair. They thanked her and stepped back onto the street.
‘Here goes,’ Alessio said, peeling back the napkin’s edge and taking a generous bite.
Beyond the sweet shortcrust pastry, just as Francesca had promised, awaited a little drop of heaven.
Through his mouthful he said, ‘Crema pasticcera. My absolute favourite.’ He held the pasticciotto aloft to inspect it, the glossy thick vanilla-flecked cream threatening to fall.
He caught it all in one final mouthful, and dropped theatrically to his knees, overcome as the smoothness of the cream perfectly bound the crumb of the pastry to his palate. ‘Oh my God.’
‘Tutto bene?’ Francesca asked, joining him on the pavers, nibbling more delicately at hers.
‘That’s so good it should be illegal. Damn it.’ He rose to standing, shaking his head.
He noted a fresh rosy blush in Francesca’s sun-kissed cheeks. ‘I have never seen anyone so overcome by a pasticciotto before,’ she said.
But Alessio barely heard her; his mind had raced back to his apartment and was frantically unpacking his suitcase, searching all pockets and compartments for loose euros that could be spent feeding this new summer addiction.
‘The humble pasticciotto. Fuck.’
‘Oh!’ Francesca gasped at his language choice. ‘I like this side of you. Appassionato, eh?’
Alessio grinned, but even he was taken aback by the energy that flowed through him. It was as if that pastry had reignited something visceral within.
‘I surrender.’ Alessio’s hand flew up in a show of mercy. ‘I need one of those every day I’m here. Maybe even twice a day!’
Throwing her head back, Francesca cackled, catching his arm in hers once again. ‘Please don’t orgasm in Via dei Pescatori.’
‘I can’t promise you that!’ he tittered.
‘Reserve that for your apartment. My apartment.’ She faltered. ‘I mean, our apartment. Is that strange to say? I mean, technically it is mine.’
‘The apartment doesn’t exist right now. Neither do you. Nothing does, except for the pasticciotti. I’m a ruined man!’
They laughed again, and all the while her grip never eased on his arm. He liked it that way.
‘Let’s go. We need to keep you moving. The supermercato and farmacia are around the bend, the potatoes are calling and I need these muscles to carry them home.’
Again, her hand gripped his bicep, and Alessio was sure that this time it wasn’t the crema pasticcera that made his blood sizzle through his veins.
It wasn’t even the pasticciotti.
It was Francesca.