Chapter 12
dodici
On Thursday morning Alessio awoke with his first dose of sunburn, across the crest of his shoulders and the tip of his nose.
Feeling its tightness, he grimaced, but it didn’t have the red-hot touch of a Melbourne summer burn.
The Italian sun felt different. It was a low hum, an internal warming. Tingles. It was worth it, though.
He looked at his phone and calculated the time difference.
Seven am. So, three pm for Mum and Dad.
Now would be the perfect time to get hold of his parents.
If they picked up. They were notoriously difficult to catch on the phone, their hands and minds usually busy at the café.
Nevertheless, he dialled his father on WhatsApp, knowing he could use the missed calls for leverage against the ‘You never called us after you arrived!’ argument.
He cleared his throat and sat up in bed, running his fingers through his hair to settle it back in place. The call rang and rang, then eventually rang out. So, he tried his mother, also to no avail.
That’s two entries into the guilt-free bank of ‘I tried to call!’
Then he dialled James, his best friend, first cousin and until recently, work colleague.
James was the kind of guy who practically sat on his phone, operating much of his importing business from the software he’d installed on it.
If you needed James, you would always get him. Day, night and anything in between.
Alessio dialled and within seconds, James’s delighted face filled the screen.
‘Well, well, look what the Italian cat dragged in, fed pasta and coffee, then danced the tarantella with!’ James had the kind of smile that was mostly teeth. His blue eyes and dark skin were both trademark genetic features from Alessio’s mum’s side. ‘How was the flight? All good?’
‘All good, mate. Just long.’
‘Absolutely fucked is what it is, that flight.’
Alessio laughed. That was James – little social filter but a good solid heart. ‘I’m here now. So it’s all sorted.’
‘How’s the apartment? Looked alright from what you showed me a few months back.’
Alessio’s eyes swept over Francesca’s humble little home. ‘It’s . . . It’s erm . . .’
‘What, no good?’
‘The apartment is fine. Bed’s comfy. Super clean.
On the main piazza.’ Alessio hadn’t really prepared anything to say regarding his current location above the restaurant, let alone Francesca and the Festa della Pasta.
‘Turns out the apartment is above a trattoria. And I have to pass through it anytime I want to come and go.’
He could tell that James, whose head had previously been bobbing in the call window as he walked, had come to a stop. ‘Shit. You ok?’
Alessio thought a moment. ‘Don’t have a choice really. Not much else available in town, and certainly not for the whole summer.’
‘’Course . . .’
‘Plus the woman I’m renting from—’
‘Oh, yeah. Here we go . . .’
Alessio scowled. ‘Got my hands full enough here, trust me.’
‘She’s alright, hey?’ He gave Alessio a cheeky wink on the screen.
‘More than.’
‘She single?’
‘Yeah.’
‘There’s your holiday fling sorted.’
Alessio practically snorted. ‘Don’t go there too quickly. She’s got me cooking in a pasta challenge thing in the town. Long story . . .’ He exhaled.
James’s mouth fell open. ‘What the fuck are you doing, Less?’
‘I really can’t get into it right now. I’m ok. It will be fine.’
James’s lips curled. ‘She must be a ten to get you back into the kitchen, mate.’
‘Ten? I reckon she’s one hundred.’
‘Oooft!’ James feigned burning his fingers on something hot, bringing the tips to meet his lips. ‘Watch out, Impastino. Less Ranieri is in town. Lock up your wives and daughters!’
‘Shut up, you! I only called you because I couldn’t get Mum and Dad.’
‘Well, isn’t that convenient!’ James flipped the camera view, and stretched before him was Sydney Road, Brunswick.
A blue and silver tram zipped by, its bell ringing.
Alessio immediately recognised the red café chairs and tables dotting the footpath ahead.
‘Just pulling up at the café now. I’ll take you to speak with them. Just a sec.’
The camera dropped to James’s feet and Alessio watched as the view morphed from pocked grimy Melbourne bitumen to worn black and white tiles. Off camera, Alessio heard James sing out, ‘Oh, Zia, Zio! Got someone here who wants to say ciao!’
The camera view pulled up and there were his parents: Joe in his usual place behind the coffee machine, and Silvana by the serving counter, tongs in hand, poised mid-air, proffering a double-chocolate muffin to a customer.
‘Be with you in a sec, James,’ Joe said, before calling out, ‘Extra-hot organic soy flat white for Stefany with a “y”, filled to 75 per cent?’ He placed the little takeaway cup on the counter and then pulled Silvana in close. ‘Is that Less?’
‘If this is your beloved only child, then yes!’ James’s face filled the screen again.
‘Less, need the loo before I hit the road. Got a container from Sicily waiting for me at Port Melbourne that’s being released from quarantine.
Zia, can I have a double-shot to go? I’ll be back in a minute. Ok, Less, handing you over now.’
‘Soph, can you come man the counter for a sec?’ Joe tossed a tea towel over his shoulder and both he and Silvana dipped away from service into the office space.
‘Hey, guys,’ Alessio said, happy to see them both.
‘Angel, you’ve already got colour!’ Silvana’s eyes practically filled the screen. ‘Is it really quite hot already?’
‘Yeah. Cooler at night, but the days are hot.’
‘Trip ok? Settled in fine?’ Joe now had command of the phone and set it down on a desk, a row of staff lockers visible over their shoulders.
‘All ok, guys. Happy to be here relaxing.’
‘Good, darling, you do that. You need some time for you, now. Ok?’ Silvana’s hands clutched her chest with wistful hope. ‘Just unwind and chill.’
‘And that business about you following in Nonna’s footsteps . . .’
‘Yes, Dad?’
‘Just go slow. You have all summer. Don’t stress yourself out over Nonna Immacolata. You know what she was like.’
Alessio stifled a laugh. ‘Oh, don’t worry. I know.’
‘Less, you’re there for you this time. Focus on you.’
‘I know, Dad.’
Silvana’s head cocked to the side. ‘How’s the food, darling? Have you managed to get out much? Are you able to cook in your apartment? Are you eating?’
Once an Italian mamma, always an Italian mamma.
This was it. She had literally spoon-fed him the moment to explain it all. The trattoria, the apartment set-up, Francesca, Maria and Elena, the town and the Festa della Pasta.
Alessio readjusted the pillows behind his back and sat up a little straighter. ‘Actually, you guys got a few minutes? I need to update you on a few things here.’
Silvana and Joe shared a tight look between them.
‘We’re here for you, Less. As long as you need, mate.’
‘Great.’ He exhaled. ‘Here goes nothing . . .’
Alessio had seen Francesca from the balcony upon his exit from the apartment.
She was in the bottom of the garden picking herbs, but he didn’t want to disturb her.
Instead he slipped out and through the trattoria, catching only Maria who was sitting at one of the restaurant’s six tables peeling prickly pears.
She had returned his ‘Buongiorno!’ with a warm smile, and sent him out to the piazza with one of the prickly pears in a napkin. He ate it in two bites.
There was something about Maria that Alessio found intriguing. That mix of playful spirit and humour, her quick wit and the sparkle in her eyes. They were the eyes of a teenager in the body of an eighty-nine-year-old. It was as if her past youth, all her life-affirming memories, radiated from her.
This kind of joy and happiness had been unknown to his own nonna, Immacolata. Alessio had never seen her like this, and his heart continued to beat the question he was there to answer. Why?
While Joe had encouraged Alessio to focus on himself and not let the Immacolata search consume him, he knew he owed it to her.
He was here. He’d come this far. Sure, he’d take his time.
For now, he was hoping just being in Impastino would unravel some of his nonna’s history.
And no doubt the Festa della Pasta would also prove a challenge; a challenge his parents had told him they were supportive of, but also wary of due to the charade that had set things in motion.
As he stepped out onto the piazza, the sun hit Alessio with full force. He popped his sunnies on and walked across to the bar.
Just outside, a trio of elderly men – each dressed in a short-sleeve shirt, long slacks and flat caps – sat at a table playing cards.
The banter was regional, but their passion was evident in the slap of hands on the tabletop and the flick of cards at their opponents.
A few passers-by stopped to check in and add their unsolicited two cents’ worth, while others simply added to the pugliese trash-talking.
Alessio caught himself smiling in the reflection of the bar’s window as one of the men – clearly the most senior of the three, with a cigarette hanging precariously from his lips – barked, ‘Capacchion!’ He threw down his cards and stormed off into the bar.
Alessio couldn’t restrain his laughter as he followed the man, and the wafting, lingering scent of freshly brewed coffee, into the bar.
He took a moment to get his bearings. There was a U-shaped bar with the cash register by the door, coffee machine in the middle, and room to perch on the right. Alessio watched what the locals did.