Chapter 13
tredici
Unsure of how much terrain they would cover on foot, he brought a bottle of water, his sunnies, and made sure to wear his favourite pair of Adidas Gazelle sneakers.
The clear sky promised a glorious day but also blistering heat, with no clouds to subdue its intensity.
It didn’t matter to Alessio; he was just excited to see more of the place which had once supported his Nonna Immacolata.
Would he recognise anything in their travels that might spark a memory, some connection to her? He wondered. What if nothing seemed familiar? Would that mean the chance of connecting with her here could be unlikely? Would this whole planned summer in Impastino be a waste of time?
Alessio knew these anxieties were conjured by the same part of his brain that fought to control situations each step of the way.
His psychologist had helped him recognise this pattern of thinking and encouraged him to acknowledge it, but not let it overwhelm him.
He often caught himself trying to pre-empt feelings, emotions, sensations he might feel in response to occurrences around him.
If he concentrated long enough, the emotions would materialise, welling in the pit of his stomach as if real.
The sound of jangling keys prompted him to turn, and there was Francesca. She wore a fitted denim skirt into which she had tucked a white boxy tee. She lifted her sunglasses to sit on her crown, pulling her fringe of curls back as if behind a headband.
‘Buongiorno!’ He immediately noticed that she was more made-up this morning.
Her lips were tinted the same red as her nails, and a few extra pieces of gold jewellery adorned her warm olive skin: a chunky chain bracelet on her left wrist, oversized gold hoops on her ears.
Over her right forearm she carried a wicker shopping basket.
‘Never head out in Italy without a reusable bag,’ he teased, pointing at the basket. ‘Someone wise once taught me that.’
She laughed, coming to a stop in front of him.
And, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, she grabbed him playfully and pulled him close, planting two enthusiastic kisses on his cheeks.
‘That someone is very wise, eh!’ With the pad of her right thumb she tenderly rubbed some stray lipstick from his cheek.
‘Scusami. My kisses were too passionate!’ Alessio swallowed nervously.
‘Oh, and the other one!’ She wiped again, then cupped his whole cheek in her soft palm. ‘Sorry.’
The comfort of the warmth of her hold took Alessio by surprise. Had she dotted her wrist with perfume? Her familiar scent clouded his mind, making his blood surge.
There are the sweet, gourmand base notes . . . the hint – almost an afterthought – of cinnamon?
The combination reached his palate and he could almost taste her. A sweet morsel. A mouthful. As if just one bite could sate his craving.
‘I can’t wait for you to meet Sophia,’ she was saying, ripping Alessio from his daydream.
‘Sorry? Sophia?’ She hadn’t mentioned company. And somehow the prospect of a third wheel joining them made his stomach sink with disappointment.
‘She’s waiting just through here. Come.’ Francesca caught Alessio’s hand and pulled him behind her as she covered the last few paces to the six-foot-high mudbrick wall at the bottom of the garden.
It was a tapestry of knitted vines and overgrown wisteria, some of which reached up and tangled in the overhanging trees.
The purple spray stood out against the fresh green of the vines, dotted with white-tipped flowers.
No matter the confusion of wooden aromas and herbs, Alessio could still smell Francesca.
Releasing his hand, Francesca pushed past some of the greenery, finding a well-disguised wrought-iron gate. She flicked open the latch and ushered him past her. Beyond the fence was a small brick-poled carport with a terracotta-tiled roof. And under it sat a car.
‘Sophia. Most darling one. Andiamo,’ Francesca said, running an inviting hand over the car’s glossy cherry-red paintwork.
Seeing the vintage 1970s two-door Fiat 500 wasn’t what surprised Alessio. It was the relief that coursed through him, quashing the disappointment of having to share his time with Francesca with anyone else.
That’s . . . new.
But that was the extent of his reflection, as Francesca was already beside the car, manually unlocking it with the key and slipping into the driver’s seat.
Alessio opened his door on the right-hand side of the car and joined her. ‘So, this is Sophia?’
Francesca grinned proudly. ‘All three divine metres of her!’ She reached behind and set her basket on the back saloon-style seat, before turning the key in the ignition.
The smell of the car was dual-layered; it had the metallic fuel-tainted scent of a vintage model, surely rusting from within, mixed with Francesca’s perfume which had penetrated the cracked black vinyl trim.
The engine rumbled contentedly in the boot behind them.
There was no radio, no bells and whistles.
The dash featured a speedometer and odometer, and a number of rusting switches.
‘Seatbelts?’ he asked, peering over his right shoulder.
‘Pfft! Sophia can’t go fast enough to warrant safety features!’
‘Of course not,’ Alessio agreed with a smile as he popped his sunglasses on. Because you’re in Italy. The Italians are notoriously safe sensible drivers. ‘And Sophia, as in . . .?’
Francesca turned to face him, pulling her curls over one shoulder. ‘Loren, of course! There is no other Sophia in this world.’
Francesca shifted Sophia into reverse and performed a three-point turn to exit the carport, setting off down the road.
Her denim skirt pulled higher up her shapely thighs as she drove.
Alessio permitted himself one cheeky look before seeking distraction elsewhere.
But that one glance was all he needed to reignite the flickering simmer of something that her perfume had triggered moments earlier.
The road. The trees. The engine. The windows . . . Think of anything else!
‘Grab something!’ Francesca warned as she shifted gears.
Grab what? Was that an invitat—?
The car dropped sharply into a dip, and they bounced in unison in their seats. Alessio instinctively grabbed the dash for support.
‘Scusami. I should have warned you earlier. I’ve told the comune about that dip so many times.’
‘It’s all good. Now I know for the future.
’ Alessio leaned back in his seat and took in their surroundings.
Having left the backstreet which looped around the bottom of Francesca’s property, they continued their descent down the mountainside.
To his right, he looked up at the sides of buildings and under the canopies of tall trees.
To his left he could see down into gated gardens and over terracotta-tiled rooftops, most moss-mapped and in need of repair.
The road itself was unsealed; a loosely gravel-lined maze of potholes.
With every bump in the road the two-inch-long red cornicello suspended from the rear-view mirror danced and clinked against the windscreen.
Alessio noticed a hand-sized crucifix of folded palm leaf tucked into the space behind one of the levers on the dashboard.
He couldn’t help but give it a flick with his index finger.
‘Nonna always used to give us these,’ he said.
‘The blessed palms from Palm Sunday Mass. We kept them for weeks out of guilt. We just never knew what to do with them beyond Easter. When Mum finally thought the coast was clear, we threw them out.’
Francesca leaned against the steering wheel. ‘YOU THREW THEM OUT?! They are blessed! You can’t throw them away!’ She punctuated her mock horror with theatrical gasps. ‘It’s one of the Italian existential crises: to keep, or not to keep the palms?’
Alessio grinned. ‘So this is also an issue here?’
‘Oh, sì. Very much.’
‘God, this literally caused screaming matches in my house growing up. My nonna would lose her mind over the palms. “Le palme!”’
‘Alessio, irrespective of where you are, this is an issue.’
‘But what do you do with them?’
Taking her eyes off the road for longer than made him comfortable, she reached down into Alessio’s footwell. With an expert tug she opened the stowage compartment under his seat. ‘Take a look . . .’ Her eyes and attention returned to the road ahead.
Alessio fished a hand around and withdrew a dated women’s shoebox.
‘Open it!’
Lifting the lid he peered inside. ‘You’re joking!’ A bright incredulous chortle burst from his lips. ‘A box of palms!’
‘At least twenty years’ worth of Easters in there. The rest, well . . . it wasn’t my fault.’
‘Why are you keeping them?’
‘Because I’m too scared to throw them in the bin. If Nonna Maria ever found them . . .’
‘Does your mum know you have them here in this box?’
‘Mamma! Pfft! This is survival of the fittest. She’s on her own.
If it ever comes up, I’m covered.’ She pumped a balled fist into the air then pointed to the palm crucifix on the dash.
‘This one will transfer to the shoebox come next Easter. It will be replaced by the latest instalment of palms. And so the circle of life continues. Nonna Maria gets to sleep, which means I get to sleep. Guilt and shame-free.’
‘This has just made my day. Brilliant.’
‘Oh, speaking of nonne. When we get back, remind me that we need to ask Nonna Maria if she knows anything about your nonna, eh? Because if they lived in Impastino at the same time, for sure . . .’
‘Grazie.’ Alessio smiled.
Francesca rounded the bend and pulled rapidly to a halt. Ahead of them in the middle of the road stood a brown donkey with a sparse black mane.