Chapter 16
sedici
Francesca didn’t see Alessio walk up behind her the following morning as she finished dressing the tables with their usual red and white checked tablecloths.
‘Oddio!’ she shrieked as he caught her from stumbling backwards. ‘It’s just you!’
‘Sorry! The childish part of my brain thought it might be funny to spook you.’
The hand pressed to her chest felt the kick and pump of her heartbeat behind her ribcage. ‘You got me.’ She bobbed down to collect the final napkin from the floor, tossing it over her shoulder before reaching for a fresh replacement from the trolley. ‘What are your plans this morning?’
‘Pasticciotto-love, first and foremost. Then I thought I might buy a newspaper. You know, practise my reading, catch up on the local news and gossip. Then back to the beach.’
She studied his face. The gentle olive of his skin had deepened already since his arrival, and she didn’t think twice about reaching out and caressing the inked stretch of his forearm. ‘You have good skin that can take the sun.’
‘Thankfully. I’ve only copped a little burn.’
‘Attenzione.’
‘I know. I was thinking perhaps lunch back here?’ There was a sparkle in his eyes. ‘If I’m “welcome here”?’ He made elaborate air quotes and nodded towards the piazza.
She laughed. ‘Of course you are! You are always welcome here. Don’t worry about them!’
‘It’s ok, I didn’t lose sleep over them.’
‘Bravo! Fai bene!’ she said, untying her apron.
‘Come with me to the gastronomia. I need to collect a few things before we start prep. You can meet my best friend, Simona. She works there. Her brother, Carlo, will be one of your competitors. Their family owns and operates U Ssale.’ She ducked into the kitchen to collect her bag before returning to his side.
‘I actually met Carlo yesterday on the beach. Just small talk. He asked who I was and I said I was your cousin.’
‘Did he seem surprised?’
‘A little, yes. But he seems pretty relaxed in general. Didn’t make a fuss of it.’
‘Perfetto.’ She looped her arm through his, pulled him in tight and gestured to the open door. ‘Allora, the Saturday morning mercato is happening. Every Saturday, until noon. Because, you know, at noon Southern Italians turn into eating machines and we must be sitting at a table somewhere.’
Alessio chortled. ‘That tradition seems to transcend geography.’
‘Really?’
‘Sunday lunches at Nonna’s house were religiously at noon. And that didn’t mean arrive at noon, or have the food ready by noon. That meant that at noon you picked up your fork and took the first bite. Period.’
Standing there by the door, watching his animated gestures and easy smile, Francesca noted a new openness and energy in Alessio’s demeanour.
It was as if over the past week in Impastino he had unwound a little, allowed the strings holding his life together to loosen.
His stories had become more vibrant, and he laughed more often.
She could only conclude that it was a good sign indeed.
‘So what would happen if someone did arrive late?’
‘Ha!’ He waved his free hand through the air, as if writing the whole thing off. ‘Then you would prepare yourself for the Italian nonna guilt show.’
‘Oh no . . .’ she breathed.
‘It would involve something like this.’ Alessio freed himself from her hold and straightened the hem of his tee, taking on a melodramatic – almost caricatured – posture that was clearly meant to be his Nonna Immacolata.
Raising the pitch of his voice to emulate his nonna’s, he said, ‘Why you come-a late? You think nonna has nothing to do-a today but cook for you and your stomaco? Nonna is very busy woman, eh? I could-a watch my shows, you know? And you come now? The food is-a cold. Is no good to eat-a now. I throw away.’ Alessio mimed tossing a plate of food into an imaginary sink.
‘See? You make-a Nonna waste the food God give-a to us. Eh? God will hate me for this-a now. Is that what you want? For God to hate-a Nonna? You not a good boy like when you were-a little. Nonna going to die now very sad because-a you not eat lunch. When I die you come to my funeral and you pray for me to go to Heaven-a, eh? Because, if I don’t go to Heaven-a, I go to Hell. Because you late.’
Francesca exploded with laughter, bracing herself against his shoulder for support. ‘Ma, no! She was like this?’
‘Every day of her life that I can remember. Italian. Nonna. Guilt. It could bring down an empire.’
She guided him through the door and out into the morning sunshine. ‘Nonna Maria is quite different, I think, in her own special way.’
‘They’re all spec—’ But something suddenly caught Alessio’s attention and he pulled them to a stop.
The piazza was bustling with busy stalls and market crates piled high in bursting stacks. Locals called numbers, greetings, whistled and ordered one another about. The breeze was tinted with the tang of freshly turned soil and produce warming under the sun.
A station had been erected to the right selling cool drinks, and just beyond it were local artisans’ wares of bottled produce, sauces and preserves.
But among the buoyant raucousness of Impastino’s Saturday morning market soundtrack came one sound which rose over the rest.
Francesca followed Alessio’s line of sight to the wooden tables over the far side of the market, at which sat a group of elderly women. All were apron-clad with greying and white hair tied in coloured silk scarves, and all were elbow deep in pasta dough.
‘They’re . . . They’re singing . . .’
She squeezed his arm a little tighter. ‘That’s the coro delle sfogline. An old folk song the women sing when they make pasta together. To bring good luck and bless the dough.’
Francesca felt him pull her forward a few steps. ‘I know that song . . . Nonna used to sing that song.’
‘Perhaps your nonna was a sfoglina? Or her mamma? It’s only the sfogline who sing that song.’
Francesca felt him take a deep breath. ‘I think for the first time since coming here I can actually feel her. Like that song is proof that she once existed here. Among all this.’
‘Of course she did. And now you get to walk in those footsteps.’
‘I just have to find them.’
‘Shall we stop and ask a few of Impastino’s elderly if they remember your nonna?’ Francesca caught his bright, hopeful gaze.
‘Yes. Grazie. But I’ll need your help.’
‘My pleasure. But first the gastronomia . . .’
Alessio recognised Simona immediately as Carlo’s sibling.
She had the same long limbs and slim frame, and her colouring – shades of ginger, soft brown and chocolate – echoed those of her brother.
It wasn’t until she smiled over the top of the gastronomia’s deli counter at Francesca and Alessio that he also recognised the shared bucktoothed grin.
‘Ciao, cara!’ Francesca said, wrapping her arms around Simona, who had joined them in the poky serving area. ‘You’re quiet this morning.’
‘Always. The action is in the piazza. No one needs cheese or prosciutto just now.’ Her eyes flicked to Alessio.
In English, Francesca said, ‘Simona, let me introduce you to my cousin, Alessio. He’s visiting from Australia.’
Alessio read genuine surprise across Simona’s freckled face. ‘A cousin. Really?’ Her English was layered with thick Italian shadows, her pugliese syllables more pronounced than Francesca’s. ‘You never mentioned relatives in Austr—’
Alessio watched Francesca’s carefully blank face. ‘I’m sure I have. Alessio’s a second cousin. Here for the entire summer. He’s also a chef, so we are in fantastic company.’
Simona’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Was it a last-minute thing?’
Francesca seemed to falter for a split second. ‘Uhm. Sort of.’
‘Because you never mentioned it.’
Simona looked a little wounded, as far as Alessio could tell, so he jumped in to deflect some of the blame. ‘That was my fault. I sprang it on them. Managed to get some cheap flights.’
‘I see. And a love of food is clearly genetic, Chef!’ Simona’s eyes settled on Alessio, as if scouring his face for a family resemblance. Whether she found one or not, her expression cleared and she said, ‘Allora, welcome to the Impastino family!’
Alessio allowed himself to relax. ‘Grazie. I love it here already.’
Francesca beamed. ‘Simona is my best friend. We went to school together. With her older brother, Carlo, of course. Carlo is just as wonderful as Simona.’
‘Almost as wonderful as me,’ Simona corrected. ‘So, you are sleeping together, no?’
The way Francesca’s eyes widened behind her nonchalant laughter didn’t escape him. ‘Sleep together? We’re cou—’
‘I mean, stay together! My English!’ Simona’s eyes darted between the pair. ‘Scusatemi!’
Alessio laughed politely. ‘Actually, Francesca’s given me her entire apartment.’
‘I’m sharing with Nonna while Alessio is with us.’
Simona nodded. ‘Excellent. Bravi! I hope it goes well.’ She returned behind the counter and pulled a mound of cheese from the refrigerated display case. ‘Alessio, while you’re here you must try my cheese!’
‘That’s very kind of you. I’d love to.’ While Simona’s back was momentarily turned Alessio and Francesca shared a wide-eyed look which read, God, that was close!
Slicing the red-flecked, cream-coloured block on the large stainless-steel machine, Simona said, ‘Francesca, you’re responsible for teaching Alessio the ways of the town. And our stomachs.’
‘She’s doing a wonderful job already!’ he chimed in as Simona proffered him a slice of cheese over the top of the counter.
‘My pecorino fresco piccante. Don’t rub your eyes if you get the chilli flakes on your fingers, eh!’
Toothsome, matured to perfection. Still smooth.
Milky and rich.
Slight kick of the sheep’s milk.
Warmth of the chilli.
Sea salt.
‘That’s damn good,’ he said, accepting a second slice, while Francesca received her first.
‘Hmm. Brava!’ Francesca affirmed. ‘Buonissimo!’
‘Did you make this?’ Alessio asked, gesturing to the cheese on the slicer.
‘Sì. Most of the cheeses here. And some of the cured meats.’
Alessio nodded his respect. ‘It’s phenomenal.’
‘The brutal truth is that I am anaphylactic to fish. Which is not helpful when you come from a long family legacy of fishermen and your family’s restaurant specialises in fish dishes.’ She grunted. ‘So, formaggi and salumi it is! I stay away!’
‘Simona, I feel I need to tell you that Alessio has already found the love of his life in Impastino . . .’
What?
Alessio’s skin suddenly blazed with heat.
‘What? No room for me?’ Simona gestured to the display cabinet again. ‘But I have all the cheese in town!’
Francesca tutted. ‘No, no. He sold his soul to someone much more special. Someone who stirs something inside him . . . She gives him incredible pleasure. And daily!’
Jesus Christ!
Simona lowered her voice and stepped around the counter to meet them again. ‘Ohhh. Who is it? Not Signora Ricci’s daughter, Alessio? She might be beautiful, but that whole family—’
‘Ma, no! It is Ornella. Her pasticciotti have stolen his heart.’
Fuck. Thank God.
Simona laughed, and her plastic-gloved hands danced through the air. ‘Ah! No woman in Impastino has a chance then. He is ruined for all of us!’
Alessio allowed himself the laugh, but something twinged in his middle. Until now, he hadn’t made the connection that Francesca was suddenly off limits on account of their lie. The twinge tightened even more when he realised that this inability to pursue her publicly meant something to him.
Was it the fear of missing out? Or was it something more? A genuine building desire for Francesca?
‘You will represent Trattoria dei Fiori in the Festa della Pasta, no?’ Simona asked, looking between them with wide curious eyes.
With a curated smile and unquestionable confidence, Alessio assured her, ‘Yes, and it will be my pleasure.’
Once all their errands had been run and Alessio had spent some extra time in the mercato watching the pasta-making ladies, they decided it was time to get on with other pressing matters for the day.
Given that asking the elderly members of the community about his nonna had drawn a blank, Francesca suggested they seek more bureaucratic support.
Together they walked to the comune office, tucked out of sight just behind Lu Ientu, and Francesca introduced him to Elisa on the reception. Elisa kindly promised she would help get Alessio started on his hunt for clues about Nonna Immacolata in the town’s historical records room.
And so, with Alessio settled and a kitchen requiring her support, Francesca bid them farewell and started off home.
Just as she was crossing the piazza her phone chimed with a message from Simona.
Simona: He’s NOT your second cousin, is he?
Francesca felt a pang of guilt, but replied: What are you talking about? Yes he is.
There was a short pause until the bouncing ellipses returned.
Simona: I understand WHY you’ve done what you’ve done, but please just tell Carlo. He will never win the festa, but he deserves to know.
Francesca: Ok. Thank you for not making a big thing about this.
Simona: Is Alessio single?
Francesca: Are you interested?
Simona: Not at all. Was thinking for YOU . . .
The final message lingered on her screen, and Francesca reluctantly left Simona on Read.
She didn’t have the emotional or social bandwidth to reply just now. Between dealing with her mother’s antagonistic ways, the Festa della Pasta, holding up the second-cousin charade and looking out for Alessio, she could only focus on one thing at a time. And right now that meant triaging her life.
She locked her phone and slipped it in her bag, deciding to focus all her attention on kitchen prep. After all, Alessio had promised he’d stop by for lunch.
That meant everything had to be perfect.