Chapter 33
trentatré
Alessio should have been concentrating on the culminating moments of the day’s competition. But all he could think was that his well--intentioned actions had inadvertently upset Francesca and potentially cost him a place in the final round.
He wanted to jump from the stage and run to her, but that would pull apart the carefully curated layers of their narrative, and at this point he couldn’t risk it.
So, he held the remainder of his nerve and focused on his breathing, trying to tune in to what Felice was saying.
‘Grazie,’ Felice began, lulling the crowd back to silence.
His voice rattled into the microphone, raspy from overuse.
‘Elio Martino, on behalf of Da Martino, has submitted the following dish: orecchiette with cacao and honey.’ This was met with wolf-whistles and the deep beating of the Martino drums. ‘Sebastiano Bellomo, on behalf of Lu Ientu, has submitted a dish of tagliatelle with cinnamon and honey . . .’ Perhaps on account of his mishap, Sebastiano received a raucous applause.
Both honey-based, and both not particularly creative, Alessio told himself hopefully.
‘And Alessio Ranieri, on behalf of Trattoria dei Fiori, has submitted his raviolo with cherry, mascarpone and vin santo.’ A ripple of oohs flitted across the crowd, and Alessio took that as a good sign.
It was at that moment that Giovanni returned from the comune offices in the company of the judging panel, who were helped to the stage one by one.
Felice welcomed them all, and Alessio, Sebastiano and Elio exchanged cheek kisses with each. ‘Judges, have you reached a verdict?’ Felice asked. The five nodded and Giovanni passed the mayor a sealed envelope. Felice opened it, withdrew the note and cleared his throat.
The piazza was deathly silent save the squawking of the gulls overhead.
Alessio could feel his heartbeat reverberate down his limbs, sapping the strength from his fingers and toes.
For the second time that day he felt a little wobbly on his feet – mostly because he still couldn’t read the expression on Francesca’s face.
Her hands had now pressed together at her chest, and she was nibbling at her fingertips.
‘We will begin with a secure place, in no particular order, then announce who of the remaining chefs is to be eliminated.’
Alessio watched as Sebastiano’s gaze fell to his shoes, and he began to shift his weight from foot to foot.
To offer some comfort Alessio gave him another pat on the back, and this time he was met with one in return.
Perhaps it would be as close as Sebastiano came to thanking him, though thanks wasn’t what Alessio sought.
‘And so, the first of the two chefs to carry on today into the finale is . . . Elio Martino!’
Alessio felt a rush of saliva collect at the back of his throat, caught somewhere between dread and a thickening sense of impending doom. While he had thoroughly enjoyed today’s cook, he just couldn’t shake the way Frances—
Elio stood forward to accept the recognition his ego craved, and all thoughts dropped from Alessio’s mind. Even from a few feet behind, his stomach churned at the way Elio seemed to inflate with pride.
I’ve fucked this up, haven’t I? Why did I break ranks? Why did I go to help my competition? You’re an idiot, Alessio! A fucking idiot.
‘Elio, the judges described your combination of the cacao, cinnamon and honey as comforting, familiar but expertly balanced. One commented, “A typical combination, but crafted by someone who understands the heart of Impastino’s agricultural story.”’
Upon hearing this, Elio descended into deep fake-nice mode, plastering a manufactured smile across his face.
He turned and locked eyes with Alessio, and for the briefest of moments the smile contorted to a mirthless snarl, seen only by Alessio and Sebastiano.
Alessio kept his expression neutral. He wouldn’t be intimidated.
Not now. Not ever. The other men might not know it, but he too had deep-seated roots in Impastino.
And while he was still embracing all that Impastino offered and what it stood for, there was no room in his life for this kind of nasty behaviour.
You’ll get your karma. And it will be sweet. Your just deserts. One day you’ll be outdone by someone who will rip your local reputation to shreds.
But Alessio’s internal monologue of revenge was short-lived, as Felice still had the floor.
‘Now, the most difficult task of the day – announcing the second chef who will join Elio in the final round of this year’s competition.’
Alessio heard Sebastiano swallow next to him. But his eyes were now fixed on Francesca. Flanking her on either side were Maria, Elena, Carlo and Simona. Maria clutched at a string of rosary beads while Elena stood tall and proud. But it was Francesca’s desperate eyes that he wanted to find.
‘And the chef moving forward will be . . . Alessio Ranieri!’
All Alessio could process in the moment was the way Francesca’s eyes flashed with relief as she dropped into a grateful squat on the pavers. He longed to join her, to check on her and fix whatever it was that had upset her.
‘Signor Ranieri’s dish is described by one of our judges here as “a true explosion of Impastino’s summer”, and another says, “There is a lot of love in this dish. This chef is enamoured of the town. Or of something grand.”’ Felice welcomed Alessio to stand beside Elio. ‘Complimenti, to you both!’
Forcing a polite smile, Alessio remembered Sebastiano.
He turned and gestured with a flick of his chin that he ought to join them.
The crowd appreciated this and cheered him on.
Sebastiano, clearly upset and embarrassed, clapped his acknowledgement and thanks to the crowd, then, directly to Alessio as he stepped forward.
The smallest of worries crept into Alessio’s mind; had he cleared the round because of his skill level and the quality of the dish? Or was it in exchange for the kind gesture he had bestowed upon Sebastiano?
The judges weren’t here to see that. You earned this. Take the moment and enjoy it.
‘The final round of the Festa della Pasta will take place three Sundays from now, on the twenty-third. It will be a showdown between Elio Martino and Alessio Ranieri. One final duel for the title of Sfoglino dell’Anno.
In the meantime, go, join your families and celebrate today’s exceptional achievements. ’
Alessio didn’t need telling twice. He bolted from the stage and made a beeline for Francesca.
Francesca felt Alessio pull her from the pavers as if she were a rag doll, his arms immediately wrapping around her. To the outside world it simply read victory embrace, but to her it meant safety and security.
He leaned down to her ear, his face immediately hidden by her curls. ‘What’s wrong?’ His voice trembled with a new kind of anxiety she hadn’t heard from him before. ‘What did I do?’
‘What you did for Sebas—’
‘I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry. It was instinct.’
‘No. It was just perfect.’
Alessio pulled back to face her, and the confusion and chaos of the throbbing crowd blurred around them. ‘Perfect? How? I thought I must have risked—’
‘Nothing. Nothing. Helping someone else . . . putting yourself second. That’s a true act of courage.’ A push from behind jolted them forward. ‘Alessio, before you, only one person has ever stopped to help a competitor complete a challenge.’
Alessio nodded. ‘Felice mentioned that.’
‘It was my father.’ She pressed a loving hand to her father’s silk scarf tied around Alessio’s neck.
‘Really?’
‘Sì. He helped Elio’s father after he burned himself in the final round. It was twenty-odd years ago. He would be so proud of you today. We are.’ Francesca gave Alessio one final squeeze before allowing Maria in to congratulate him, then it was Elena’s turn.
Francesca watched with trepidation as Elena and Alessio embraced as well as was possible with her plaster casts. What would her mother say about what had happened?
As the pair parted, Elena managed a smile. ‘You have proven yourself not only to be a brilliant and intelligent chef, Alessio, but now also a gentleman worthy of that scarf. Bravo.’
Excuse me? She . . . she just said that? She acknowledged Alessio?
‘Grazie, Elena.’
Elena gave Alessio two careful cheek kisses, then pulled Maria back a few paces to allow members of the crowd to pounce upon him and share their hearty Auguri! and Congratulazioni!
Francesca stood still, trying to absorb everything she was thinking and feeling.
Nothing could extinguish her optimism right now.
Not the sight of Elio being carried over the top of the swelling masses waiting outside Da Martino.
Not even the way he managed to pick her out of the crowd, their eyes locking in a silent stand-off.
And most certainly not the covert dismissive shake of his head, a private little warning for them.
You’re getting nothing from me, Elio Martino.
With her hands clasped at her chest, she turned to watch as Alessio was swamped by the people of Impastino. His bright infectious smile stretched across that devilishly handsome face. And then she wondered what it might be like if he stayed. Not just a little longer. Not a few more months.
But, stayed.