Chapter 36
trentasei
The bells of the campanile had long finished their thirty-four-toll summons to the town, and the people of Impastino had gathered in the greatest numbers Alessio had yet seen.
Something felt different today, as Alessio stood there on the stage beside Felice. To Alessio’s left was his translating councillor, and to Felice’s right was Elio. Giovanni pottered about behind them.
Each overhanging balcony and terrace was full of curious faces looking down on the piazza. Banners and ribbons waved and danced in the wind, giving the usually sandstone and white square a festive air.
Would the winner be Alessio, with his red and white striped scarf, taking the title from Elio, or would Elio, with his black and blue scarf, add a second Mattarello d’Onore to his collection?
It was game face time.
Practising the steady breathing techniques Patrick had taught him, Alessio allowed his eyes to gloss over the mayhem in front of them. The only thing he chose to focus on, clearly and sharply, was Francesca. As usual, she stood front and centre, flanked by Maria and Elena.
All three exuded the same electric nervy unease that flitted through Alessio’s stomach. Francesca clasped her hands tightly in front of her and shared a little smile with him up on the stage.
Then Giovanni rang a brass bell to lull the crowd, and Alessio snapped to attention.
Take three. Let’s do this.
‘Buongiorno a tutti!’ Felice cried, the microphone crackling.
The crowd gave hearty applause, but quickly fell silent.
‘Here we are, the final round in the Festa della Pasta competition for the year. And we have two exceptionally worthy competitors!’ He turned, catching Alessio’s shoulder and wrapping his arm around him.
‘Alessio Ranieri, cooking for Trattoria dei Fiori, which as we know has experienced a great deal of loss and sadness over the past year. And, of course, we keep in our thoughts and prayers our dear friend Giacomo, may he rest in peace.’ He bowed his head respectfully, momentarily removing his hat.
Alessio noted that the majority of the townsfolk did the same; some placing hands over their hearts, others sharing embraces, a few making the sign of the cross.
Francesca, Elena and Maria acknowledged this kind sentiment with nods and tight smiles.
‘We wish you well.’ He gave Alessio a generous squeeze, then turned his attention to Elio.
‘And representing Da Martino is none other than our reigning champion, Elio Martino himself!’
Elio gave a sardonic wave. He looked completely relaxed, in a way that made Alessio suddenly uneasy.
There was a shift among the crowd, too. To Alessio, it was as clear as day and couldn’t be muffled or misinterpreted.
As the drums kicked into gear, he felt an unsettling, menacing energy.
He wondered what Felice thought about all this deep down.
He did well to hide any bias, remaining bright-faced and ever-cheerful.
But surely, behind closed doors, Felice must have had a preference between the two men.
‘The comune and I wish you all the best in your endeavours today. It is a pleasure to share this festival with you, in the spirit of good sportsmanship and civic pride. Giovanni, the timer plea—’
‘Mi scusi, Sindaco. Before we start . . .’ Elio stepped forward, and the way he pinned his shoulders back with self-righteous ease made Alessio’s stomach knot. ‘I would just like to ask a question.’
There was nothing innocent about this move. Elio’s striking blue eyes and smirking smile couldn’t fool Alessio. He knew something was about to happen, and instinctively looked to Francesca. Her eyes were already there, and even at the distance between them, he saw her anxiety.
‘Erm. Of course, sì,’ Felice replied, looking somewhat taken aback.
With one finger raised, Elio asked, ‘Do the rules not state that each restaurant may only have one competitor?’
Alessio watched Felice’s eyes dart from left to right, trying to make sense of the odd question. ‘That’s correct. Uno . . . due . . .’ He counted both men to the crowd.
Elio’s smirk morphed into something more cunning. ‘And the rules clearly state that the competitor chosen to represent each restaurant must be a member of the family?’
Alessio couldn’t look back at Francesca.
He knew the tortured expression he would find splashed across her face.
To hide his trembling hands he tucked them into the front pouch of Giacomo’s apron and forced himself to look nonchalant, head cocked to the side as he awaited Felice’s response.
All the while, his heartbeat juddered through his body.
‘But of course!’ Felice responded with a half-chuckle at the sheer foolishness of the question. ‘Always family. One family per restaurant.’
‘In that case, I must bring something to everyone’s attention.’ Elio took another step forward and withdrew a folded sheet of paper from his apron pocket, opening it flat on his thigh.
Alessio felt as though someone had cut off his supply of air. He recognised the paper immediately – it was Nonna Immacolata’s proxy marriage certificate, complete with his private notes about her life journey, including information about the link to Francesca’s nonno.
His mind seemed to turn to pulp. Where had he left it? How could Elio have—?
The book! The damn street library book! Someone’s found it. The wrong person! The person on the balcony who saw me put it back! Fuck! How could I have been so fucking stupid?!
He wanted to run, he wanted to flee, but his legs seemed petrified to the stage.
‘Sindaco, I believe we find ourselves in an awkward position here today,’ Elio trilled, unable to fully disguise his delight. ‘As I have evidence in my hand that Alessio Ranieri is not a descendant of the Fiore family at all. In fact, his blood is Martino blood.’
There was a moment of stunned silence before the townsfolk erupted in a chorus of gasps and whispers, hands pointing to the stage and heads turning to and fro. Phone cameras went into overdrive.
Francesca was the first to break ranks. From the stage Alessio watched as her eyes closed, her hands gripping the sides of her face, knuckles white as the narrative they had built crumbled around her.
Felice snapped the paper from Elio’s hand and scanned the contents. His shoulders dropped, then he turned to face Alessio. Away from the microphone he asked, ‘What’s this all about? Is it true?’
What could Alessio possibly do? He was trapped. Backed into a corner.
No, I’m not related to her. I’m not family on any level except for . . .
He cleared his throat. ‘Allow me to explain.’
Alessio’s wide-eyed councillor loosened his collar.
‘Please do!’ Felice’s cheeks were red and a sheen of sweat had broken out across his forehead. ‘To everyone.’
Alessio stepped forward and caught the microphone.
‘Erm. Buongiorno. I’m going to do this in English, but my colleague here will interpret.
’ He handed the microphone to the councillor, who repeated this in Italian for the crowd’s benefit.
Then, avoiding Francesca’s eye contact, Alessio began, pausing every few sentences for the councillor to translate his words.
‘It’s true. Turns out I am a descendent of Martino blood.
My nonna’s bloodline. My paternal nonna.
She was the reason I came to Impastino in the first place; to try to trace her footsteps.
To better understand her and her native land.
And so I rented an apartment to stay in for the summer.
That one.’ He turned and pointed to Francesca’s apartment over the restaurant.
‘It was never my choice to participate in this competition. I was signed up to it even before I knew it was a thing.’ Another round of gasps rolled around the piazza.
‘But, you know what? I wouldn’t take it back.
Any of it. Being part of this has reignited a love for the kitchen I haven’t known for ages.
Literally years. And no, I am not related by blood to these women.
’ He gestured to Francesca, Elena and Maria in the front row.
‘But we are bound by whatever spirit unites everyone in this little town. I feel like I’ve found a family here with them.
Especially with Francesca.’ Their eyes finally locked and he watched as her lips curved in a teary-eyed smile.
‘She has taught me so much. And not just in the kitchen.’
The piazza fell silent save the craw of the ever-present seagulls.
‘Allora, you are not related at all?’ Giovanni felt the need to interject, perhaps mentally penning minutes to share at a later meeting or town hearing session.
‘Not at all.’
‘Well, this is awkward.’ Felice kneaded his hands together, clearly at a loss.
‘Shouldn’t he be disqualified?’ Elio blurted out, perhaps frustrated that this hadn’t been the immediate response to the situation.
‘Oh, sì. Very disqualified,’ Felice assured him with a pat on Elio’s back. ‘But what is to become of Trattoria dei Fiori?’
A guffaw erupted from Elio. ‘The restaurant?! Disqualified!’
Felice’s eyes narrowed and he said, ‘Giovanni, the rules please?’
Giovanni nodded and located the manila folder on the lectern.
He shuffled through the papers until he found what he was searching for, then speed-read the text until he arrived at one of the last paragraphs.
‘“In the event that a competitor should be disqualified for any of the above outlined reasons in clause 12B . . .”’ he said into the microphone, and Alessio’s councillor whispered a translation to him.
Giovanni paused, looking briefly to the earlier clause before he resumed speaking.
‘Right. Sì . . . “. . . the establishment in question may allow the next most suitable candidate to participate in his place, conditional upon the support of the wider Impastino community for the substitution. In the event that majority support is not reached, the establishment in question must forfeit its place in the competition.”’ Giovanni looked to Felice. ‘What shall we do?’
Felice paused for a moment, seeming to assess the dilated veins in Elio’s neck and his balled fists. Then he looked to Alessio, who stood a little taller. ‘Who would you have take your place?’
Alessio’s eyes darted between the two men. ‘M-me? I have to decide?’
Felice took a step towards him. ‘I’m curious to know.’ His chubby fingers came to rest pensively on the edge of his chin.
‘Are there conditions? Restrictions?’
Felice raised the document again. ‘According to this, you need to choose “the most suitable candidate” with majority support from the community. So, anyone who fits that bill.’
Alessio nodded slowly. ‘That doesn’t say anything about the candidate having to be a male.’
Felice and Giovanni’s eyes met and Alessio saw them share the tiniest covert smile. Felice said, ‘That’s correct, it doesn’t.’
Everything sharpened to clarity. The way forward. How it should have been from the start. Alessio felt the pieces fall neatly into place under the warm late-summer sun. He stepped forward to the microphone and announced in a victorious breath, ‘I choose Francesca Fiore.’