Chapter 37
trentasette
Chattering excitedly, the crowd separated to give Francesca passage to the stage. And Francesca was thankful, drawing in deep lungfuls of fresh air to try to slow her racing heartbeat.
With a spinning head she looked to Alessio, still standing by the microphone. She couldn’t find the words.
‘It should be you up here, not me,’ Alessio said. ‘It should always have been you. Just because of some outdated, patriarchal rule – but now we can use those same rules to allow you your rightful place.’
The townsfolk fell silent, frozen, awaiting her response.
Two things came to mind: first, her mother, and the awkward price she would pay after the fact for this turn of events; and second, her father, whose opinion was the only one she really wanted in that moment to help clarify the situation for her, and the only she couldn’t have.
She had dreamed of this opportunity for as long as she could remember – to be the one to participate, to stand in front of the crowd to represent her family’s legacy. To cook. To knead. To cut and shape the pasta. But it had never been possible, nor even conceivable.
Each summer she would stand in the very same spot, watching on with comfortable assurance while her father once again took home the Mattarello d’Onore.
After so many victories, another win was almost always certain.
It allowed her to watch on with curiosity, to learn and observe rather than to fret through anxiously knitted fingers. Today felt entirely different.
Somewhere in her peripheral consciousness, she could hear Elena and Maria squabbling nervously, but she chose to focus only on Alessio’s encouraging smile.
Then, before she knew it, Felice and Giovanni were making their way down the stairs of the temporary stage towards her.
What could they possibly say now? Take it back, tell me, ‘Actually, sorry. We have checked the finest of the fine print. You’re merely a woman. And women in Impastino aren’t allow—’
‘Francesca,’ Felice’s flushed face softened on his approach, ‘we have double-checked the rules and see no reason why you should not qualify. Do you accept this nomination to participate?’
Giovanni added, ‘We will ask the people to cast a vote of support if you do.’
Maria’s hand gripped Francesca’s upper arm. ‘Do it! This is your moment! It’s finally your time! You’re ready.’
Francesca turned to face her mother. She had expected to find Elena’s usual critical eyes and drawn cheeks. But the sight of Elena’s radiant smile bolstered Francesca in a way she could never have predicted. ‘Mamma?’
Pursing her lips together to quell the tears which even now tinted her eyes with pride, Elena gently stroked her daughter’s cheek.
‘I trust you completely with this honour, Cesca. It’s what your father would have wanted.
’ She paused a moment and caught a stray curl from the side of Francesca’s face, tucking it behind her ear.
And just as the first of Elena’s tears trickled from the corner of her eye, she said, ‘Do it for Papà.’
Hearing these words of support, of permission, melted Francesca.
She dropped to the pavers and pressed her hands hard to her face.
Before she rose, she took a deep breath in, and imagined that it contained all the hope and potential she felt around her.
No matter what happened from this point on, this was already a victory.
Pulling herself to standing, she shook out her shoulders and gave a confident wave to Felice and Giovanni. ‘I accept the nomination,’ she said in a clear, bold voice.
Those around her who had heard cheered and clapped, and word of what had happened soon travelled through them all.
Felice’s cheeks pulled back into a delighted smile. ‘Fantastico! Let’s ask the people of Impastino what they think. The final word lies with them.’ He took Francesca by the hand and led her to the stage, where she stood beside Alessio.
Pulling her close for a moment while Felice and Giovanni discussed how they would conduct the vote, Alessio whispered in her ear, ‘It’s all you now. You’ve got this.’
She nodded and squeezed his arm, which seemed the easiest way to convey all the emotions washing through her.
At that moment Elio took a small step closer to the pair, his leering blue eyes slitted to mask a fury he was barely holding in check. He muttered behind his hand, ‘Even if they let this happen,’ he flicked his chin in the direction of the crowd, ‘you are not even a shadow of your father.’
Francesca’s fists balled by her side. ‘Shut up. Cretino . . .’
He rolled his eyes. ‘Just try m—’
But Felice’s booming voice cut him off. ‘Amici, we think the easiest way to progress with today’s competition is by a simple vote.
A show of hands might be difficult to discern fairly, and therefore ethically, under these circumstances.
Instead we ask you to do the following.’ He cleared his throat and passed the papers back to Giovanni.
‘All those in favour of Francesca Fiore representing Trattoria dei Fiori in today’s final round of the Festa della Pasta, please move to this side of the fountain.
’ He gestured to the trattoria’s side of the piazza.
‘All those in favour of Trattoria dei Fiori’s disqualification from the competition, please move to this side of the fountain.
’ He waved in the opposite direction, towards Da Martino. ‘Tre . . . due . . . uno . . . via!’
Francesca watched with fascination as Impastino divided itself. A sea of heads and limbs bobbed and jostled. Some people tried to drag their friends and those nearby to their preferred side, while others stood back to watch before committing their allegiance.
Familiar faces smiled up at her on the stage, blowing kisses, calling her name and Giacomo’s.
The group in support held banners in the trattoria’s trademark red and white stripes, while much of the opposition group was, unsurprisingly, tinted black and blue.
She recognised the Bellomo family and Sebastiano among the group siding with Elio, and allowed herself one internal scowl.
She supposed Sebastiano’s ties to Elio ran deeper than those forged when Alessio had helped him in the previous round.
Turning back to her supporters, she spotted the entire U Ssale team, Simona and Carlo, the staff from the tabaccheria and bar, plus workers from the pasticceria, the farmacia, the supermercato, the fruttivendolo, the pescivendolo and the macellaio.
In fact, taking stock, she saw that the vast majority of Impastino was on her side – quite literally. This realisation hit her like a wave . . .
It’s going to happen. Most of the town wants this to happen.
Then, the group in support of disqualification piped up. The drumbeat was slower now, monotonous. The kind of beat that would accompany the condemned to the gallows. It grew louder, stronger, and did what it was intended to do – intimidate her.
She suddenly felt Alessio’s supportive hand in the small of her back. Knowing he was there was all she needed. While she longed to just turn around, allow him to wrap his arms around her and block out the chaos, she fed off his strength instead.
This is all me now. It’s my time to shine!
Her left hand dipped behind her to hold his, and together they stood, united as one.
Seeing that the vote had a clear winner, Elio could no longer control his frustration. Francesca saw how the veins down his arms bulged as his fists clenched, and the muscles in his jaw twitched. His feet were making jittery taps on the stage.
‘Just breathe . . .’ Alessio whispered behind her, his words catching in her curls.
‘He’s nervous,’ she murmured.
‘I know. You’ve got this.’
‘I think the town has spoken,’ Felice said, arms raised proudly in the air.
To his right Giovanni snapped a couple of photos of the piazza, presumably for posterity, but the people were divided so unequally in favour of Francesca and Trattoria dei Fiori that there was no question of the outcome.
‘Francesca Fiore, you have the support of the community. You may compete in this final tappa.’
‘This was not how it was meant to happen . . .’ Elio growled, softly enough so that only those on the stage could hear.
Felice turned away from the microphone and looked him square in the eye. ‘People will go to great lengths to try to get their way. Some break the rules, while others simply break in.’
Francesca squeezed Alessio’s hand once more as Elio opened his mouth to protest, but Felice got in first.
‘Let’s just get on with it, shall we?’ Felice turned and signalled to Giovanni, who rang the brass bell. ‘Let the third and final tappa begin!’