Chapter 18 Sophie
S OPHIE
Sophie stands by the Christmas tree in the empty lobby, waiting for Rocco. She pats her hot-pink handbag, feeling for the umbrella. Rocco warned her there wouldn’t be much protection from the weather at the markets.
Marina glides down the stairs, graceful as a swan. Even with her hair pinned back, no make-up on and dressed in the plain Il Cuore uniform of black shirt and pants, she’s nothing short of stunning. Meanwhile, Sophie’s spent an hour curling her hair, doing her make-up, painting her nails, ironing her dress. She’s ready to poke Marina’s eye out with a fork over her effortless beauty.
When Marina sees her, she lifts her lips into a smile that definitely looks forced.
‘Morning, Marina!’ Sophie says cheerily, like Marina’s her bestie and not an ice queen who terrifies her.
‘Good morning, Sophie. Rocco is coming now. I hope you enjoy the Rialto.’ With that she bustles off into the kitchen as if the future of the free world depends on her.
At least Sophie hasn’t been forced into small talk. Marina’s saved her from herself. She would have launched straight into some elaborate story that has absolutely no relevance to anything, the way she always does when she’s intimidated.
A minute later, the lift clunks and bangs and out walks Rocco. He looks so Italian in his black woollen trench coat, tight black pants and dress shoes, cream knitted scarf wrapped high around his neck and black fedora – all to do the food shopping. The average Australian male would never dare try to pull off this look. For a fashion tragic like Sophie, Rocco’s unabashed sense of style is everything . She works hard to look her best every day, deliberating over clothes and accessories, watching make-up tutorials and taking an age to copy them to get her eyeliner just right, so she’s deliriously happy with Rocco’s efforts.
He gives Sophie his over-the-top jazz-hands wave, smiling so big she can almost see his tonsils before he briefly disappears through a door next to the restaurant. He re-emerges a few seconds later with a pull-along plastic-lined cart.
‘Buongiorno, Sophie!’ He holds her by the shoulders, kissing both cheeks. He smells of expensive cologne.
Her heart flutters.
‘Andiamo. Let’s go!’ He holds his arm out, bent at the elbow, an invitation.
Well, this is new. Sophie’s never linked arms with a man in her life. Happily she slides her arm into the crook of his and lets him lead her out onto the cold cobbled street. She’s a bit disappointed there’s nobody there watching them make their glamorous exit from the hotel (shopping cart notwithstanding). They look so dolled up, the two of them together, that they deserve the street to be lined with paparazzi.
But San Marco is just about empty compared to when she arrived two days ago. The narrow lanes are devoid of tourists. Chairs are up on tables inside the cafes, and the wooden shutters are closed on the salt-stained red and grey apartment buildings that rise up out of the water. Pigeons roam the pavements, splashing around in the puddles. She didn’t imagine a Venice this quiet and still, a Venice this serene.
Rocco’s walking pace is faster than she’d like, as they turn corners, climb up and down stairs and walk across small bridges while daylight falls across the city. It’s Sophie’s first time outside of the hotel since her hurried arrival here, and she wishes she could take her time, stick her nose in the tourist shop windows that aren’t yet open, or stop and snap some photos of the narrow canals, dark and luminous under the clouds, with soft waves lapping against the moored tugboats. But this isn’t a leisurely stroll for Rocco; he’s on the clock, so she stays quiet and walks quickly to keep up with his long strides. At least it’s not raining.
He fills her in on the latest round of family arguments, how his father discharged himself from hospital. So it was Signore Bianchi she saw coming out of the lift last night! She’s equally excited and nervous to learn that Signora Bianchi is coming into the kitchen to cook today after all. Bec will be pleased.
Remembering bumping into Signore Bianchi in the hallway reminds her of meeting Christian. She considers telling Rocco about him, but what could she say? I met one of your guests last night and he gave me the ick. She keeps her mouth shut.
They reach the Grand Canal and walk across the Rialto Bridge, magnificent in both its size and its gothic white arches, which stretch high above the water. On the other side of the bridge, the stillness of San Marco is left behind and it’s a whole new world. Dozens of market stalls line the street. The stall owners, rugged up in coats and beanies, call out to each other, joking and laughing. People wander about, eyeing off the produce, many of them with pull-along carts similar to Rocco’s. It’s too early in the day for tourists, Rocco explains; these are the locals shopping for their families and their eateries.
An old, hunched-over woman at one of the fruit stalls carefully examines a green apple. She’s covered in wrinkles, dressed head to toe in black, and her grey wiry hair pokes out from under her headscarf. Sophie asks if she can take her photo, using the sign language of holding up her camera, and the woman gives her a delighted smile, her entire face lighting up.
Rocco looks at the camera screen over Sophie’s shoulder as she checks the composition. ‘You have captured the atmosphere of the Rialto in less than a minute. Brava!’
She feels herself glow under his praise.
Rocco stops first at a fish stall, where a short old man in a plastic apron hugs him. They speak in hurried Italian while Sophie waits a little way behind. The smell of fish is overpowering, but the seafood laid out on the table in tubs packed with ice looks fresh and delicious. After a minute or two, the man packs several plastic bags full of sardines, wrapping them in thick layers of butcher’s paper.
Rocco reaches for Sophie and gently pulls her closer, introducing her in Italian. Then he turns to her. ‘Sophie, this is our good family friend Pasquale. He has sold the best seafood in Venice since I was a boy. The sardines were fished by his sons off the coast of the Adriatic Sea less than two hours ago.’
Pasquale gives her a warm, gap-toothed smile.
When it’s time to pay, there’s an outburst of shouting and much gesticulating between Pasquale and Rocco, until Pasquale finally holds up his arms in resignation. Rocco reaches into his pocket and pulls out a stash of cash.
‘He tries to rob me,’ Rocco tells her with a laugh as he hands the money over. ‘It is the same every morning.’
‘Ha! I’d love a photo of you both standing next to the fish, if I can?’
‘Of course.’
The men, who were threatening World War Three seconds earlier, pose happily with their arms around each other’s shoulders.
And so it goes as they visit the other stalls: the warm greetings (everyone knows Rocco by name); the showing off of produce, whether it be vegetables in wooden crates or herbs and spices in weaved baskets; the obligatory passionate bartering; the joyful shouts of ‘Buon Natale!’
Sophie tries to capture as much of it as she can on camera, and she makes quick notes on her phone to jog her memory later. She already knows she won’t be able to do justice to the Rialto and its people. Photos won’t show just how juicy the cherry tomatoes she samples are or how vibrant Filomena who sells cannolis is, or how mouth-watering the freshly baked bread smells. Words can’t adequately paint a picture of the very real sense of community here in the marketplace, the good-natured ribbing and the genuine camaraderie between sellers and buyers. There’s a hospitality and a warmth to the Venetians that has her feeling all gooey inside.
They start the walk back to the hotel just under half an hour later, the rain still holding out. This time when they cross the Rialto Bridge, the shops are open, tourists in their bright yellow rain ponchos have begun to fill the streets and people stand under the awnings at the high tables outside the cafes, drinking their morning coffee.
Back at the hotel, Rocco holds the door open for her. ‘Come, Sophie. Let’s show Mamma what we bought. But be prepared, she will complain. Every day she insults my purchases, no matter how fresh the food is. Are you ready?’
‘Ready.’ Her heart rate speeds up as she follows Rocco into the kitchen.
Signora Bianchi’s waiting for them. Sophie stops in her tracks when she sees her. The woman is a vision, tall and slender, with honey-coloured eyes, just like Rocco’s and Marina’s, and olive skin that looks like it belongs to someone half her age. She doesn’t have a hint of make-up on, her grey hair is twisted in a low bun, and instead of wearing the uniform of black shirt and pants the others have on, she’s dressed in straight leg blue jeans and a black long-sleeved turtleneck underneath a plain white apron – the iconic look she’s famous for. She’s hands-down the most beautiful woman Sophie’s ever seen in the flesh. And when she walks over from the enormous marble bench in the centre of the kitchen to where Sophie stands in the doorway, it’s as if she’s floating. There’s an elegance and a grace to her that’s ethereal.
‘Mamma, here is Sophie Black, the wonderful journalist from Australia. Sophie, this is my mother, Signora Loretta Bianchi, the most excellent cook in the world!’ Rocco all but shouts.
‘Benvenuta, Sophie.’ Signora Bianchi holds both of Sophie’s hands in hers. Her hands are warm and calloused. ‘It is an honour for me to have you in my kitchen.’ Her accent is a little thicker than her children’s, but her English is perfect. She has a husky deep voice that reminds Sophie of an older Florence Pugh; it suits her.
‘Thank you so much for letting me spend time with you, Signora Bianchi.’
‘You must call me Loretta. Signora is much too formal for the good friends we are about to become.’
Good friends. Sophie’s completely starstruck. ‘Thank you. I hope you’re feeling okay after the shock of your husband’s cardiac arrest?’
‘I feel fantastic, because you are here with us and this makes me very happy.’ Loretta turns her attention to Rocco. ‘Now, let me see what you have for me today.’
‘Sardines so fresh you will be convinced you can still see them swimming.’ Rocco gives a chef’s kiss.
Loretta rolls her eyes. ‘Sardines? Again? Have you forgotten there are other animals that live in the sea?’
‘Wait until you see them.’ Rocco presents her an unwrapped package of fish.
Loretta gives the sardines a perfunctory sniff. ‘What else?’
‘Peas!’ he replies happily, undeterred by the filthy stare she gives him. ‘For you to show Sophie how you make your famous risi e bisi.’
Loretta clicks her tongue. ‘I tell you, Sophie, it is a miracle our restaurant is still open with this dull food my fool of a son brings me.’
Rocco grins. ‘I told you. She complains every day, but when the patrons praise the food, she forgets to thank me for my good choices. Look! Look at her smiling. She knows it’s true.’
‘I am smiling because I was remembering a happy time in my life, before I had you.’ Loretta laughs.
Rocco plants a fat kiss on his mother’s cheek and she shoos him away with a tea towel.
Sophie can’t remember the last time there was any of this kind of banter with her own mother.
‘The first thing we do is clean the fish, Sophie,’ Loretta says. ‘The smell will be unpleasant. Take your time at breakfast and come back when we are finished with this part.’
‘I’d love to help, if you’ll let me.’
Loretta frowns at her. ‘You want to clean sardines?’
‘Yes, please. If you’ve a certain method you use, I’m keen to learn from you.’
Rocco puts his arm around Sophie’s shoulders. ‘What did I tell you, Mamma? Sophie is not like the other journalists. She is something special.’ He gives Sophie a smile that makes her belly flip.
Loretta shrugs. ‘If you insist, I am not going to refuse the help.’
Salvatore arrives then, hugs Rocco and greets Sophie like an old friend. ‘Zia!’ He rushes over to Loretta and gives her a bone-crushing hug.
They speak in fast Italian. Loretta touches his face tenderly. There is such warmth in this family, so much love . It’s at once beautiful and heartbreaking for Sophie to be this close to it.
‘Get something to eat quickly, all of you. We open the restaurant in ten minutes,’ Loretta says. ‘Sophie, hang your coat on the back of the door.’
Rocco helps Sophie out of her red trench coat and hangs it up for her. His eyes linger for a moment over her navy and white long-sleeved polka-dot dress, and a slow smile appears. It’s her favourite dress, tight through the bodice, with a full skirt to just below the knees. It delights her to see the effect it has on him.
‘Rocco, take the vacuum with you and give a quick clean around the buffet table,’ Loretta says, drawing Rocco’s attention away. ‘There is a big mess there. Someone had a fun eating party yesterday after the cleaners left.’
‘I guarantee it was the new Americans.’ Rocco pulls a small vacuum out of a cupboard.
‘Sophie,’ Loretta adds, ‘make sure you have enough to eat. Do not be shy.’
Sophie waves an arm over her body. ‘Does this look like the figure of a person who’s shy around food?’ She laughs.
‘You are perfect.’ Loretta smiles at her.
‘You are right, Mamma, she is.’ Rocco looks right at her when he says this, and Sophie thinks she might just explode with lust.