“But it wasn’t completely altruistic,” he says, slowing once again, turning to me, grinning.
“It wasn’t?” I say, distracted by the shape of his arms as he rubs the back of his neck. I look at him in his black T-shirt with his black sunglasses and his smile and think once again how attractive he is. Objectively.
“I figure if you’re too nervous to tell Rocco you’re selling,” he says, as I find my eyes locked on the curve of his shoulders, “then some part of you cares. And if some part of you cares, then the window of opportunity is not quite shut.”
“Ha ha,” I say, smiling nervously.I hope he’s kidding.
11
LEO AND Imeet first thing at the famous Catania fish market, a busy, loud, industry-and-locals-only affair, until the area transforms into a tourist trap later in the day. Shouting men covered in fish guts sell their wares from huge crates of the day’s catch destined for restaurants all across Catania and the surrounding villages, including Rocco’s. I spot his grandson Luca in a pair of blue-striped swimming shorts and a white T-shirt, cigarette dangling out of his mouth as he barters with comical indignation.
We stand at the railing above, looking down, a line of old men in flat caps stretching out on either side next to us, all of us watching the action below. Huge swordfish are cut into slices. Snails try to escape their baskets. Cuttlefish and octopus are held aloft, their prices shouted out to the buyers.
Luca finally sees us from under the arched bridge and waves. “Leo! Olive!” he shouts, and we wave back, but within seconds he’s back aggressively bartering. This is pure street theater, and I could stand here all day.
“Coffee?” Leo asks, turning to me, looking as apprehensive at the prospect of the day together as I feel.
“Yes, thanks,” I reply, pushing my hair behind my ears.I have to make this work, I think to myself.Focus on the eating.
We wander to a small café on the corner and Leo orders two macchiatos.
“What if I wanted an almond latte?” I say, laughing as I take the coffee from him.
“You didn’t,” he says, handing me the small coffee. “I read your review of the Roasted Bean, on Bond Street. Four stars. And you hate lattes. Just like your dad.”
I blush. Fully. I don’t know why, but the mix of Leo referencing a fairly obscure review of mine and comparing me and Dad warms my heart.
After coffee, we eat raw prawns with a beer behind a monastery. Then, down a small alley, we share spaghetti al nero di seppia—squid ink pasta—and a plate of sardines simply fried in oil with ice-cold white wine. We both work hard to keep the conversation friendly and focused on the job.
By two o’clock I ram my fingertips into the palm of my other hand. “Time out!” I say, exhausted from walking and eating. “I need a break. I need sleep and water and nothing but iceberg lettuce for a week.”
Leo laughs. “We’ve covered a lot already, and there’s still dinner,” he says, grinning.
“Can we not mention food for, like, the next two hours? In fact, I definitely need a nap.”
He leans across and points at some of the scribblings in my book. “Anything stand out for you so far?”
It’s as physically close as we’ve been all day, and I feel the heat of his breath catch the back of my ear. He moves closer still, turning the page of my notebook, and the smell of wine and that woody cologne overwhelms me.I gently inhale, breathing him in, closing my eyes for a moment. But when I open them, Leo is looking at me. He quickly moves, making exaggerated space between us by leaning back in his chair. I mirror him, terrified suddenly that he’s sensed my attraction.
“Perhaps itistime for a break,” he says, looking at his notebook.
ME:It’s going better
KATE:Glad to hear it!
GINNY:You’re getting on now?
ME:We eat, we talk about the food. We write in our notebooks. We stick to the job. I wouldn’t call us Frodo and Samwise quite yet, but at least we’re not fighting.
KATE:“At least we’re not fighting” is better
GINNY:But Lord of the Flings is what we want
ME:I have to go. I have to eat. More eating.
The next day, Leo and I take appetizers in one place, then walk twenty minutes across town for secondi. Our palates feel alive with fleshy seafood, fresh grilled vegetables, sumptuous pasta. We eat Greek-influenced dishes, learning it was they who brought the pistachios and inspired a love of seafood when they settled the east of the island.
“I like the way the smoke has permeated the flesh here but hasn’t charred the edges,” Leo says.
