The stuffed aubergine with smoked scamorza and Italian sausage I ate was served in a trattoria by the main station on a paper plate by an old man who was playing scopone with a tatty deck of cards. I had to pay six thousand lira in advance, and the dish came with wine whether I wanted it or not. I immediately had a second helping.
Later that day, I called Rocco Ragusa, an old family friend who ran the seafood restaurant a few doors down from my family. I started as a dishwasher in his restaurant in Catania the following spring.
I clutch the papers to my chest and have a long, cathartic cry.
I can hear my dad’s voice. His Italian accent, which strengthens when he’s talking about food. It’s like he’s talking to me. He’s telling me this story as I sit at the kitchen table doing homework and he prepares dinner.
I miss my dad. I have missed him, I realize, for a long time.
IT FEELS FITTINGto have our final Sicilian lunch in Rocco’s restaurant, just over a week since we touched down at Catania Airport. The restaurant is open for lunch, but we sit down around two, just as it’s beginning to empty. Rocco has put a family table together, and Leo and I prepare the meal in his kitchen. I check my watch for the hundredth time. Our ferry to Naples leaves at seven. We have plenty of time.
“Want me to choose the wines?” Isabella offers, but I’ve already chosen the pale rosé and hand her two chilled bottles from the Deepfreeze.
We serve the orange and fennel salad to coos of approval from the table, although Rocco has plenty to say about how it could be improved.Too many olives. Not enough anchovies. Leo and I grin at each other. People tell you there is only one way to make Italian food, but it isn’t true. Some dishes vary wildly from region to region, season to season, and even family home to family home.
I can feel my story of Catania starting to form.
During the meal, I catch Leo looking at me like he is reaching inside of me, rummaging around, hunting for something long lost. I wonder what’s on his mind: me or the restaurant?
“You’ll come back, Olive?” Rocco asks, as we clear up the pasta and set the table for the orange cake.
“I’ll come back,” I say. I adore him. I adore him and his family. He’s a bear of a man with an abundance of heart. Kind.Sogracious. No wonder my father loved him. I stand up immediately and hug him, knocking the knife and fork out of his hands in the process; they clatter to the ground. I don’t care.
I can feel Leo watching me, but I don’t feel awkward or out of place anymore. I feel like I have a right to be here.
“Thank you for everything,” I say. “There’s no way Tuscany is going to be this good.”
“Toscana is okay,” Rocco says reluctantly. “I hope you’re looked after there. Leo, will she meet your family?”
“She’ll meet my aunt. And probably the rest of them,” he says. “She better get ready for that.”
“Okay, that’s a little scary,” I say.
Moments later, Luca emerges from the kitchen with the cake we made yesterday and two others balanced on three large plates.
“Taste-test time!” I squeal, clutching my hands together.
“Here is your version,” Luca says, dropping the first on the table. “This is my version, with a little more almond flour. And this is Isabella’s nonna’s, made with the whole Moro orange from her grove—pulped into the mix and no dusting, no glaze. Plain.”
“You meanperfect,” says Isabella, scolding Luca.
There was no doubting Isabella’s would win. The pulp added something even softer and more luscious to the crumb. If the cake we had yesterday, warm from the oven, was divine, this was magic.
“I told you,” says Luca. “Theorange.”
LATER, AS LEOand I are putting our bags into the back of our shuttle, he notices my shoulder bag with the urn. I heave it next to the suitcase Antonia donated from her lost-property cupboard, an impractical leather case with an old strap and buckle lock, and definitely no wheels, but it will get me through the remainder of the trip.
“You didn’t find the right moment...” His voice trails off as he nods toward the urn, leaning his arm on the car. His bare arms glisten in the sun, and I imagine how quickly I could slip into the space between him and the car. I imagine feeling pinned in place under his intense stare.
“Not yet,” I say quickly.
Antonia hugs us both and insists I return.
“Promise?” she says, as I allow myself to be hugged again.
Luca, who gifts me a string bag of oranges, begs me to take him with me. “Please, for the love of god, get me out of this one-horse town. There are only so many tourists I can take.”
“Come and visit,” I insist.
