‘Yes, I am andI’mstaying here. Now I’ve answered your question, are you going to answer mine?’ She laughed nervously.
‘I just came in for a shower, mine’s broken, the plumber can’t come until this afternoon. I knew Nonna Fernanda would be out, she goes to mass every morning, never misses a day.’
‘Oh, Fernanda’s your grandmother!’ This must be the son of the man from the tennis club; no wonder his English was so good.
‘Did you think I just walk into old ladies’ houses to use the hot water?’ His lips twitched with amusement. ‘I’m Leo, by the way. I am sorry I startled you. Nonna rarely rents out the room nowadays. Well, I’d better let you have the bathroom, umm…’
‘Amy.’ She shifted awkwardly, clutching her towel.
‘The shower makes a little spluttering sound before the first few drops of water come out but after that it is okay.’ Leo squeezed past her into the hall.
‘Sure, err, thanks.’ She hung her towel on the back of the door, engaged the so-called lock – a flimsy latch held in place by a single nail – and stepped onto the plastic tray, drawing the nylon curtain. The pipes made a sound like a cough but after a couple of violent splashes, the water gushed out, just as Leo had said. Amy squirted out a large blob of shampoo, glad she’d packed her own. She closed her eyes, working up a generous lather as she inhaled the scent of lime and basil. How Leo had emerged smelling so good after using Fernanda’s workaday shampoo and cracked sliver of soap was a mystery.
Amy didn’t linger in the shower, mindful not to run down the old lady’s hot water. Wrapping her towel around her very firmly in case Leo hadn’t left, she hurried back to her room, grabbed some underwear and pulled her blue sundress over her head. She rummaged in the inside pocket of her case for her teardrop-shaped pendant. It was one of her favourites but her neck felt strangely naked without Lance’s coin necklace.
‘Coffee?’ Leo called from the hall. ‘It’s okay, I have clothes on!’
‘Same here.’ She opened the door. Leo stood in the hall, now fully dressed. His jeans were worn at the knees, covered in what looked like white paint, his light green shirt similarly stained and frayed around the collar.
‘Not my best look.’ He flashed a rueful grin. ‘I am going to work.’
‘What as? Sorry, that sounded a bit rude.’
‘It is okay. I would be surprised if you were dressed like me instead of looking so lovely.’
Amy felt herself flush. ‘So, what do you do?’
‘I am ascalpellino, a stonemason, you call it. By the end of the day my skin is full of dirt, clothes covered in dust. Sometimes I wonder, why do I have a shower in the morning? But I do not like to start the day feeling – how do you say – grubby?’
‘Icky?’ Amy suggested.
‘That is a good word. I do not know it. You like coffee? Nonna will be okay if I wash the pot.’
‘Yes,grazie. I haven’t had breakfast.’
‘You will not find much here. Nonna eats like a sparrow.’
‘She told me to go to the bar.’
‘Good coffee and the bestgobeletti.’ His face broke into a wide grin. ‘We will go there instead so I can show you.’
She already knew where the bar was but she guessed he knew that too.
‘I don’t want to make you late.’
‘I work for myself.’ He shrugged. ‘And now I am thinking ofgobeletti. They are a small kind of tart; have you tried them yet?’
‘No but they sound like good fuel for carving or whatever stonemasons do.’
He opened the door, locked it and put the key under a terracotta pot filled with geraniums. Amy followed him down the street, the sun hazy on the hills in the distance. The village was coming to life. Three old men stood talking on the corner by the turning to Sant’ Agata, hands clasped behind their backs. One had a dog’s lead looped over his wrist, another had his fingers threaded through the handles of a plastic bag full of groceries. A smartly dressed lady passed by using a walking stick; perhaps she had come from the same church service as Fernanda.
The bar was busy, it seemed many of the local folk were as keen on their pastries as Leo was. And their enthusiasm wasn’t misplaced. Thegobelettiwere delicious: thick sweet apricot jam under a little pastry lid. Leo had an espresso, Amy a cappuccino, a leaf drawn on the surface.
‘So, what sort of things does a stonemason do?’ She cringed at her boring question.
He opened a sachet of sugar. ‘Lettering mainly, carving names and dates on headstones and plaques, that is the day-to-day work. I like to do it, even the simple things, they are important. A name spelt wrong on somebody’s grave can be devastating.’
Amy nodded, wondering how to continue the conversation, it seemed a rather gloomy subject. She took a bite of hergobeletto, stalling for time.
