“Hollywood,” says Vincenzo. “Neighbor to the stars.”
“Well, Beachwood Canyon if we’re being precise,” I correct him. “But my parents live down the street from Charlie Chaplin’s old house.” By the looks on their faces, this is not an impressive anecdote to two Italian tweens.
“Do you know Tom Holland?” the littler one, Antonia, asks.
“Um. . . no. I don’t.”
Antonia rolls her eyes and the two walk away.
“Horrible girls,” Valeria mutters.
“Giac,” Benito bellows, his first utterance in the time we’ve been out here. “So nice of you to join us today.”
“I had a late dinner, so I stayed the night,” Giac says, looking to me. “Plus, it was a good excuse to make more time with Izzy this morning.”
Benito’s brow furrows and he looks from Giac to me and back again. “A late dinner and you couldn’t take the early train back?”
Giac nods. “Well, I had breakfast plans, so I figured I should stay.” He smiles at me, not sensing Benito has channeled Sherlock Holmes in his line of questioning.
“And after this late dinner you slept. . .?” Benito’s talking to Giac, presumably, but he’s looking at me.
I performatively roll my eyes. Giac looks between me and Benito, picking up on the weirdness. “I slept on myziaPaola’s couch.”
“Oy, poor boy,” Valeria says.
Vincenzo does the sign of the cross. “Next time, my boy, you stay with us.”
Valeria grins. “Or even with Izzy!”
Benito glares at her.
“Is it time for lunch?” I ask, desperate for a respite from the conversation at hand.
As if on cue, Anita clinks her fork to a wine glass. “Lunch is served, assuming my children help me bring it all out.” Benito grunts and dutifully follows his mother into the kitchen. Lucia, with one of her children on her hip, motions for her husband to join him.
We sit, and Anita brings platters of food as per usual. She sets a vat ofpasta al pomodororight in front of me. “For our vegetarian,” she says with a wink. I dive in, ignoring any semblance of mealtime decorum,and once again get swept away by the perfect balance of flavors in Anita’s cooking.
“Izzy, Vincenzo, Valeria, you must tell me,” Lucia starts, “how is my brother as a mayor?”
“Dio Mio, Lucia. They are not here to discuss something so boring.” Benito rolls his eyes and pours himself a glass of wine.
“I do not mean to have a full performance review, I just want to know how he’s adjusting to life back in Italy.” Her littlest kid, who can’t be more than two, starts fussing, and Lucia effortlessly pulls him into her lap. “I worry about him being so far from his beloved London.”
“He does quite well.Non preoccuparti.” Vincenzo tucks his napkin into his shirt collar as he piles pasta onto his plate. “He’s a tough but fair ruler.” Vincenzo starts laughing. “No, no, I kid! But he is doing a fine job. And it helps that he has this one to, how you say, keep him in line at home.” He points at me.
“Who? Me?” I say. “I don’t think that’s true.”
Lucia’s eyes widen in delight. “Ah, he has a woman to keep him on his toes. He’ll do just fine, then.”
Benito rolls his eyes again.
“My son has always loved women. Always appreciated a strong woman,” Anita starts. Benito turns bright red and I stifle a laugh. I have yet to feel appreciated, but maybe it’s because Benito does not see me as strong. Anita continues, “Ever since he was a little boy—women at themercato, little girls on the playground, he had to copy exactly what they were doing.”
“Mamma—”
“Oh, is that right?” I ask, knowing this is killing Benito. “And are you sure it was out of appreciation and not fear?”
Benito turns to me with a glum expression that almost takes the joy out of the moment.
