‘Grazie, signorina.’ He brushed away some fallen leaves before taking a seat. ‘This is our second stop on Marco’s Grand Tour of Roma.’ He placed the brown paper bag on the bench between them and pulled a small red-and-white box from his inner coat pocket.
‘Cards?’
‘You know how to playscopaandbriscola?’
Hanging her head, she admitted, ‘Sadly, I do not. Sorry to disappoint.’
‘You could never disappoint me.’ He removed his gloves to empty the deck into his palm.
The brightly coloured cards featured images that Stella had seen before but knew nothing about. Marco fanned them out on the bench between them. One by one, he sorted them into suits, identifiable by their similar pictures: golds, swords, cups and clubs. Within each suit were number cards – three gold coins, four gold coins and so on. Marco explained each suit and drew particular attention to the sevens, the knights, the queens and the kings.
He tested Stella’s memory by flashing cards at random for her to name by suit and value. A fast learner, she was ready to masterscopa. He explained the rules and promised her a practise round.
‘Oh, you’re on!’ she threatened. ‘I always seem to suffer an unfortunate case of beginner’s luck!’
‘Why unfortunate?’ Marco asked, shuffling the cards.
She raised her left eyebrow menacingly. ‘For my opponent.’
‘Fai la brava,eh?’ Marco, one by one, dealt the cards, drawing a hand for both of them. ‘This is a special game.’ He went quiet, counting his cards.
Condensing her hand neatly behind her palm and inspecting her collection, she asked, ‘Special how?’
‘Nonno used to playscopaevery afternoon. There’s a piazza in Messina, in Sicilia, around the corner from where I used to live. It looks like this. Circular, with a fountain and lots of trees. Nonno would meet his friends there every afternoon and play for hours. They would play for money, cigarettes, silly things. After school, I would go and watch them play instead of doing my homework. Papà used to get so angry. I didn’t care. Nonno taught me to play, and we used to gang up and beat his friends together. We would split the winnings 50:50. That’s how I earned my . . . how do you saypaghetta?’
‘Pocket money.’
‘Ah,grazie,sì.’ His hand was ready to play.
Stella laughed. ‘How verymafiosoof you.’
‘When Nonno and I played together, just us two, we didn’t play for money. Probably because he knewIwould win. We played for these.’ He dropped the brown paper bag in her lap.
She peeked into the bag. ‘Pistachios?’
‘Sì. They were expensive back then. The saltier the better.’ He exhaled, allowing the memories of those lazy afternoons spent with his grandfather to resurface. ‘Allora, today, we play for thepistacchi. There are forty in this bag. We start with twenty each. Every lost round will cost you two,capito?’
‘Capito! I’m ready.’
And so, the game began.
True to form, Stella started strong, drawing on that beginner’s luck she had warned him about. In the end, Marco won. But only just.
‘Stellina, I’m impressed.’ He cracked one of the pistachio shells and began nibbling the salty nut. ‘I didn’t play easy, either.Brava!’ He divided his haul, leaving her ten, while he made a larger pile for himself.
‘Well,’ she said, splitting one of the shells, ‘Ididhave a great teacher.’ She gathered up her cards and added them to his pile. ‘These have seen better days.’ She pointed to the tattered brown edges and split cardboard box.
‘Yes, I know,’ he sighed. ‘These were Nonno’s. They don’t even make this edition anymore. They are around eighty years old. He bought them just after the Second World War.’
Suddenly recalling the passionate and enthusiastic way she had played – smacking the cards against her hand and the bench, fanning and splaying the cards dramatically – Stella was horrified. ‘Marco! Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve been more careful.’ She was guiltily wiping her hands free of salt and nut residue.
‘Tranquilla. Nonno was the same. It’s fine. He would’ve loved to see how you played.’
‘Well, sorry all the same.’
Noting a sudden ray of sunshine break through the clouds and tumble through the overgrowth, Marco said, ‘Ready for the last stop?’
His brown eyes, welcoming and warm, goaded her from the bench. A little quiet part of her wanted to stay there with him, just a little longer. She knew he had more stories and memories to share. His sensitive caring soul was the antidote her unsettled heart needed, and the company she craved to distract her from her worries.
