uno
Wild fennel. Bay. Lemon . . . but just the rind. White pepper. Pork fat.
The heady mix of scents imbued the air as Alessio approached the front door. He felt a kick of anxiety.
Blinking his wide hazel eyes, Alessio looked again at the sign under the awning which reached over the outdoor tables and chairs spilling onto the piazza.
He wasn’t seeing things.
He frowned as he fetched his phone. Refreshing the screen, the online booking form confirmed he was indeed at the correct address.
Self-contained studio apartment for one in Puglia for the Italian summer . . . with a side of unwanted hospitality establishment. Of course. The ad never mentioned that detail.
He sighed and returned his phone to his pocket.
Trattoria dei Fiori.
The name had clearly been painted in red cursive decades before, and had since faded to a pale splotchy pink with muted, undefined lines. The white of the render behind the text showed evidence of years of battering by the Adriatic Sea, its wind and spray blowing up from the cliff face beyond the other side of the piazza. The striped awning in matching red and white was torn and frayed at the corners, and the scalloped edging hadn’t seen its vinyl trim in years.
The building comprised two storeys, with large glass windows either side of the entrance alcove. A long fringe of wooden beads dropped over and protected the doorway, swatting away insects that might dare venture within.
How could he have got this so wrong?
Alessio turned to look back at the piazza. It was quaint and oddly reminiscent of some of the Greek islands he’d visited in his twenties. Around him rose a collection of buildings painted in white and neutral tones, all sitting at different heights, matching the uneven footing of the town’s main square. Some of the buildings were elevated, connected to the piazza by spiral staircases of rusting wrought iron, others with just a landing stone between the business and the passing foot traffic. Some were accented with terracotta windowsill ledges, others with a pop of floral colour from the flower boxes on their terraces. Next to doorframes stood contorted cacti in earthenware pots, reaching feebly to the sky in search of rain. But this place looked like it hadn’t seen decent rainfall in years.
A patchwork of concentric sandstone pavers rippled below his feet, culminating in a tight circle around the square’s central fountain. Beyond the fountain was a restaurant, to his right, another, and to his left were a poky bar and tabaccheria, beside which sat yet another restaurant.
Four restaurants in the main square of this tiny hilltop town?
A group of elderly women stood by the fountain, each holding a wicker basket of leafy greens, golden loaves of bread and flowers. They wore vibrantly patterned scarves over their hair, teamed with matching aprons. Alessio couldn’t help but smile at the sight. The women were so beautifully put together, as if they had been planted there as a sort of clichéd southern Italian welcome wagon. They gossiped loudly in their pugliese dialect, the sounds and dips of which were so deliciously familiar to Alessio’s ear. He felt at ease. At home.
Technically, he was home.
Or at least, home to that sombre corner of his heart which clung to his ancestral roots, a place now shadowed by the deaths of all four of his grandparents.
A wide-set man wearing a pressed tan linen suit passed by him on a bicycle. He casually dipped his bald sun-kissed head in Alessio’s direction and rang his bell.
Alessio nodded back, his hands balled self-consciously in his pockets. The man alighted at the bar and whistled, and within a matter of seconds a barista wearing a crisp white apron over his black slacks appeared in the piazza, espresso cup in hand.
‘Buongiorno, Sindaco!’ Alessio heard the barista say.
A few coins changed hands, and, following a couple of sips, the bald man was once again on his way and the starched barista disappeared from view.
Alessio felt like he had stepped back in time. In that moment, in that tiny little town on Puglia’s northern-most coastline, he felt as if he were in the 1950s; everything was simple, understated, classical.
Alessio knew so little of Impastino, the town his Nonna Immacolata had called home before emigrating to Australia. Her sparse stories and limited recounts had always been brief, patchy, and soaked with the darkness and sorrow of post-war distress.
Perhaps that’s why you chose to come here, of all places, Alessio admitted to himself. You expected to be embraced by that same apathy you’ve been wearing for months now. Comfortable. Unchallenging.
His eyes fell on his trolley suitcase and he grabbed the handle, pulling it closer to his side. As he turned to face Trattoria dei Fiori, he caught sight of a woman stepping through the door towards him, pushing aside the beaded lengths as she went.
Her skin had the intoxicating glow of deep Mediterranean roots, and she wore a low-cut white cotton dress that cinched in at her waist, around which was tied a red lace-trimmed apron spotted with flour. Her breasts, full and generous, filled the sweetheart neckline, and her arms displayed the tone and definition of years of manual work. Her legs, visible from the knee down, were long and slender, giving way to shapely calves that disappeared into her heeled brown leather sandals.
But Alessio’s attention was drawn to the woman’s hair, which was richly brown, verging on ebony, and tumbled from her crown in untameable spirals and tendrils. She exuded a mythical air and grace; something other-worldly. The woman’s eyes were as dark as her hair, but they brightened considerably when they caught sight of Alessio.
Her lips curled in a smile and she put her right hand, carrying a small notepad and pencil, on her hip. ‘Per uno?’ she asked, gesturing welcomingly to an empty table. She stepped forward a few paces to meet Alessio just beyond the shade of the awning. It was then that she noted the suitcase. ‘Ah, Signor Ranieri? L’australiano?’
‘Yes, that’s me.’
