‘Please do!’ Felice’s cheeks were red and a sheen of sweat had broken out across his forehead. ‘To everyone.’
Alessio stepped forward and caught the microphone. ‘Erm. Buongiorno. I’m going to do this in English, but my colleague here will interpret.’ He handed the microphone to the councillor, who repeated this in Italian for the crowd’s benefit. Then, avoiding Francesca’s eye contact, Alessio began, pausing every few sentences for the councillor to translate his words.
‘It’s true. Turns out I am a descendent of Martino blood. My nonna’s bloodline. My paternal nonna. She was the reason I came to Impastino in the first place; to try to trace her footsteps. To better understand her and her native land. And so I rented an apartment to stay in for the summer. That one.’ He turned and pointed to Francesca’s apartment over the restaurant. ‘It was never my choice to participate in this competition. I was signed up to it even before I knew it was a thing.’ Another round of gasps rolled around the piazza. ‘But, you know what? I wouldn’t take it back. Any of it. Being part of this has reignited a love for the kitchen I haven’t known for ages. Literally years. And no, I am not related by blood to these women.’ He gestured to Francesca, Elena and Maria in the front row. ‘But we are bound by whatever spirit unites everyone in this little town. I feel like I’ve found a family here with them. Especially with Francesca.’ Their eyes finally locked and he watched as her lips curved in a teary-eyed smile. ‘She has taught me so much. And not just in the kitchen.’
The piazza fell silent save the craw of the ever-present seagulls.
‘Allora, you are not related at all?’ Giovanni felt the need to interject, perhaps mentally penning minutes to share at a later meeting or town hearing session.
‘Not at all.’
‘Well, this is awkward.’ Felice kneaded his hands together, clearly at a loss.
‘Shouldn’t he be disqualified?’ Elio blurted out, perhaps frustrated that this hadn’t been the immediate response to the situation.
‘Oh, sì. Very disqualified,’ Felice assured him with a pat on Elio’s back. ‘But what is to become of Trattoria dei Fiori?’
A guffaw erupted from Elio. ‘The restaurant?! Disqualified!’
Felice’s eyes narrowed and he said, ‘Giovanni, the rules please?’
Giovanni nodded and located the manila folder on the lectern. He shuffled through the papers until he found what he was searching for, then speed-read the text until he arrived at one of the last paragraphs. ‘“In the event that a competitor should be disqualified for any of the above outlined reasons in clause 12B . . .”’ he said into the microphone, and Alessio’s councillor whispered a translation to him. Giovanni paused, looking briefly to the earlier clause before he resumed speaking. ‘Right. Sì . . . “. . . the establishment in question may allow the next most suitable candidate to participate in his place, conditional upon the support of the wider Impastino community for the substitution. In the event that majority support is not reached, the establishment in question must forfeit its place in the competition.”’ Giovanni looked to Felice. ‘What shall we do?’
Felice paused for a moment, seeming to assess the dilated veins in Elio’s neck and his balled fists. Then he looked to Alessio, who stood a little taller. ‘Who would you have take your place?’
Alessio’s eyes darted between the two men. ‘M-me? I have to decide?’
Felice took a step towards him. ‘I’m curious to know.’ His chubby fingers came to rest pensively on the edge of his chin.
‘Are there conditions? Restrictions?’
Felice raised the document again. ‘According to this, you need to choose “the most suitable candidate” with majority support from the community. So, anyone who fits that bill.’
Alessio nodded slowly. ‘That doesn’t say anything about the candidate having to be a male.’
Felice and Giovanni’s eyes met and Alessio saw them share the tiniest covert smile. Felice said, ‘That’s correct, it doesn’t.’
Everything sharpened to clarity. The way forward. How it should have been from the start. Alessio felt the pieces fall neatly into place under the warm late-summer sun. He stepped forward to the microphone and announced in a victorious breath, ‘I choose Francesca Fiore.’
trentasette
Chattering excitedly, the crowd separated to give Francesca passage to the stage. And Francesca was thankful, drawing in deep lungfuls of fresh air to try to slow her racing heartbeat.
With a spinning head she looked to Alessio, still standing by the microphone. She couldn’t find the words.
‘It should be you up here, not me,’ Alessio said. ‘It should always have been you. Just because of some outdated, patriarchal rule – but now we can use those same rules to allow you your rightful place.’
The townsfolk fell silent, frozen, awaiting her response.
Two things came to mind: first, her mother, and the awkward price she would pay after the fact for this turn of events; and second, her father, whose opinion was the only one she really wanted in that moment to help clarify the situation for her, and the only she couldn’t have.
She had dreamed of this opportunity for as long as she could remember – to be the one to participate, to stand in front of the crowd to represent her family’s legacy. To cook. To knead. To cut and shape the pasta. But it had never been possible, nor even conceivable.
Each summer she would stand in the very same spot, watching on with comfortable assurance while her father once again took home the Mattarello d’Onore. After so many victories, another win was almost always certain. It allowed her to watch on with curiosity, to learn and observe rather than to fret through anxiously knitted fingers. Today felt entirely different.
Somewhere in her peripheral consciousness, she could hear Elena and Maria squabbling nervously, but she chose to focus only on Alessio’s encouraging smile.
Then, before she knew it, Felice and Giovanni were making their way down the stairs of the temporary stage towards her.
