Francesca translated and Maria erupted in laughter, despite Elena’s wary eyes a few feet behind.
‘Let’s go,’ Francesca said, untying her apron and slinging it over the hook on the wall. ‘I’ll just collect my things.’
Alessio had stepped out of the kitchen and Francesca heard him push past the beaded door. She exhaled, ‘Nonna, that was brilliant!’ She gave her two passionate cheek kisses, ignored the worried expression which had filled Elena’s face, and reached for her bag.
The charade starts now!
otto
Day three in town, time to find your feet.
Alessio welcomed the delicious radiating warmth of the sun on his skin. It was like a gentle caress; comforting, calming.
His phone told him that at 10 am it was already thirty-two degrees, so he knew he was in for a hot afternoon. Now was the time to explore.
Francesca bounced through the beads and joined him in the piazza. She carried a number of reusable plastic shopping bags, which she caught between her knees to momentarily free her hands.
‘Shopping bags for the groceries. They don’t give you bags at the supermercato.’
‘Can’t you buy bags there?’
Francesca pressed a palm to his chest. ‘Alessio, let me teach you one important lesson about Italians, eh? Italians do not pay for plastic bags. It goes against everything we believe in. Because we all have collections of these things around the house. Under the sinks. In the cupboards. Special “bag-only drawers”. By the doors. In those hand-stitched bag dispensers. In Italian we say, avere un sogno nel cassetto. Literally, it means, “to have a dream in a drawer”. But that doesn’t work for Italians, as our drawers are full of bags! The thought of actually buying one . . .’ She feigned a melodramatic faint, drooping by his side. ‘It’s considered one of two things.’ She counted out on her thumb. ‘The first, it’s a sin, because why spend the money when you have them already in abundance? Which leads me to the second.’ She added her index finger to the count. ‘People will talk.’
‘About what?’
‘About all the money you must have in order to be able to purchase your bags at the supermarket. It’s a small town. Everyone will know in a matter of hours. One signora tells another, who tells a zia, who calls a cugina, and then everyone knows that you’re well-off enough not to reuse your bags. And what could you possibly have done to have earned such an outlandish lifestyle? It’s a brutta figura.’
‘So I need to remember to take bags from now on.’
‘It’s now a matter of your social security.’ With expert dexterity, she gathered her curls with one hand, and used the other to tie them together with a white silk scarf. He watched as the tresses flicked over her shoulders, kissed by the wind. He caught the delicious kick of Francesca’s perfume.
There’s the vanilla. Sweet. Innocent. Her shampoo, too.
‘This way,’ Francesca said, looping one arm around his, her bags tucked under the other.
Her body was warm and soft beside his. The way she caught him and pulled him tightly to her felt intimate, as if she were sharing a private personal privilege with him. As they walked, with each rise and fall of their steps, her arm grazed his, and the continued sensation of their skin meeting sparked electricity at his core.
Enough! Groceries. You need groceries and amenities.
While a cheeky part of his brain tried to remind him – You know what else you can get from the pharmacy? – he tried to tamp down on the temptation he felt. Because, after all, he hadn’t yet even unpacked his suitcase.
‘Allora, Impastino is built on this hill, no?’ Francesca gestured in the general direction of the piazza. ‘From here at the peak, it all drops away. All the streets that run off the piazza descend – on this side to the Adriatic, and on all the others down into the valley of farming land, orchards, vineyards and olive groves.’
‘And your vegetable garden,’ Alessio added.
‘But of course. The most important of all the Impastino lands!’ She chuckled, and Alessio loved to hear this appreciation of his dry sense of humour.
‘Goes without saying.’
‘But this is the main street, so to speak,’ she said, indicating the wider path ahead that ran between the corner of U Ssale and Trattoria dei Fiori. ‘All the paths are lined with small businesses and homes, you know. But this one, Via dei Pescatori, is the largest.’
‘Pescatori?’
‘The fishermen. Because this is the route that the fishermen would take from the lowlands, up through the town, and across to the sea. You have to go up and over to get to the water.’
Alessio repeated the word. ‘Pescatori. Of course.’ He sighed. ‘That was an easy one. Pesce is fish.’
‘You will get used to it. You just need to flex that language muscle.’
