‘Then why the shame?’
He lowered his eyes. ‘I guess it’s what we’re meant to say.’
‘Meant to?’ she scoffed defiantly. ‘I hate those words.’ Turning them back to face the pasticceria, she said, ‘Alessio, if you desire it, you must have it. Life is too short to deprive yourself of the joys we crave. Go.’ She reached into her little shoulder bag, produced a five-euro note and handed it to him. ‘Enjoy the first of many guilty pleasures.’
‘What? No, Frances—’
‘Vai!’ she snipped, now pushing him through the door. ‘Buongiorno!’ she called out to the server behind the counter.
‘Buongiorno!’ the woman returned.
It was then that Francesca took over in Italian. Her hands moved with excited passion, and Alessio watched on as her reflection in the mirror behind the counter echoed her every move. He couldn’t keep up with her, so to be polite he just smiled and nodded along.
The woman, perhaps in her seventies, with a high knotted white bun of netted hair and thick-rimmed gold glasses, suddenly erupted in a toothless smile, pressing both hands to her bosom. She rattled off some dialect, and for all he was worth, Alessio could have sworn she said the words famiglia, cugino and Australia.
Maybe she’s also got family back home? There are so many Italian–Australians originating from the south. Wouldn’t surprise me.
He nodded again and accepted her proffered hand from over the counter.
‘This is Ornella,’ Francesca clarified. ‘She’s waiting for your order.’
‘Right. Uhm.’ His eyes rolled over the offerings and eventually landed on an oval-shaped pastry resembling a small enclosed pie.
‘One of those, per favore,’ he said, his finger pressed to the glass. ‘What’s inside?’ he asked Francesca.
‘Due!’ she ordered over the counter, relieving Alessio of the five-euro note. ‘Inside? A little drop of heaven. That’s a pasticciotto.’
Ornella wrapped two pasticciotti in napkins and passed them over the countertop to the pair. They thanked her and stepped back onto the street.
‘Here goes,’ Alessio said, peeling back the napkin’s edge and taking a generous bite. Beyond the sweet shortcrust pastry, just as Francesca had promised, awaited a little drop of heaven. Through his mouthful he said, ‘Crema pasticcera. My absolute favourite.’ He held the pasticciotto aloft to inspect it, the glossy thick vanilla-flecked cream threatening to fall. He caught it all in one final mouthful, and dropped theatrically to his knees, overcome as the smoothness of the cream perfectly bound the crumb of the pastry to his palate. ‘Oh my God.’
‘Tutto bene?’ Francesca asked, joining him on the pavers, nibbling more delicately at hers.
‘That’s so good it should be illegal. Damn it.’ He rose to standing, shaking his head.
He noted a fresh rosy blush in Francesca’s sun-kissed cheeks. ‘I have never seen anyone so overcome by a pasticciotto before,’ she said.
But Alessio barely heard her; his mind had raced back to his apartment and was frantically unpacking his suitcase, searching all pockets and compartments for loose euros that could be spent feeding this new summer addiction.
‘The humble pasticciotto. Fuck.’
‘Oh!’ Francesca gasped at his language choice. ‘I like this side of you. Appassionato, eh?’
Alessio grinned, but even he was taken aback by the energy that flowed through him. It was as if that pastry had reignited something visceral within.
‘I surrender.’ Alessio’s hand flew up in a show of mercy. ‘I need one of those every day I’m here. Maybe even twice a day!’
Throwing her head back, Francesca cackled, catching his arm in hers once again. ‘Please don’t orgasm in Via dei Pescatori.’
‘I can’t promise you that!’ he tittered.
‘Reserve that for your apartment. My apartment.’ She faltered. ‘I mean, our apartment. Is that strange to say? I mean, technically it is mine.’
‘The apartment doesn’t exist right now. Neither do you. Nothing does, except for the pasticciotti. I’m a ruined man!’
They laughed again, and all the while her grip never eased on his arm. He liked it that way.
‘Let’s go. We need to keep you moving. The supermercato and farmacia are around the bend, the potatoes are calling and I need these muscles to carry them home.’
