‘No, it isn’t. Any situation involving a guest on our property is absolutely my business.’ Her fiery eyes locked on Alessio. ‘Tell. Me. Now.’
Alessio rubbed his hands over his face, trying to release the tension which was making his cheeks and forehead ache. And just as he opened his mouth to tell the whole sorry story again, he looked up and caught sight of Elena’s other side. Her narrow stare. The condescending stance. The complete disregard for her daughter in such a desperate – albeit infuriating – situation.
No, Alessio didn’t want her to have the upper hand. ‘I don’t have to share anything with you. There’s no need for you to know. I’m not going along with this scheme anyway.’
Elena’s expression hardened. ‘Then I have no choice but to insist you leave the property. I cannot have you stay with us.’
‘Mamma!’ Francesca spun on the spot and launched herself towards Elena, pleading, grasping for her hands, only to be pushed aside as Elena stepped out of the kitchen. ‘He’s our only hope. Our only chance!’
At this point Maria chimed in as well, which Alessio noted involved the arrival of rosary beads and the making of the sign of the cross.
‘This was a ridiculous childish mistake from the start,’ Elena cried out, making her way to the rear stairs. ‘And again, Cesca, I am left to clean up the mess that your impassioned choices have left behind. What would your father have said about this?’ She then turned to Maria and commanded, ‘Mamma, upstairs. We need to have a family meeting. And that doesn’t involve you, Alessio. Now, as I have requested, you will vacate your apartment by midday tomorrow. You are not welcome here. Mamma, vai!’ Elena turned and helped her elderly mother-in-law up the lower stairs.
Francesca passed by Alessio and with a shaking voice, she whispered, ‘I’m just so sorry.’ She gestured ahead to Elena and Maria ascending the stairs. ‘I did it for my father.’
* * *
Sitting on the end of his bed with his still-packed black Samsonite suitcase by his side, Alessio listened. Three generations of women, one family, one beating heart, threatening rupture.
The most prominent voice was that of Elena, who, from what Alessio could piece together from their Italian, was concerned about vergogna and disonore. These words he knew. Shame and dishonour. Francesca’s softer rebuttals, passionate as they were, were no match for Elena’s sharp tongue. If Francesca launched, Elena pounced. If Maria tried to interject, Elena would smother her attempt with something snide. Sarcastic guffaws and exhales punctuated the conversation. But one phrase returned over and over, used again and again to defend Elena’s position.
‘Non sappiamo se sa cucinare bene!’
He shouldn’t have been listening, but it was impossible not to overhear. He could have left, gone for a walk to cool off, gone in search of someplace else to stay. But he couldn’t help it – he was curious.
He Googled the phrase, typing it phonetically as best as he could, and received: We don’t know if he can cook well!
What did she know? Nothing. And from what he could hear, Francesca wasn’t going to share Alessio’s backstory. He pictured her standing there, taking those metaphorical bullets for him. While he hadn’t asked her to keep his past a secret, he respected her for doing so. Even if it now meant copping an earful from her less than impressed mother.
Yes I fucking can!
He felt a prick of defensive anger.
Go in there and tell her everything you’ve done. All you’ve achieved. The awards. The reputation. The full houses. The four-month waitlist. The three fucking Hats.
He stood and began to pace at the foot of the bed. He wasn’t in there to defend himself, but part of him wished he was. To shut Elena down, to acknowledge Francesca’s discretion, to stand up for himself . . .
It was then that he pulled himself to a stop.
Stand up for yourself? Since the closure, since the locking of those doors, you’ve never once entertained the idea of acknowledging everything you DID achieve. You simply drowned in the failure. Your enthusiasm and drive? They drowned too . . . but could this resurrect them?
That realisation pushed him towards the door. He stopped for a moment and caught his reflection in the mirror on the wall. As if superimposed over his own face he could imagine that of his Nonna Immacolata. The matching bridge of the aquiline nose. Those hazel-brown eyes. That defiant, stubborn spirit. The melancholy. She was with him. He knew she was. And for the first time since arriving in town, something inside his belly urged him to fight.
He flung open the door, causing it to bang on his hinges. He walked the few paces between the apartments, and without so much as knocking, opened the door and marched inside.
With a hand raised to silence the women, he said, ‘Be quiet. All of you. I’ve heard enough. You,’ he pointed to Francesca, which caused her to shrink backwards, ‘what you did was not at all ok. Without my knowledge or consent. You had no right. And you,’ his finger now moved to Elena, ‘the way you talk to your daughter is awful. I have no idea what experiences have brought you to this place in your relationship, but this is neither healthy nor fair. She fucked up, I’m not excusing that. But this is just too much.’
‘This doesn’t concern you, Alessio. Leave. Pack your things.’ Elena attempted to wave him from their apartment, but Alessio’s gaze fell on Francesca, sitting with tear-soaked eyes at the dining table, fists balled on the wooden top. He felt a sudden longing to protect her, despite her actions.
He turned on his heel and locked eyes with Elena. ‘You say, Non sappiamo se sa cucinare bene! But actually, I can. I’m a chef.’
Elena’s eyelashes fluttered. ‘So Francesca said. But I haven’t seen anything to inspire any confidence.’
Alessio bristled. ‘I’m a damn fine chef, actually. One of Australia’s greatest up-and-coming talents, so some say. I won awards. I was sought after. My opinion mattered. My kitchen set trends – and ended them. I took risks. I’m literally one of the best. So don’t for a second cast aspersions where they aren’t wanted or needed.’
‘So why are you not in your own kitchen back in Australia?’ She pressed her lips into a tight line.
Francesca piped up. ‘You don’t need to tell her, Alessio. You can leave and that’s that.’
