‘Well, well, look what the Italian cat dragged in, fed pasta and coffee, then danced the tarantella with!’ James had the kind of smile that was mostly teeth. His blue eyes and dark skin were both trademark genetic features from Alessio’s mum’s side. ‘How was the flight? All good?’
‘All good, mate. Just long.’
‘Absolutely fucked is what it is, that flight.’
Alessio laughed. That was James – little social filter but a good solid heart. ‘I’m here now. So it’s all sorted.’
‘How’s the apartment? Looked alright from what you showed me a few months back.’
Alessio’s eyes swept over Francesca’s humble little home. ‘It’s . . . It’s erm . . .’
‘What, no good?’
‘The apartment is fine. Bed’s comfy. Super clean. On the main piazza.’ Alessio hadn’t really prepared anything to say regarding his current location above the restaurant, let alone Francesca and the Festa della Pasta. ‘Turns out the apartment is above a trattoria. And I have to pass through it anytime I want to come and go.’
He could tell that James, whose head had previously been bobbing in the call window as he walked, had come to a stop. ‘Shit. You ok?’
Alessio thought a moment. ‘Don’t have a choice really. Not much else available in town, and certainly not for the whole summer.’
‘’Course . . .’
‘Plus the woman I’m renting from—’
‘Oh, yeah. Here we go . . .’
Alessio scowled. ‘Got my hands full enough here, trust me.’
‘She’s alright, hey?’ He gave Alessio a cheeky wink on the screen.
‘More than.’
‘She single?’
‘Yeah.’
‘There’s your holiday fling sorted.’
Alessio practically snorted. ‘Don’t go there too quickly. She’s got me cooking in a pasta challenge thing in the town. Long story . . .’ He exhaled.
James’s mouth fell open. ‘What the fuck are you doing, Less?’
‘I really can’t get into it right now. I’m ok. It will be fine.’
James’s lips curled. ‘She must be a ten to get you back into the kitchen, mate.’
‘Ten? I reckon she’s one hundred.’
‘Oooft!’ James feigned burning his fingers on something hot, bringing the tips to meet his lips. ‘Watch out, Impastino. Less Ranieri is in town. Lock up your wives and daughters!’
‘Shut up, you! I only called you because I couldn’t get Mum and Dad.’
‘Well, isn’t that convenient!’ James flipped the camera view, and stretched before him was Sydney Road, Brunswick. A blue and silver tram zipped by, its bell ringing. Alessio immediately recognised the red café chairs and tables dotting the footpath ahead. ‘Just pulling up at the café now. I’ll take you to speak with them. Just a sec.’
The camera dropped to James’s feet and Alessio watched as the view morphed from pocked grimy Melbourne bitumen to worn black and white tiles. Off camera, Alessio heard James sing out, ‘Oh, Zia, Zio! Got someone here who wants to say ciao!’
The camera view pulled up and there were his parents: Joe in his usual place behind the coffee machine, and Silvana by the serving counter, tongs in hand, poised mid-air, proffering a double-chocolate muffin to a customer.
‘Be with you in a sec, James,’ Joe said, before calling out, ‘Extra-hot organic soy flat white for Stefany with a “y”, filled to 75 per cent?’ He placed the little takeaway cup on the counter and then pulled Silvana in close. ‘Is that Less?’
