‘If this is your beloved only child, then yes!’ James’s face filled the screen again. ‘Less, need the loo before I hit the road. Got a container from Sicily waiting for me at Port Melbourne that’s being released from quarantine. Zia, can I have a double-shot to go? I’ll be back in a minute. Ok, Less, handing you over now.’
‘Soph, can you come man the counter for a sec?’ Joe tossed a tea towel over his shoulder and both he and Silvana dipped away from service into the office space.
‘Hey, guys,’ Alessio said, happy to see them both.
‘Angel, you’ve already got colour!’ Silvana’s eyes practically filled the screen. ‘Is it really quite hot already?’
‘Yeah. Cooler at night, but the days are hot.’
‘Trip ok? Settled in fine?’ Joe now had command of the phone and set it down on a desk, a row of staff lockers visible over their shoulders.
‘All ok, guys. Happy to be here relaxing.’
‘Good, darling, you do that. You need some time for you, now. Ok?’ Silvana’s hands clutched her chest with wistful hope. ‘Just unwind and chill.’
‘And that business about you following in Nonna’s footsteps . . .’
‘Yes, Dad?’
‘Just go slow. You have all summer. Don’t stress yourself out over Nonna Immacolata. You know what she was like.’
Alessio stifled a laugh. ‘Oh, don’t worry. I know.’
‘Less, you’re there for you this time. Focus on you.’
‘I know, Dad.’
Silvana’s head cocked to the side. ‘How’s the food, darling? Have you managed to get out much? Are you able to cook in your apartment? Are you eating?’
Once an Italian mamma, always an Italian mamma.
This was it. She had literally spoon-fed him the moment to explain it all. The trattoria, the apartment set-up, Francesca, Maria and Elena, the town and the Festa della Pasta.
Alessio readjusted the pillows behind his back and sat up a little straighter. ‘Actually, you guys got a few minutes? I need to update you on a few things here.’
Silvana and Joe shared a tight look between them.
‘We’re here for you, Less. As long as you need, mate.’
‘Great.’ He exhaled. ‘Here goes nothing . . .’
* * *
Alessio had seen Francesca from the balcony upon his exit from the apartment. She was in the bottom of the garden picking herbs, but he didn’t want to disturb her. Instead he slipped out and through the trattoria, catching only Maria who was sitting at one of the restaurant’s six tables peeling prickly pears.
She had returned his ‘Buongiorno!’ with a warm smile, and sent him out to the piazza with one of the prickly pears in a napkin. He ate it in two bites.
There was something about Maria that Alessio found intriguing. That mix of playful spirit and humour, her quick wit and the sparkle in her eyes. They were the eyes of a teenager in the body of an eighty-nine-year-old. It was as if her past youth, all her life-affirming memories, radiated from her.
This kind of joy and happiness had been unknown to his own nonna, Immacolata. Alessio had never seen her like this, and his heart continued to beat the question he was there to answer. Why?
While Joe had encouraged Alessio to focus on himself and not let the Immacolata search consume him, he knew he owed it to her. He was here. He’d come this far. Sure, he’d take his time. For now, he was hoping just being in Impastino would unravel some of his nonna’s history. And no doubt the Festa della Pasta would also prove a challenge; a challenge his parents had told him they were supportive of, but also wary of due to the charade that had set things in motion.
As he stepped out onto the piazza, the sun hit Alessio with full force. He popped his sunnies on and walked across to the bar.
Just outside, a trio of elderly men – each dressed in a short-sleeve shirt, long slacks and flat caps – sat at a table playing cards. The banter was regional, but their passion was evident in the slap of hands on the tabletop and the flick of cards at their opponents. A few passers-by stopped to check in and add their unsolicited two cents’ worth, while others simply added to the pugliese trash-talking.
Alessio caught himself smiling in the reflection of the bar’s window as one of the men – clearly the most senior of the three, with a cigarette hanging precariously from his lips – barked, ‘Capacchion!’ He threw down his cards and stormed off into the bar.
