Alessio couldn’t restrain his laughter as he followed the man, and the wafting, lingering scent of freshly brewed coffee, into the bar.
He took a moment to get his bearings. There was a U-shaped bar with the cash register by the door, coffee machine in the middle, and room to perch on the right. Alessio watched what the locals did.
The irate card player first approached the register and dropped some small change on a plate, which was promptly swept up by the starched member of staff. A receipt was passed across and an order for tre caffè was shouted across the bar. Alessio guessed that the man’s loss meant picking up the next round. The barista, between spurts and whistles from the coffee machine, called back the order in confirmation. It was well rehearsed and almost theatrical. And so Alessio followed suit, ordering a coffee, then stood by the bar to enjoy it.
It wasn’t the setting. It wasn’t the sun breaking through the windows. It wasn’t the continued verbal abuse pouring from that card table outside. None of that made the coffee so restorative. But that little espresso, that small moment at the bar, ignited a spark of interest in Alessio to know more about Impastino. Thus far, the town was hard to dislike; charmingly clichéd, yet also so genuinely heart-on-your-sleeve authentic.
As the last caffeine-rich drop hit his tongue, he was thirsty for more. And not just the coffee.
Alessio wished the bar staff ‘Buona giornata!’ as he had seen another patron do, and stepped back out onto the piazza. On went his sunnies again.
Alessio’s attention was drawn back to the disagreement and banter at the card table, which remained lively even after the arrival of the coffee order. Alessio caught himself wanting to be part of it, to partake in the cheekiness.
Go on. Say something funny. Get an ‘in’ with the people . . .
Watching the power dynamics at play, he knew he had to pick a side. And in this case, the majority ruled. He quickly Googled, ‘I saw it all. I agree with them,’ and casually approached the table.
‘Buongiorno,’ he said, wrapping his most plausible-sounding Italian accent around his vowels. The men returned his greeting, looking him up and down as they continued to bicker and throw cards across the table.
This is it. Drop and run . . .
‘Ho visto tutto,’ he said to the coffee buyer. ‘Sono d’accordo con loro.’
The other men at the table erupted into cheering and laughter, piling a new load of playful criticisms upon their friend. ‘Sei grande! Bravo!’ The choruses spilled out into the piazza, even causing a few school-aged boys to turn, distracted from their casual kick-to-kick game.
‘Come ti chiami?’ asked one of the men.
‘Alessio.’
‘Alessio, sei un genio!’
While he wasn’t too sure he counted as a genius, he appreciated the sentiment. The banter continued for a few moments before Alessio bid the men farewell and turned, delighted with the outcome. He’d made a connection; gone out of his linguistic comfort zone.
Baby steps . . .
Alessio made to head down the main street, leading to the shops Francesca had taken him to the day before. That’s when he noticed it – the street library box. It was fixed to the wall where the U Ssale restaurant met the tabaccheria. Alessio peered through the Perspex pane at the many coloured spines and, noting a couple of titles that grabbed his attention, he opened the box and took them, tucking them under his arm.
He set off again, taking out his phone and opening Google Translate. Punching in his desired phrase, he mouthed the words silently to himself until he rounded the bend.
The whip of some linen drying on the lines crisscrossing the street drew his attention skywards. An elderly woman stood on her balcony, leaning over the railing, apron tied around her waist, watching the people pass by on foot.
Something about Alessio had clearly caught her attention, as she leaned over a little more, her eyes narrowing as she scrutinised him. A black cat padded its way to her legs, its tail wrapping defensively around its mistress.
On a whim, Alessio dipped his fingers into the rear pocket of his shorts and withdrew a plastic shopping bag. He casually tucked it under his arm with the books and coolly continued on his way, throwing a cheeky grin up at the woman on the balcony.
Seeing this, the woman seemed to retreat. He must surely be a local, right? Alessio took this as a win.
Ha! Alessio: 1. Impastino’s nonna-monitored surveillance system: 0.
He rounded the sharper bend just ahead and soon approached the pasticceria. There behind the counter, in all her sugar-dusted, vanilla-laced glory, was Ornella.
‘Buongiorno, Ornella,’ he said as confidently as possible.
‘Sei tornato, eh?’ She gave a victorious, all-knowing nod; clearly she expected all who tried her wares to return. ‘E allora?’
The questioning inflection to her phrase prompted his rehearsed line, ‘Vorrei . . . un pasticciotto . . . da . . . port-are. Portare . . . via. Grazie.’
‘Ma certo, tesoro.’ She dipped momentarily from view to reach into the display case and withdraw the pastry, then wrapped it in the usual paper napkin. She passed it to him, and he pushed the money across the counter towards her. ‘No. Stamattina no. Un amore così grande vale un pasticciotto gratis.’ She shook her head and pressed again, ‘No, tesoro.’
