Alessio chortled. ‘That tradition seems to transcend geography.’
‘Really?’
‘Sunday lunches at Nonna’s house were religiously at noon. And that didn’t mean arrive at noon, or have the food ready by noon. That meant that at noon you picked up your fork and took the first bite. Period.’
Standing there by the door, watching his animated gestures and easy smile, Francesca noted a new openness and energy in Alessio’s demeanour. It was as if over the past week in Impastino he had unwound a little, allowed the strings holding his life together to loosen. His stories had become more vibrant, and he laughed more often. She could only conclude that it was a good sign indeed.
‘So what would happen if someone did arrive late?’
‘Ha!’ He waved his free hand through the air, as if writing the whole thing off. ‘Then you would prepare yourself for the Italian nonna guilt show.’
‘Oh no . . .’ she breathed.
‘It would involve something like this.’ Alessio freed himself from her hold and straightened the hem of his tee, taking on a melodramatic – almost caricatured – posture that was clearly meant to be his Nonna Immacolata. Raising the pitch of his voice to emulate his nonna’s, he said, ‘Why you come-a late? You think nonna has nothing to do-a today but cook for you and your stomaco? Nonna is very busy woman, eh? I could-a watch my shows, you know? And you come now? The food is-a cold. Is no good to eat-a now. I throw away.’ Alessio mimed tossing a plate of food into an imaginary sink. ‘See? You make-a Nonna waste the food God give-a to us. Eh? God will hate me for this-a now. Is that what you want? For God to hate-a Nonna? You not a good boy like when you were-a little. Nonna going to die now very sad because-a you not eat lunch. When I die you come to my funeral and you pray for me to go to Heaven-a, eh? Because, if I don’t go to Heaven-a, I go to Hell. Because you late.’
Francesca exploded with laughter, bracing herself against his shoulder for support. ‘Ma, no! She was like this?’
‘Every day of her life that I can remember. Italian. Nonna. Guilt. It could bring down an empire.’
She guided him through the door and out into the morning sunshine. ‘Nonna Maria is quite different, I think, in her own special way.’
‘They’re all spec—’ But something suddenly caught Alessio’s attention and he pulled them to a stop.
The piazza was bustling with busy stalls and market crates piled high in bursting stacks. Locals called numbers, greetings, whistled and ordered one another about. The breeze was tinted with the tang of freshly turned soil and produce warming under the sun.
A station had been erected to the right selling cool drinks, and just beyond it were local artisans’ wares of bottled produce, sauces and preserves.
But among the buoyant raucousness of Impastino’s Saturday morning market soundtrack came one sound which rose over the rest.
Francesca followed Alessio’s line of sight to the wooden tables over the far side of the market, at which sat a group of elderly women. All were apron-clad with greying and white hair tied in coloured silk scarves, and all were elbow deep in pasta dough.
‘They’re . . . They’re singing . . .’
She squeezed his arm a little tighter. ‘That’s the coro delle sfogline. An old folk song the women sing when they make pasta together. To bring good luck and bless the dough.’
Francesca felt him pull her forward a few steps. ‘I know that song . . . Nonna used to sing that song.’
‘Perhaps your nonna was a sfoglina? Or her mamma? It’s only the sfogline who sing that song.’
Francesca felt him take a deep breath. ‘I think for the first time since coming here I can actually feel her. Like that song is proof that she once existed here. Among all this.’
‘Of course she did. And now you get to walk in those footsteps.’
‘I just have to find them.’
‘Shall we stop and ask a few of Impastino’s elderly if they remember your nonna?’ Francesca caught his bright, hopeful gaze.
‘Yes. Grazie. But I’ll need your help.’
‘My pleasure. But first the gastronomia . . .’
* * *
Alessio recognised Simona immediately as Carlo’s sibling. She had the same long limbs and slim frame, and her colouring – shades of ginger, soft brown and chocolate – echoed those of her brother. It wasn’t until she smiled over the top of the gastronomia’s deli counter at Francesca and Alessio that he also recognised the shared bucktoothed grin.
‘Ciao, cara!’ Francesca said, wrapping her arms around Simona, who had joined them in the poky serving area. ‘You’re quiet this morning.’
‘Always. The action is in the piazza. No one needs cheese or prosciutto just now.’ Her eyes flicked to Alessio.
