‘I got it! A sign! A SIGN!’
‘From your father?!’ She rinsed off and reached for a tea towel.
‘YES!’ Francesca darted into the kitchen and grabbed Maria, spinning her on the spot. ‘Last night before I went to sleep . . .’ Her laboured breath caught in her chest. ‘I . . . I asked Papà for help. I looked up at the sky . . . I begged for a sign.’
Maria raised an eyebrow. ‘And . . .?’
‘I told him that I was struggling to let go of the festival . . .’ The bells continued to toll out on the piazza. ‘Right now! It’s happening right now!’ Francesca panted. ‘I know Mamma wants me to just leave it alone and back away. But . . . I needed a sign from Papà to help me. I don’t want to give up—’
Maria’s eyes softened. ‘It’s not giving up. It’s accepting—’
‘Well, I can’t accept it. I refuse to! I said, “Papà, tell me what to do! There has to be another way around this! If you want this to happen, if you want us to find a way to compete this year, show me how to make it so!” And he has!’
‘But how? What was the sign?!’
‘I have hope, Nonna! And a sign! It just doesn’t make sense yet.’ With that, the final bell sent out its summoning call and Francesca bounded from the kitchen, disappearing out the restaurant’s front door.
* * *
Francesca squinted beyond the awning’s shade into the stifling summer glare of the open-air piazza, where, true to tradition, the thirty-four tolls of Impastino’s campanile had summoned its people.
Shading her face with a hand to the forehead, mostly in vain, Francesca jostled her way through the crowd beside the central fountain. The townsfolk chatted and gossiped, pointed and gestured. It was the sight of bald, not-quite-five-foot Felice Lorusso appearing up the path from his office at the comune, that made them fall silent. In tow was Felice’s trusted assistente personale, Giovanni, with his even trustier foot-high wooden stool.
Francesca thought she could feel her heartbeat reverberate through to her toes. She shook out her hands and legs, hoping her anxiety was well hidden by the crowd swelling around her.
‘Grazie, Giovanni.’ Felice waited for Giovanni to open and stabilise the stool before he stepped on top. Even then he barely came up to Giovanni’s shoulder. Beaming his usual jovial smile, Felice – happy by name, happier by nature – cleared his throat, while Giovanni fanned him with a manila folder of documents.
Francesca’s eyes fixed on that folder; she swallowed past the thickening dread that seemed to lodge in her throat.
What are you going to do now? There’s no way out, except OUT.
‘Carissimi, it is that time of year again! The time of year we all look forward to here in Impastino; our annual summer Festa della Pasta.’ Felice threw his hands into the air as if conducting a colourful choir, and his enthusiasm was met with raucous applause and cheering. ‘I know. I know. Our greatest tradition. Centuries old.’ His fingers interlaced sagely over his rounded pot belly. ‘Given today’s outrageously hot weather, I shall make this quick, so that we can all get on with our day with a Spritz in hand.’
Laughter rippled through the crowd, but Francesca didn’t add to it. She raised her thumbnail to her teeth and gnawed on it anxiously.
Felice gestured for the folder of documents, and after handing it over, Giovanni substituted his makeshift fan with the next best thing – his grey checked handkerchief.
‘The rules continue unchanged this year. We invite one representative from each of our four ristoranti to compete for the title of Sfoglino dell’Anno. According to our time-honoured tradition, this candidate must be the male head chef of the family.’
Francesca could hardly hear Felice’s words for the whoosh of blood pumping in her ears.
You. Are. Mad! Just walk away. Don’t put yourself through this . . . You’ve been through enough. It’s too dangerous!
‘Could the four representatives please step forward . . .’
The crowd came alive again, and from different parts of the mass of jostling locals, three men emerged. ‘Sebastiano Bellomo, of Lu Ientu,’ noted Felice, and he passed the middle-aged ginger-haired man a sheet from the folder. ‘Carlo Catalano, from U Ssale.’ Another sheet was gladly accepted, and lanky-limbed Carlo felt it appropriate to turn to face the crowd and bow melodramatically. This was met with laughter and the banging of a hand drum from within one of the overlooking apartment windows. Felice, clearly delighted by the joy of the crowd, acknowledged the scene with his own dramatic applause. ‘Elio Martino, of Da Martino.’
Mere mention of the name ‘Elio Martino’ saw the thrum of happiness among the townsfolk shift subtly. It was as if the air tightened around them as a blond, blue-eyed, chiselled and toned man took the final step forward, accepting the sheet with a calculated steely nonchalance. Suddenly six or seven more hand drums began pounding, adding a deeper, darker element to the tension of the moment.
Francesca took a cursory look over her shoulder at Da Martino and locked eyes with one of the waiters who was hanging out of the front door, cigarette in hand. He acknowledged her with a tilt of the head, but the grin on his nicotine-stained lips quickly morphed into something more sinister. She inhaled and turned to face Trattoria dei Fiori, wondering what on earth to do.
Felice’s expression became more hesitant and he shuffled the documents in front of him. Tentatively, he said, ‘And, to represent Trattoria dei Fiori?’
Francesca’s eyes met his and the two shared a look of loss.
Standing a little taller, Francesca gathered her curls and flicked them over her shoulders. ‘Our representative?’ she asked, stepping forward through the crowd, which parted to allow her passage, their curiosity evident on their faces.
‘Sì. Do you . . . have a representative this year?’ Felice padded out the words, careful of how delicately he had to tread.
