Had any of them actually gone to the water? Actually used something from the Adriatic? A cursory skim over the top of their stations suggested not, so following his instincts, Alessio took off again, bowl and knife in hand.
‘Come!’ he said, running past his councillor chaperone, who had taken to chatting with his colleagues, and who jumped in surprise to see Alessio bounding off the stage. He hurried after him.
A collective gasp emanated from the crowd, and Alessio caught the moment Elio lifted his head to see what was happening. The pair locked eyes for a split second before Alessio disappeared around the bend, headed toward the sea path.
* * *
Down by the water’s edge, Alessio’s mind went blank.
Kicking through some of the rocks and sand gathered where the waves tickled the shore, he dropped and cupped his hand in the water. Bringing it to his mouth he caught some on his tongue and waited. There was the salt. There was the briny twang of the open water. But it wasn’t what he needed.
C’mon, San Francesco. You’re meant to be looking out for me here.
He closed his eyes and tried to focus on what his dish was lacking. The silky squares of fazzoletti pasta. The umami salty hit of the vegetable broth. What he needed was . . .
Texture!
He could hardly plate up shells in the bowl, and didn’t have time or permission to detoxify sea snails in this vegetarian dish. What here linked to the sea? To the land? To Francesca’s take on this rugged, wild coastline?
Suddenly, the call of a gull drew Alessio’s eyes to the jutting rock face that reached over the sea.
No . . . you couldn’t . . .
A smile crept across Alessio’s lips and he reached for his knife.
You have to. It would be the most perfect addition. Do it for Francesca.
He turned to the councillor and said, ‘I’m going to swim under there. Capito?’ He mimed his best freestyle arms, and pointed to the dark glistening waters shadowed by the overhanging rocks. He scooped his hand through the air.
‘No! You can’t, Signore!’ the councillor begged.
‘Either you come with me, or you wait here. Your call. But I’m going to need an answer in about two seconds.’
The councillor waved his hands through the air at the mere thought of following Alessio under the water. ‘No, no!’
‘See you in a sec then. And hold these, please.’ Alessio whipped off his clothes, down to his black Bonds trunks, and bundled it all in a heap in the councillor’s open arms. ‘My wallet’s in my pocket, and I know what’s in there. Don’t try anything suss!’ He gave him a playful grin then took off into the water.
Alessio waded out to the drop as quickly as his legs could tread against the current. His eyes searched the glossy black rocks for the little red nail polish heart Francesca had drawn.
There it is! You beautiful woman, you!
He steeled himself with a deep breath, locked his lungs, and disappeared under the water, giving the two kicks needed to emerge unscathed on the other side.
He scurried through the water to the beach, kicked through the pebbles, and lunged at the finocchio di mare with his knife.
There’s no way this dish can exist without you . . .
Clutching a fistful of the sea fennel he dove back into the Adriatic.
‘Grazie, San Francesco. You can keep that behaviour up, thank you,’ he called to the heavens before dipping under the rocks, fennel in hand.
He re-emerged and spotted the councillor still holding his clothing by the water’s edge. The man was pacing, his expression concerned.
Alessio pulled himself from the water and darted to the shore. He shook himself as dry as was possible before simply pulling his clothing back on.
‘Sei matto! MATTO!’ the councillor wailed, seeming to have forgotten he was there to translate.
‘Matto’. I know that one.
