Jesus Christ, mate. You’re in trouble.
Alessio exhaled, set his phone on the side table and said into the darkness, ‘Tell me about it.’
venticinque
The next day Alessio chose a lazy sleep-in until ten, followed by a video call with his parents over WhatsApp and coffee.
‘Not at all surprised by this news, Less. Congrats.’ Joe fiddled with his glasses as Silvana nudged him aside and claimed some space in the call window.
‘Bravo. And how did it feel to be cooking again?’ Silvana scoured Alessio’s face for any sign of trouble or distress.
Alessio rubbed the sleep from his eyes. ‘Amazing, actually. The rhythm and energy of the festa was really distracting. It helped me just focus on my hands and the steps ahead of me.’
Silvana beamed. ‘Ah! So wonderful! Just go slow, darling.’
Alessio nodded. ‘I will. While the stakes are obviously high, it felt really settling to just be cooking, to be able to focus on the creativity. The ingredients. The plate. It’s been a long time since I’ve done that.’
‘Great,’ said Joe with what sounded like relief. ‘And when’s the next round?’
‘In a month. Sorry I haven’t had the chance to call sooner. I’ve really just been trying to take everything in. The town’s busy. Feels like all of Italy has infiltrated the south for the summer.’
‘Catch your breath when you can, mate. All you can do. And what’s going on with the Nonna search? Anything come up yet?’
‘Nothing. I’ve pulled the comune records room apart a number of times. I’ve spoken to some locals. Checked the cemetery for names and possible connections. But I swear, there’s no trace of Immacolata Mazzotta ever having existed in Impastino.’
Joe’s eyes widened. ‘Mazzotta? Less, you’ve got this all wrong.’
Alessio leaned in. ‘Wrong?’
‘You’re confused, love. Have you forgotten?’ Silvana chimed in. ‘My mum was a Mazzotta.’
‘Fuck.’ Alessio drew a blank. ‘What was Nonna Immacolata’s maiden name?’
‘Martino.’
* * *
Alessio and Francesca strode across the piazza in the direction of the comune with renewed hope. Everything was now in limbo, hanging somewhere between potential and desperation.
‘How many Martino families are there in Impastino?’ he asked.
‘Just the one,’ said Francesca grimly.
‘So my nonna was one of—’
‘Eh, sì.’
Rounding the bend by Lu Ientu, they made a beeline for the comune office.
Alessio and Francesca entered the welcome hall, catching Elisa off guard at the desk. ‘Buongiorno!’ she said. ‘Tutto bene?’
‘Ask me once we’re done in there!’ Alessio said, gesturing towards the records room, and Elisa tossed him the key.
Alessio pushed the door open and flicked on the light as Elisa cast a blessing upon them both. ‘Che Dio vi benedica.’
Alessio closed the door behind them and they stood there a moment, unsure where to start. The thrum of this new knowledge, the uncertainty of what they’d find, left him feeling torn.
Francesca caught his clammy cheeks between her hands. ‘I’m here, no? Whatever happens. If we find something. If we don’t find something. All we can say is that we tried. Ok?’
