Alessio had followed Maria’s instructions and collected a brown wooden box from within the large old-fashioned baule in her bedroom. The heavy metal-framed lid had threatened collapse, barely opening on its rusted hinges.
‘She’s going to explain the story to me first,’ Francesca said, reaching out to give his hand a squeeze when he seated himself alongside them at the kitchen table. ‘Then I’ll translate it back to you.’
Alessio nodded and watched as Maria made the sign of the cross then began apologising to the heavens. She slipped back into that thick pugliese dialect which reminded him so much of his own nonna. He caught a few words and the rough gist, but lacked any clear narrative thread.
All he could read was Francesca’s face. Her brows rose and fell in time with Maria’s inflections and hand gestures. There was a gasp, then a dazed shake of the head. And then Maria gestured to the wooden box. She tapped it then pushed it across the table to Alessio. Francesca’s eyes conveyed all that was about to come Alessio’s way.
He swallowed. ‘She did warn me.’
Francesca gave a sad nod. ‘You will get all the answers you’ve been searching for. Pronto?’ He nodded. ‘Allora . . . Your nonna was in love with a man in the town. A very tall, handsome man. A man many of the women loved. He went to war late, but was one of the lucky ones who returned.’
‘Right . . .’
‘When he returned he asked for Immacolata’s hand in marriage. But Immacolata’s father refused. They threatened to run away and marry without his blessing, so her father panicked. He rushed and arranged a proxy marriage for Immacolata with a friend’s cousin from a nearby town, who had already settled in Australia. Apparently it took a month to arrange, but once the papers were filed, there wasn’t anything that could be done.’
‘So, she never wanted to marry my nonno? Her life in Australia was forced on her?’ Alessio felt his throat constrict with sadness.
‘I am so sorry, Alessio.’ Francesca tried to smile reassuringly but couldn’t make it reach her eyes.
Alessio’s chest felt weighted down with the heaviness of this knowledge.
She lost her love and her whole world. She never wanted to go to Australia. To emigrate. She lost . . . everything. No wonder she was always so . . .
‘Does Maria remember why she wasn’t allowed to marry the man she loved?’
‘Because . . . she was a Martino. And Martinos don’t marry just anyone. Least of all a . . .’
Alessio’s eyes darted between the women. ‘A . . .? A who?’
‘A Fiore.’
‘WHAT?!’ Alessio stood up so fast he knocked his chair backwards, and stood there, confused and winded. ‘This pasta feud stretches back that far?’
‘Hundreds of years.’
‘No. Wait . . . a Fiore?’ The penny finally dropped. ‘Who was the man?’
She exhaled. ‘My nonno.’
Alessio’s mind whirred with blood and adrenaline. ‘Francesca!’
Maria piped up in dialect, her wild gesticulation seemingly in agreement with Alessio’s state of shock.
‘Your nonno? But how is that possible?’
Francesca’s eyes reddened. ‘Nonna just said . . . he became very sick after Immacolata left. He struggled with the forced separation. He tried to emigrate to Australia himself but didn’t have the money for the fare. He wanted to follow her out there for years. To get her back.’
‘But she was married by May of forty-six,’ he added.
‘Ale, they wrote letters . . .’ She pushed the wooden box across the table. ‘Secret love letters. Carried across the seas, waiting months at a time for a reply.’
Alessio flipped open the case and inside he found a bundle of twenty or so letters in aged envelopes. All addressed to Impastino.
Nonna’s letters. Her side of the story.
‘How did Nonna Maria get them?’
‘She found them after Nonno died. He’d kept them all those years in secret.’
