Alessio’s brow held all his tension. His cheeks tight, his lips taut, he nodded. ‘I’m ready. Thank you Francesca.’
‘This is our story, really. When you think about it.’ She reached for the first letter and slowly scanned the writing. Alessio watched as her eyes narrowed and scrutinised every line. Eventually she came to a halt. ‘She has recently arrived in Melbourne after months on the boat. She has settled with some extended family. And she has met Antonio. He came to collect her from the port.’ She paused. ‘Antonio. Your nonno?’
‘Yes.’
‘She’s tired and emotional and feels confused.’
‘About what?’
Francesca translated from the Italian as she read, ‘He is a kind sweet man.’
Alessio straightened in his chair. ‘Isn’t that a good thing?’
Francesca’s eyes scurried along the lines. ‘And handsome. But it’s strange as I wasn’t expecting to feel comfortable with him. But he is trying hard to make me feel welcome and at ease.’
Alessio released the breath he’d been holding. ‘Right.’
‘And he makes me laugh. Or he is trying to. And sometimes he says silly things to break the silence . . .’ Her expression melted. ‘He sounds very sweet, your nonno.’
‘I don’t remember much about him. But people say he and my father are very similar. And Dad’s a great guy.’
She continued, ‘. . . But I thought of you each night and day on the boat. Through the rocking and the waves and through the sickness. And this is where my confusion lies . . .’ She stopped and set down the letter.
‘And? Then what?’
‘The next letter . . .’
Alessio’s chest dropped. ‘I’m going to need a drink after this.’
Francesca smiled politely at his quip then reached for the second. Then the third. And as they progressed through Immacolata’s side of their love letters, a narrative thread quickly revealed itself.
‘And as I stood there with the priest, Antonio’s family, and all the weight of Impastino on my shoulders, I lost my voice. When asked to renew my proxy vows, all I could do was nod.’
Which trickled into, ‘. . . the house is twice the size of Mamma and Papà’s. Even with the garage. Antonio is also talking about buying a car.’
And with time became, ‘. . . but I do think about you. Every day. But I don’t know what we would do if you did come. I am married. And I am happy . . . And I want you to be happy, too.’
‘Happy? She actually said that?’ Alessio peered over the table and inspected the proffered letter.
‘Sì. Here, she says, “Sono felice.”’
‘She was happy.’ He said the words aloud to himself, as if needing to placate the concerned corner of his heart dedicated in her honour. ‘I am so relieved to hear this.’
‘But it sounds like my nonno was desperate for her to return.’ Francesca’s eyes slitted and Alessio watched them darken.
‘I’m sorry. We can stop. Let’s take a break.’
‘We need to see how it all ends.’ She cleared her throat. ‘I need to tell you that I am pregnant. The miracle I’ve prayed for. The doctor says four months, so it should be safe. I wanted you to know before word got back to Impastino . . .’
Which eventually brought them to the final letter. July 1964.
Francesca unfolded the sepia paper and gasped as a small black and white photo dropped into her hand. ‘It’s a baby! Look . . .’
Alessio accepted the photo and immediately recognised the little boy. His right palm clamped over his mouth, muting his shock. ‘That’s my dad!’ He turned it over and read, ‘Giuseppe, luglio 1964. Yeah, that’s him. I think that was the first and last time he ever went by Giuseppe.’ Holding that little piece of his own family at that table was more than he could have ever wished for. It grounded him to the legacy and story his family had shared in Impastino, and reflected all the struggles they’d overcome to begin a new life in Australia. Having Joe there solidified why his search for answers in Impastino had been the right thing to do.
Immacolata’s past had always coloured her life in Australia with tones no one could distinguish. But now, knowing all this, Alessio was proud of himself for having made the leap in her memory. Without Alessio, she would have forever been remembered for the melancholic shadows of her past. Not the passionate dedication she’d had for her future.
‘Che carino!’ Francesca cooed, still holding the letter. ‘Should I read it?’
