Chapter 5
Lora Never Thought about The Details of a Person’s life that were deemed necessary to be registered and archived officially. Births, deaths, marriages, divorces, the buying and selling of property; how did we come to think that these were the moments requiring a document, a form, a stamp, a seal? It seemed odd to think that people hugged and kissed until a decree was triggered, or that mourning someone’s passing also earned a certificate. And then the papers were collected and stuck into a cabinet so that no one would forget the beginnings and endings of so many things. A new life, a new home, a new love—all of them laid out before her, from the years 1950 to 1959. Thank goodness for the translation app, or she and Vilmari wouldn’t know avenditafrom anascita. She refused to ask Andrea for help. She caught him periodically looking up from his open laptop or glancing over as he marched out the door, likely to visit whatever mayoral urinal he frequented. The problem was that every time he walked by, a slight puff of that wintery whiskey smell wafted its way over to her,making her lose her concentration and forget where she was entirely.
The two women sat at the table under the archway in the corner of Andrea’s office, the small window next to them propped open to let a bit of breeze in. They’d spent the first hour trying to figure out what different kinds of documents there were, then attempting to stack them into piles after a quick check of the names. Then the next three hours were spent burning out the flashlights on their phones while hunching over reams of chicken-scratch handwriting on almost transparent paper. Though English and Italian shared the same alphabet, they struggled with the odd penmanship of the handwritten words in Italian and often couldn’t tell one letter from another. Of the six shelves in the cabinet, they had cleared out less than one-quarter of one shelf, and Lora was starting to go cross-eyed.
“You’ve been staring at Carla and Gino Sanguinetti’s marriage license for the last five minutes,” said Vilmari. “If they weren’t both dead, you should probably be sending them an anniversary card.”
“I think I’m hungry. I also think I’m going to need an optometrist after this. What time is it?” Lora asked.
“Almost one o’clock. Let’s take a little break. Even His Excellency is probably out at lunch.”
Lora looked back at Andrea’s desk. After she’d tried to not be aware of him for hours, the fact that she hadn’t realized that he’d left felt like a win. “Oh,” she said. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“Sure,” said Vilmari, picking up her bag and headingtoward the door. She pointed at the doorknob. “Should we lock it?” Lora responded with a frown. “Kidding, kidding—”
Lora squinted into the sunlight as they stepped out onto the piazza. Swiveling her head around, she remembered that this time of day was the dead zone where businesses would not be bustling. The only shop that was open was the hair salon, with its wide windows painted with golden shears and the wordsACCONCIATURA DI OTTAVIO. Inside, the bald man she’d seen at the yacht club wore a striped shirt, the collar popped and standing up to his ears as he leaned down behind a woman with wet hair to check the length of the cut. Lora noticed the other storefronts all featured the same containers of purple and red flowers, and some of the signs looked brand-new. The crown jewel of the scene was the open café, with its tables spilling out across the cobblestones. More pots of flowers were scattered around the tables, and the edges of its umbrellas flittered in the breeze while a few people sat under their shade.
“Looks like that’s our only option,” Lora said, edging toward the chalkboard sign on the sidewalk out front:TROFIE AL PESTO, INSALATONA (TONNO), BRESAOLA (RUCOLA, GRANA), PANSOTTI.She had no idea what any of it was, apart from “pesto” and “tonno,” but a quick look around the tables told her two things. The first was that at least half of those items were pasta. The second was that even the mayor must be lacking in lunch locations because he sat alone, a large white bowl in front of him filled with a pile of something green and fragrant.
“Buon appetito,” he said, nodding at them as they settled into a table. “Try thetrofie. Giada makes them herself.” Heturned around in his seat to look back at the woman behind the bar. “Giada, come meet our guests.”
A tiny woman with blond hair wearing jeans, a green T-shirt to match the umbrellas, and a half apron made her way over to them, breaking into a smile.
“Ciao! I’m Giada. You must be the Americans! Andre told me all about you!”
“Already?” said Lora, smiling back. “We’ve only been here twenty-four hours.”
“That’s like a week in a town this small,” said Giada.
“I’m Vilmari. It’s very nice to meet you, Giada,” Vilmari said, extending her hand. Her smile widened. “This is Loretta.”
“Lora, actually,” she said, knocking Vilmari’s knee with her own under the table. “What do you recommend we have for lunch?”
“I told them to try thetrofie,” called Andrea from his table.
“What is theinsalatona?” asked Lora, ignoring him.
“It’s a big salad, light, with tuna packed in oil, eggs, mozzarella, olives, and we serve it with focaccia.”
“Light,” Vilmari repeated to Lora, her right eyebrow raising a salute.
“She makes thetrofiehere every day,” Andrea said, pointing toward the back of the café. “Right back there.”
“And thepansotti?” Lora kept her eyes on Giada.
“Oh, those are really good. They are little filled pasta pillows with cheese and wild greens.”
“But you don’t make those.” Andrea poured sparkling water into his glass.
“I don’t,” Giada agreed, scrunching her face at him. She turned back to the women. “They’re still very good.”
Lora wondered what lid he’d clamped down on the poor café owner’s dreams too. Maybe she’d wanted to play music outdoors, and he presented her with a pile of noise ordinances. Maybe she was an ex and had planned a romantic getaway, only to have him tell her they had to stay home and do taxes.
“Why don’t we get both and share?” Vilmari offered.
“Perfect,” said Giada. “Both of these dishes are classic from this region, Liguria, yes? We are obsessed with pesto. Did you know it’s originally from Genova? We have it protected as a national heritage dish. And also focaccia. You’ll love it. Do you want wine?”
“No, no, thank you,” said Lora, thinking it would be poor form to fall asleep after lunch and be found drooling on death certificates.
