“Perfetto! The Gulf of Naples that flows to the Mediterranean Sea,” Zia said. “Water like you’ve never seen. You’re going to love it. But for now—the zeppole.” She moved the plate closer to Alfie and Emilia, then brought over another. “Sugar and cinnamon,” she said, pointing to the second plate. She took a small spice jar from the counter and dipped a teaspoon into it. “Now Alfie, since you so gallantly gave up your room, you must add the magical ingredient—nutmeg.”
Alfie sprinkled the nutmeg over the cinnamon-and-sugar-filled plate. He glanced at the jar, noticing that it didn’t look like the other spice jars they had—but then again, when had he ever really paid attention?
With the nutmeg added, Zia cheered, “Perfetto! Now quickly, bambini—roll them around in the mixture while they’re still warm.”
Alfie and Emilia picked up a warm zeppole each and rolled it around in the mixture, coating it on all sides.
“Aspetta. Wait before you taste,” Zia Donatella said. “I want you to picture the narrow cobblestoned streets. Voices rising all around you. Walking past stands of fresh fruit and restaurants with tables spilling out onto the sidewalks, the sounds and the smells wrapping around you. Now,” she said, leaning in close, “taste that zeppole and tell me you don’t feel the city around you.”
Alfie and Emilia did as they were told, sinking their teeth into the warm fried dough, crunchy on the outside and soft on the inside. Little crystals of sugar coated Alfie’s lips. He closed his eyes as he chewed the light, sweet zeppole, wondering if his parents were ever going to take him and his sister to Italy. He wanted to know what it felt like to walk on cobblestones, to feel the fresh sea air on his face . . .
And breathe in the smell of pizza made from scratch. Alfie started to take another bite when he felt the air shift slightly around him.
“Ragazzo! Vieni qui!”
A man standing behind a cart was yelling at him. When Alfie looked more closely, he saw that he was selling zeppole—just like Zia Donatella had made.
Looking around, it was clear he was not in his parents’ kitchen with his sister and Zia. He was standing on a street so narrow that the sun couldn’t reach it through the stone buildings. The street and sidewalk were crowded with people, and cars and scooters were zipping by.
“I said come here! You take, you pay double. You and the girl,” he said.
Alfie turned to see that his sister standing beside him, rigid. Her blue eyes were wider and more frightened than he’d ever seen them, even that time he jumped out of her closet to scare her.
“Al-Alfie . . . ,” she said. “What’s happening . . . ?”
“It’s okay,” he said automatically, even though he had no idea where they were or what had happened. Two chatting girls brushed past them. Emilia moved closer to Alfie.
The man behind the cart started to approach them. He wore a striped apron, and the little paper hat on his head sat at an irritated angle. Alfie quickly reached into his jeans’ pockets and thankfully found a dollar. He stepped toward the man and handed it to him. “Here. I’m sorry.”
The man snatched the bill from Alfie’s hand, frightening him. Alfie had never been yelled at by an adult before, but since he could feel his sister shaking beside him, he knew he had to be brave.
The man looked at the dollar and started yelling a whole new string of questions. “What is this? Where do you think you are? Disney World? I don’t want your American money!”
“That’s all I have,” Alfie said, trying to sound calm.
“You want me to call the police or you want to pay up, boy?” He shoved the dollar back at Alfie. “You have three seconds.”
“Alfie,” Emilia said, her voice coming in short breaths. “What are we going to do?”
“Hey! Officer!” the man yelled to someone across the street.
“Alfie . . . ,” Emilia said, and Alfie knew she was on the verge of crying.
“We got a thief over here!”
Alfie reached down and grabbed Emilia’s hand. He tugged it and said, “Run!”
Alfie and Emilia took off down the tight, winding streets, splashing in puddles and bumping into people who turned to yell at them. They hid around a corner. Alfie looked back and was just able to see that the man had stopped chasing them. Relieved, Alfie led his sister to where the streets widened and the sun shone down on them. They slowed to a walk, and Alfie let go of Emilia’s hand.
“What is going on?” Emilia asked. “Where are we? What is this place? Why was that guy yelling at us?”
“I don’t know,” Alfie said, trying to catch his breath. He had to think rationally. “I must be dreaming. I’m having a dream and you’re in it.”
“I’m not in your dream,” Emilia said. “You’re in my dream. Get out of my dream!” She reached over and pinched him several times before he could yank his arm away.
“Emilia, stop it,” Alfie said. “We can’t both be dreaming the same dream at the same time.” He looked down at his left hand, which still clutched the zeppole. Sugar, cinnamon, and nutmeg stuck to his palm. “The zeppole!”
Emilia looked at the zeppole in her own hand. She screamed and threw it across the street, hitting a woman wearing a red-and-white-striped skirt. The woman yelled something back to Emilia that she didn’t understand. Emilia stepped closer to her brother once again. “The guy must think we stole them!”
“Nice move,” Alfie said, gently teasing her.
“Be quiet,” she said. She crossed her arms and looked around. “Well, you like to pretend you’re a grown-up and in charge, so here’s your chance—what are we going to do?”
Alfie surveyed his surroundings. “Maybe there’s something down this street here.”
“If we keep walking around, we’ll get lost.”
“We’re already lost,” Alfie reminded her. “We have no idea where we are or how we got here.”
Emilia looked back the way they had come. “Maybe being by that cart means something. Should we go back?”
“I’m pretty sure we shouldn’t go anywhere near that cart ever again,” Alfie said. “Just let me think for a minute.” He had to make sure he didn’t panic because, after all, this probably was some sort of weird dream—which meant it wasn’t even real. But dream or no dream, he had to take care of his sister, even though she was starting to look less frightened and more annoyed.
Alfie looked around. He spotted the word Napoli on a shop window and on a stack of newspapers. Tiny cars rushed by them, half the size of the cars he was used to seeing. People on scooters buzzed by without regard for others crossing the street—streets that were cobblestoned, with rivers of water running between the stones. He looked up to the corner to find the street names—they were on the corner of Via Salvator Rosa and Via Pontecorvo. On the wall of a brick building, faded white letters read PASTA FABBRICA. He made a note of this, marking it as a point of reference of where this whole thing started. Up ahead was a restaurant called Trattoria Floreano with tables set up outside. Alfie was pretty sure that all these words were Italian.
“Didn’t the guy selling zeppole say something about being in Disney World?” he asked his sister. “Maybe we’re at Epcot in the Italian section!”
“Yeah, sure,” Emilia said. “Because that makes sense.”
“I keep seeing the word Napoli. That’s Naples in Italian, right?”
“Yeah, so?” Emilia said. “What does it mean?”
“Maybe we’re in Naples, Italy,” he said.
“Alfie,” Emilia began. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
Alfie sighed. She was right. “Let’s go to that café and figure out what to do. If we stand here much longer, we’ll get run over. Do you have any money on you?”
“Guess I forgot to grab my wallet before we left,” she said sarcastically.
We’re not really in Italy, he said to himself. But where
were they? They’d go to the café, order a Coke, and try to figure out what to do. “Come on. I’ll take care of this.”
Alfie walked behind Emilia as they headed toward Trattoria Floreano. With the streets so crowded and chaotic, the last thing he wanted was to lose sight of her. To their right, rising higher than all the buildings, he saw a white-peaked mountain, the top touching the clouds. “That’s pretty cool looking, right?” he asked his sister, hoping to distract her.
“You know what’s in Naples, Italy?” Emilia asked. “Mount Vesuvius.”
“Okay . . . ,” Alfie said.
“You know, the volcano that destroyed the entire city of Pompeii? The volcano that hasn’t erupted in so many years that it’s due for another blow?”
Alfie looked up at the mountain. It was bold and intimidating.
“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” he said. “I mean, what are the odds?”
“We’re so going to get arrested,” Emilia said, eyeing the small restaurant. “That dollar isn’t going to buy us anything but a trip to jail.”
“Let’s just try,” Alfie said. There were several small round tables outside on the narrow patio where couples were drinking coffees with frothy tops and eating pizzas that looked nothing like the ones from Presto Pesto. The pizzas were thin and hardly had any toppings.
“I’ll go in just for the smell,” Emilia said, taking a deep breath. His sister was right—a rich, sweet scent drifted over the smell of Vespa exhaust.
Alfie led the way into the restaurant, trying to find a face that looked helpful and friendly. But everyone who worked here looked busy and stressed.
“It’s busy in here,” he said.
“Great observation,” Emilia said.
He was about to tell her to stop being snippy when he tripped over something—someone.
“Watch it!” a voice said as Alfie stumbled, catching himself just before crashing into a table full of drinks and pizza.
Alfie looked down at the person sprawled on the floor and said, “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”
“I’m okay.” The person stood up; it was a boy about Alfie’s age with dark, curly hair. He picked his tray up from the floor and dusted off his apron. “Luckily I’d already delivered the cappuccinos. The last thing I need on a day like today is for anything to go wrong.”
“Tell me about it,” Alfie said. “You sure you’re okay? I’m really sorry.”
“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” the boy said. He gave a heavy sigh and began to walk away.
“Wait,” Alfie called. He couldn’t let him get away—not when the alternative was to go talk to one of the frantic adults behind the counter. Alfie watched as one man slid a pizza into a brick-domed oven while another man slid one out. It looked nothing like the Supreme Meat Machine. These pizzas only had red sauce and white discs of cheese. Snore.
“You can take any available table,” the boy said over his shoulder as he went to the counter to pick up several glass bottles of Coke, which he deposited on his tray.
“Actually, I have a question,” Alfie said. He heard Emilia mutter, “One question?” He ignored her and asked the most important thing: “Where are we?”
The boy hustled across the restaurant to deliver the drinks; Alfie followed him. “Via Salvator Rosa.”
“Yeah but I mean . . . ,” Alfie began, knowing he sounded crazy. He felt crazy. “Where exactly?”
The boy eyed Alfie. “Tourists, huh? Well, this is officially the Materdei area of town. If you’re looking for the archaeology museum, it’s just a couple of streets over. I can give you directions in a minute if you want.” He dropped off the drinks and then set his tray down on a counter.
“I just—wait,” Alfie said, feeling desperate.
“Papà! I’m going now!” the boy called to one of the men in the back as he took off his apron. A man with dark hair and olive skin—and a tomato-sauce-stained apron—waved good-bye to him. “I must go to the market. You’re staying for tonight’s Festa di Pizza, right?”
“Tonight’s Festa . . . ?”
“I must go to the market. If you want to ask more questions, you’ll have to come with me.”
“Uh, yeah,” Alfie said. “We were going to check out the market, too.”
Alfie looked back at Emilia, who shrugged. As the boy started out the door, Alfie said to his sister, “Let’s try this.”
“Alfie,” Emilia said, grabbing his arm, “I think we should stay here. Ask an adult.”
Alfie looked around. It was chaos behind the brick counter; adults were cooking pizzas and taking food orders. Out in the restaurant, customers ate pizza, and one couple acted all kissy-kissy. That was definitely something Alfie could do without seeing.
“This guy is already talking to us,” Alfie said. “I don’t want to start over.”
Her eyes followed the boy out the door. They had to act fast. “Fine. But for the record, I think we should stay.”
“Stay and do what?” Alfie asked. He knew she didn’t have any better ideas.
Back out in the street, the boy said, “Ready?” They nodded. “Today of all days is not the one to slow down anyone in my family. Anyone in all of Naples who is making pizza, for that matter. Andiamo!”
“Naples!” Emilia said, her eyes widening.
“As in Florida?” Alfie asked.
“Florida?” the boy said. “You’re joking. You must be, because this is the true Naples—Italy, the best city in all the world. Just look!”
Alfie recognized the street they turned on as one they had passed on their escape from the zeppole vendor. Old women wore scarves over their hair, and teenage girls—whom Emilia eyed enviously as they walked so confidently—wore cut-off shorts and stacked bracelets.
“To me,” the boy continued, “this is very special, but of course I’m biased since I’m born and raised here. But Naples has everything you want, even the grit, if that’s what you like. We’re tough but fair. And our pizza—it’s also the best in all the world!”
Alfie smiled at Emilia. He liked this guy, and his enthusiasm was infectious. Emilia giggled, covering her mouth.
They turned up a street narrower than the one they’d just left. “Did you come here just for it?” the boy asked.
“For what?” Alfie asked.
“Festa di Pizza, of course! And my family is the best pizzaioli in all of Naples. Our Neapolitan pizza can’t be beat—unless, of course, someone else decides to cheat and steal the title from us,” he added bitterly. Alfie noticed he clenched his fists by his sides. “But not this year. This year we take back what is rightfully ours. Oh, hello, Signora Manichelli!” He waved to an elderly woman across the street. “That’s Signora Manichelli. She feeds all the stray cats in the neighborhood. So. How long are you in town for?” They turned down another zigzagging street. Alfie tried his best to remember each twist and turn so that he could find his way back to the restaurant. When neither Alfie nor Emilia answered—how could they?—the boy said, “You are tourists, right?”
“Yes,” Emilia said. “We’re here on vacation.”
“With your parents?” he asked.
“Yes,” Alfie said, thinking quickly. He remembered Zia Donatella telling them just moments ago—what seemed like moments ago—about the Gulf of Naples and the cool breeze off the water. Alfie realized he could feel a salty breeze every now and then despite the tight turns of the streets. “But they’re not here today. They’re—they’re down at the coast. Taking a boat ride.”
“At La Grotta Azzurra?” he asked.
“Um, yes. What you said,” Alfie said.
The boy pulled a list from his pocket. “I have to go now as well,” he said. “I’m in charge of gathering all the ingredients for the pizza festival tonight.”
“Maybe we could help you,” Alfie heard Emilia say. He turned to her, ready to tell her to be quiet,
but she shrugged and said, “We don’t have anything else to do.” He supposed she was right.
“That would be great,” the boy said. “I can show you the best of Naples, and then you can taste the best pizza ever created in all of pizza history!”
Alfie looked to Emilia and the boy. Emilia seemed to feel confident about this adventure, even excited. He could see it in the little twinkle she had in her eyes. Maybe his sister was right—since they didn’t know what else to do, they might as well just go along for the ride.
“Yeah, sure,” Alfie said, and Emilia grinned. “We’ll help.”
“Great!” he said. “I’m Marco Floreano, by the way.”
“Alfie Bertolizzi, and this is my sister, Emilia.”
“Alfie as in Alfredo?” Marco asked, and Alfie braced himself for the stupid sauce jokes that always followed. He nodded yes and Marco said, “I have an uncle named Alfredo, so it’ll be easy for me to remember. Well, Alfredo and Emilia, it’s very nice to meet you both.”
“Nice to meet you, too,” Emilia said, and she shook Marco’s hand, doing her best to be polite and act grown-up.
“Welcome to Naples,” Marco said. “Get ready for the most exciting day of your lives!”
“This is the first year I’m in charge of gathering the ingredients,” Marco said as he led the way through the crowded streets. They passed more people, some rushing along and dodging through pedestrian traffic and others strolling arm in arm. “First we go to the market to get the basil.”
“What is the Festa . . . uh, the pizza thing you were talking about?” Alfie asked. “Is it some sort of contest?”
“Only the most important contest in all of Naples. And it happens tonight,” Marco said. “Every year the city has a contest to see who can make the best pizza in the place known for the world’s best pizza. My family has won this honor for years—no one can beat our pizza. Until last year,” Marco said bitterly, and Alfie noticed his fists clenching again.
Naples! (9780698152687) Page 2
