by Jo Thomas
There is a younger woman working with Marco’s mamma in the kitchen. I hear a reference to ‘Rosa’, and they all look at the clock. Marco’s mamma taps her wrist. There’s obviously a time issue here.
I feel like a sausage at a bar mitzvah, standing out but also totally ignored. They’re all talking so quickly, and I can pick out occasional words but nothing that makes any sense. I’m finding it hard to concentrate. If they could just speak one at a time, maybe that would help, like back in my Italian classes. I feel very uncomfortable and wish I could just slide back out again. In fact, maybe I could. I take a step towards the door.
‘Chi è questo?’ His mother finally waves at me, and I stop mid backwards step.
‘Maybe now’s not the time,’ I say. I look around at the large family dressed in dark colours, the weeping old lady, the table laid for a meal, and the steaming pots and pans. I put up my hand by way of a hello and a goodbye. ‘Un’altra volta,’ I say, ‘Another time,’ and take the step back.
‘Eh?’ Mamma puts her hands on her hips.
‘A visitor,’ Marco says, as much for my benefit as theirs, implying that I’m not staying around.
The chatter stops and everyone turns to look at me. It’s like I’m staring back at a painting, like time has stopped. It’s a big room, with a large gilt-framed mirror on the wall at one end, a shiny marble-topped kitchen with a long table running the length of the house. There are chairs and a gold-legged coffee table in front of the patio doors at the front. A marble-effect staircase leads upwards, and the open-plan theme continues to the back of the house, where there is more seating looking out on to another veranda. From here I can see it’s a covered area, with lots of bleached white stone and a tall statue of a semi-naked woman holding an urn.
The woman I’m assuming is Marco’s mother is dressed in black, with big gold earrings, thick gold chains around her neck and an eclectic mix of costume jewellery on her wrists and fingers. Her hair is tied back into a tight bun with a flower clip and she’s holding a wooden spoon like a conductor’s baton. The older woman is sitting at the end of the table, shelling peas. There is steam curling its way along the ceiling, and the smell of hot, home-made food suddenly makes my stomach rumble loudly, breaking the spell.
‘Chi è questo?’ Marco’s mamma waves the wooden spoon at me and smiles, her bingo wings flapping under her thin black lace cardigan. Then she turns back to Marco, demanding to know where he’s been and what’s going on.
‘This is . . .’ He looks at me like an actor asking for a prompt, raising an eyebrow and holding his hands out, palms upwards.
‘Ruthie Collins, dall’Inghilterra,’ I say slowly, smiling as I am finally able to answer in perfect Italian, and go to hold out my hand.
‘Cosa?’ She frowns and looks around at the others in the crowded kitchen, who all shrug.
‘Ruthie Collins . . . Inglese,’ Marco says with an exasperated sigh.
‘Ah! Inglese!’ she says, and they all smile and nod, understanding.
‘This is my mamma, Anna-Maria Bellanuovo.’ Marco extends a hand by way of introduction. Anna-Maria just looks puzzled. ‘And this is my family.’ He begins to introduce each one by name, like he’s calling out the register, and I try to keep up. His sister; a husband, I think; his cousin and somebody’s baby. I turn and shake hands with as many of them as possible and ask how they all are, but they just stare at me as if they don’t understand a word of what I’m saying. The names fly in one ear and out the other until eventually he stops at the old lady.
‘My nonna, grandmother,’ he explains, ‘Serefina.’ I try and move forward to shake her bony, knobbly hand. She stares at me, hard, and I step back and squish a pea underfoot. Marco looks around. ‘That seems to be everyone. My other cousins are still travelling. They’ll arrive later. But not here.’ He sounds awkward. ‘And Filippo . . . my brother. He’s coming too.’
I’m ushered to sit down on the bench next to the bowl of peas. Anna-Maria fires out instructions and another place is laid in front of me – plate, knife and fork and a glass. I say that I’m not staying to eat, but my protests are waved away like ineffectual flies. It’s been a long time since lunch in Bari; another lifetime ago, it feels like.
‘Posso?’ Marco speaks to the man holding the baby and nods towards the room at the back of the house. The man hands the baby over to his wife and stands to follow. This must be the lawyer, I realise. The women look puzzled but start to bring out little dishes of food and put them in front of me. There are red and yellow peppers glistening in olive oil, warm and soft in a blanket of golden breadcrumbs; small mozzarella balls in little knots; tiny tomatoes; deep-fried crispy balls of pork; a plate of celery, carrot and peppers in vivid green oil; a green and white mash of broad beans, peas and broccoli; cold meats, thinly sliced and laid out in a fan; small rolls of aubergine in white sauce with cocktail sticks holding the ham in the middle. My stomach roars loudly again. I blush and am encouraged to eat. My wine glass is filled with red wine. I take a sip. It’s thick, rich Primitivo.
‘I think I should explain,’ I say in English. The family look blankly at me. They obviously don’t understand, so I try again in Italian. ‘I’m Ruthie Collins from England . . .’ Still they look blankly at me. I don’t get it. They don’t seem to speak English, but they don’t understand my Italian either.
Suddenly the front door flies open and in comes a younger version of Marco, in his early twenties, his smile brightening the room.
‘Hey! Ciao!’ He embraces Serefina, who hugs his face to hers, then kisses the other women and men and shakes hands all at the same time.
‘Siamo qui?’ he asks, looking at me and smiling.
Behind him is a woman in dark glasses. This must be Rosa, and what looks to be her parents. Rosa is tall, slim, dark-haired and olive-skinned. She is in her late twenties. Her mother is short and round and has a face like a prune, but with a huge smile. Rosa is wearing black jeans, high-heeled silver trainers and a black T-shirt with a sparkling rose motif on the front. Despite her casual clothes, she looks effortlessly stylish as she pushes her large sunglasses up on to her head. She’s beautiful, despite wearing hardly any make-up and looking like she’s sucking a lemon. She is constantly glancing around, searching for someone. I’m guessing it’s Marco.
They all greet each other, and Anna-Maria does the same routine about the time, pointing to Nonna – who is sniffing and has peas in her white hankie – and tutting about Marco’s disappearance
‘Inglese!’ She nods to me and shrugs.
‘English, eh?’ says the young man, Marco’s mini-me, and he sits down next to me, straddling the bench. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you. I’m Filippo Bellanuovo. Welcome to my family.’ He puts out his hand and makes me smile. Finally, someone I can speak to! So this is Marco’s brother, but it’s a big age gap. Marco must be mid thirties.
‘You have a very good accent,’ I say warmly.
‘I learnt English at school. I hope to go and work there one day.’ He smiles again. ‘They have jobs there for good barmen. I’m a good barman. But here there aren’t that many jobs, especially as the summer season is ending. I am working in Alberobello at the moment, but that will end soon.’
‘Mangiare! Mangiare!’ instructs Nonna, pushing little plates of tasty morsels towards me. The juices in my mouth gush at the sight and smell of them. The yellow and red peppers look gorgeous, but eating them will involve putting them on my plate and looking as though I’m staying, and I’m not. Eventually I take a bright red tomato and in the other hand a fried pork ball. Filippo takes one too and pops it in his mouth. The rest of the family seem to be watching me and talking amongst themselves. I haven’t a clue what they’re saying. It’s like they’re speaking another language, nothing like the Italian I learnt in my evening classes. I’m guessing they’re wondering what on earth I’m doing there. Rosa and her paren
ts sit down. Rosa glares down the table, looking right through me. I wouldn’t like to cross her.
‘My name—’ I start to tell Filippo.
‘Ruthie Collins, Inglese,’ Anna-Maria finishes for me and puts some bread in front of me. The smell is to die for, hot and doughy, and my mouth waters all the more. I can’t resist taking a slice, breathing in its comforting smell. I really need to explain who I am, but I’ll just try a corner of this bread first. It’s fantastic. I try to ask whether it’s from the bakery at the end of the lane.
‘Forno Sophia?’
‘Pah!’ Anna-Maria turns her mouth down in disgust and turns her back on me. I wonder what I’ve said wrong. Did I misuse a word? I didn’t expect it to be so hard to use my Italian.
‘My aunt Sophia,’ Filippo explains, ‘By marriage. My aunt and my mother . . .’ He shakes his head and pulls his mouth down into a grimace. Then he grins widely again, making me smile, and changes the subject quickly.
‘So you’re a friend of Marco’s?’
‘No, not a friend,’ I say, popping the tomato into my mouth to try and free up a hand. I bite into it and it explodes, shooting into the corners of my mouth, filling it with wonderful flavour, tangy and sweet. I haven’t tasted a tomato like that in . . . I don’t know when. Nonna pushes a pot of smelly cheese towards me and I recoil slightly.
‘Try it with the tomato. It’s strong ricotta,’ Filippo says. I’m pretty sure they’re winding me up and the joke’s going to be on me. ‘Try,’ he insists, and it feels rude not to. Filippo takes the lead. I tentatively take a small spoonful and follow his example as he puts the cheese on the tomato and then eats them together in one mouthful. My hand rises to my mouth, as does the smell of the cheese, like stinking socks. They’re all looking at me. I do it. Chew quickly and swallow. Then I look at Filippo in surprise. The flavours together are amazing, like the most unlikely marriage (other than Ed and me, I think wryly). I smile broadly, forgetting for a moment that I’m some kind of fly in the ointment here. He smiles and nods back. I look round for a serviette and wipe my hands. Everyone is still looking at me and talking amongst themselves, waiting to hear who I am.
‘Why can’t I understand what anyone is saying?’ I say in a low, frustrated voice to Filippo. ‘I’ve done loads of Italian classes.’
‘Oh, they’re not speaking Italian.’ He smiles. ‘They’re speaking Della Terra. We all have our own local languages in Italy.’
I sigh and catch a glimpse of Marco outside, talking very animatedly to the lawyer. I wonder if I should be there too.
A short, fat man in working clothes appears, pulling off his flat cap. He shakes Marco’s hand and they exchange a few words. There is a tall young man behind him, holding his hands together. He leans forward respectfully and shakes Marco’s hand too. Rosa, I notice, suddenly stands as if to join them but is told otherwise by her father. She sits back down sulkily as the two newcomers turn and leave, the younger man throwing a glance our way over his shoulder as he goes.
‘So, where are you staying?’ Filippo asks.
Thin rings of squid in light golden batter appear in front of me. I dab my mouth with the serviette and look away, wishing I could try it but knowing I have to put the record straight.
‘Here,’ I tell Filippo. ‘I’m staying here.’ There, I’ve done it.
‘Here?’ He looks confused and glances at his mother.
‘No.’ I shake my head and give a nervous little laugh. ‘At Masseria Bellanuovo,’ I finally manage to say. Filippo’s face drops, as does Anna-Maria’s and those around her.
‘Masseria Bellanuovo?’ Anna-Maria stretches round to look for Marco, then turns back to Filippo and says something to him.
‘How?’ he asks, his eyebrows dipping inwards.
‘Because I bought it,’ I reply.
There is a deathly silence.
‘Ha comprato,’ says Filippo, looking round at the family’s stunned faces.
‘Marco!’ Anna-Maria calls urgently to her son. Suddenly the family go into overdrive, asking questions of Marco and the cousin’s husband as they come to the table shoulder to shoulder. I take another cherry tomato. It has been a long time since lunch.
‘My mother wants to know how you came to buy it.’
Anna-Maria fires something else at Filippo, waving an arm towards me. He sighs, and Nonna sobs.
‘She wants to know if you are a lover?’ he translates, and Anna-Maria nods and waves her spoon around, making her bingo wings flap even more. I choke on the cherry tomato.
‘No, I’m not a lover,’ I say when I have recovered, and Filippo informs the family to sighs of relief.
‘They want to know where it happened. Where did you exchange the paperwork?’ he says kindly, not translating his mamma’s words quite accurately.
‘In Bari. I flew over last week.’
The lawyer starts texting and waving his phone around looking for a signal.
‘I can phone my solicitor in the morning if you want proof,’ I offer.
‘Did you come and see the house?’ Nonna wants to know. I swallow and wonder whether to lie. But I can’t.
‘No, I didn’t.’ I take a fortifying sip of wine. ‘There was . . . some kind of incident.’ I blush and shrug, feeling dafter by the moment. I can just hear Ed tutting in my head. I take a deep breath and begin to explain what happened on that day, and I realise I’m retelling it more for my own benefit than for the expectant faces all looking at me.
‘I flew into Bari and went to the solicitor’s office, where I met Giovanni Bellanuovo.’ He looked frail, I remember. Filippo translates and Nonna gives a sob.
‘My grandfather,’ Filippo adds for my benefit. I nod, understanding, and carry on with my story.
‘I asked to see the house before I signed, but the road was blocked. There’d been a mudslide.’ They all suddenly start ‘aahing’, obviously remembering the day it happened. They’re pointing to the road and to each other, recounting it. I sit for a minute until they turn back to me, expectantly. ‘I couldn’t see the house that day. I had to make a decision there and then. I was just flying in and out. I’d left enough time to see the house and sign. It was a case of sign now or lose the whole thing. Someone held a pen out to me and asked if I wanted the house or not. I had to choose.’
I think back to that day. It was so hot in that tiny office, and so full of people. I remember the smart silver pen being offered to me. Of course I knew I should say that I couldn’t sign. That I would have to come back again. But how could I? Someone poured me a glass of water, I can’t remember who. It may have been my solicitor, an English-speaking woman. She had big black hair and very red lipstick. I remember the smell of her hairspray in that hot little office. Giovanni was sitting on one side of the big wooden desk with his solicitor; I was on the other with mine. I took the water and drank it. I had to be back in the UK the following morning to hand over the keys to the new owners of our flat. I thought about texting Ed and telling him to do it whilst I stayed on.
I pulled out my phone and ran my fingers over the keypad. What would I tell him? Sorry I can’t be there, I’m in Italy buying a run-down farmhouse. I could just imagine what he’d say. He’d make me feel I was leaping without looking and would talk me out of it. I didn’t want that to happen.
I finished the water and put the glass on the table. I took the pen being held out to me. My hands were hot and shaking a little. Was I really going to do this? Was I really going to sign for a house I hadn’t seen?
Suddenly my phone chirped, telling me I’d got a message. I dropped the pen and scrabbled around on the floor for it whilst grabbing hold of my phone from the desk with my other hand. I sat back up, pen in one hand, phone in the other. The gathered group shifted impatiently. I looked at them and then slowly at the screen of my phone. The message was from Ed. I caught my bre
ath. How could he know? Was he telling me to stop and think? Not to be so impetuous? He used that word about me a lot. Like the time I offered to look after the neighbour’s plants when he went away for a bit, and it turned out I was watering his cannabis farm. I didn’t, of course. I told him I’d had to go away and they’d died. He played Metallica at full volume for days afterwards, and through the night.
I swallowed and opened the message, holding my breath. I felt like a naughty schoolgirl.
I’ve got some post here for you, copies of the final bills. Shall I send them to your mother’s? Is that your new address?
And that was it. That was my new address: Cynthia Collins’ settee, Flat 49 . . . If I didn’t sign, I was going to be moving back in with my mum for the foreseeable future. And my mum had hardly been sympathetic to my situation. She couldn’t see why I was splitting up with Ed at all. Not when I had such a comfortable life. She was constantly telling me to stop being so daft, and that it was perfectly natural to go through a rough patch. You just got on with it. But I couldn’t. I was comfortable with Ed, but I knew we weren’t in love with each other. There had to be something more. But what?
I was coming up to my thirtieth birthday and I was going back to live with my mother . . . and Colin, in his vest. And I knew I had to do something, I had to strike out on my own. So I signed.
I look up at the amazed faces staring at me around the table, hanging on my every word.
‘I should go,’ I say quickly, standing up. ‘Leave you to your . . . family time.’ I’ve introduced myself and I think it’s pretty clear that I’ve bought the house fair and square, whether they like it or not.
‘The thing is . . .’ The lawyer starts to talk and Filippo translates. ‘Here in Italy, after the exchange of money and signatures, it can take some time for things to be finalised.’
I take a moment to absorb what he’s saying.
‘But they agreed I could move in!’ Oh God, don’t tell me I’ve messed this up too. Rushing in, desperate to get away from Ed and Annabel, Mum and Colin. That would be just typical of me. But they did say I could move in straight away, I remember.
