by G. R. Gemin
“What’s fennel?” he asked.
Joe tutted.
“Well, what is fennel?” Combi asked him.
Joe panicked. “It’s fennel, isn’t it?”
“We’ve never had it,” Mam said to Mimi.
“I have!” said Joe.
“What’s it taste like then?” Mam asked.
Joe didn’t know, but before he could answer Combi said, “Liquorice! Tastes like liquorice. How weird is that?”
Joe tasted some quickly. “Not liquorice. Aniseed.”
“You like it, Combi?” Mimi asked.
“Yeah. It’s as lovely as you are,” he said.
“Oh, he’s a charmer,” said Mam.
Joe had to suppress a groan. “È molto buono,” he said to Mimi. “Buonissimo.”
“You speak Italian, Joe!” she said.
“Un poco,” he replied. “È pieno … di sapore. Saporissimo!”
“What’s that mean?” asked Combi.
“It’s full of taste,” said Joe.
“Yeah, like Coke,” Combi replied.
“Oh, by the way, Joe,” said Mam. “I signed you up for rugby training.”
“What? I don’t want to.”
“Oh, come on,” said Mam. “It’ll do you good. Mr Carter said he’s always glad of new recruits. It’s on Saturday, half past two at the Bryn Mawr ground.”
“Maybe you’ll be a natural,” said Dad. “Future Welsh International.”
“I’ll sell tickets,” said Combi, and Joe gave him a kick under the table.
“Ah yes. Rugby,” said Mimi. “Bonner – he ask me to go to watch him.”
“It’ll be dead boring,” said Combi. “Boring-issimo!” he added with a grin at Joe.
“If Joe play, I go,” said Mimi.
“OK, I’ll take you,” said Combi.
“No need,” said Joe.
“I’d like to,” said Combi.
They glared at each other.
“Combi, what do you like to eat at home?” asked Mimi.
“It varies,” he said, lacing his fingers together. “But generally speaking, Mimi, fish fingers are my favourite.”
“Fish … fingers?” she repeated. “What is this?”
“Fish in breadcrumbs,” said Dad.
“Very poor-quality food,” added Joe.
“How d’you mean, ‘poor quality’?” Combi asked.
“Well, they’re not as nice as proper fish, are they?” said Joe.
“Yes, they are – no slimy skin. I love a fish finger sandwich.”
“Fish … finger … sandwich,” Mimi repeated.
“We have fish fingers,” said Mam. “Never heard you complain, Joe.”
“Not very often,” Joe said to Mimi. “Maybe when Nonno’s not cooking.”
“Thanks, Joe,” said Mam. “So when I’ve seen you holding out your plate for more you were forcing yourself, were you?”
Combi pointed at him. “Ha!”
“Nonno asked me to bring him the tape recorder,” said Joe, to change the subject.
“What for?” asked Mam.
“He wants to carry on telling our history, Mam – the history of Cafe Merelli.”
“Joe. Can you join the real world!” said Mam. “He’s just had a stroke!”
“He wants to do it,” said Joe. “Said it would help him. He’s bored at the hospital.”
“Do him good, love,” said Dad. “Occupation – that’s the key.”
Mam sighed. “Take him the tape recorder but don’t hassle him, Joe.”
They went back to eating. Joe glanced at Mimi. He had found discouraging results on the Internet about women with younger men – they were called horrible things like “cradle snatchers”, and the men “toy boys”. He noticed Combi staring at her again.
“Combi. D’you know Rigoletto?” he asked to distract him.
“Video game, is it?”
“No. It’s an opera by Verdi. Dead good.”
Combi rolled his eyes.
“Specially when Rigoletto’s daughter gets abducted,” said Joe. “They take her for a laugh, cos they think she’s his girlfriend, see, but she’s his daughter really and he keeps her hidden away.”
“Sounds sick-issimo,” said Combi.
Joe shook his head. “It’s not. It’s opera.”
“By the way, Mimi,” said Mam. “How’s your papà and mamma?”
“Mamma is OK. She do little sewing for people, little cleaning – you know?”
“And papà?”
“Gone,” said Mimi.
“Dead?”
“No. He met a dancer from Rome and he go.”
“That’s awful.”
“Yes. Bad man,” said Mimi. “And she not even a good dancer.”
Mam shook her head.
Dad quickly got to his feet. “Joe, Combi, give us a hand with the dishes.”
Nonno was asleep when Joe got to the hospital ward, so he placed the tape recorder by his bed and wrote a note. Take your time, Nonno. Just when you feel like it. Love Joe x.
By the time he got back to the High Street it was dark – only Malewski’s and the betting shop were still open. As he walked past the cafe he spotted Mimi, with her hair tied up, working on the espresso machine. Joe waved at her, but she didn’t see him as she was totally engrossed in the job.
He ran round to the alley and into the backyard of the cafe. He was out of breath when he entered the kitchen and took off his coat. He checked his hair in the mirror, and entered the cafe as casually as he could.
“Hello,” he said. “Want a hand?”
“Yes, you can clean this,” she said, and handed him a part from inside the machine that was covered with calcium deposit.
Joe rolled up his sleeves and began to scrub it. He glanced at his biceps, but he was disappointed by how flabby they seemed. He thought Mimi was even more beautiful in the light reflecting off the shiny espresso machine, yet she seemed sad. “Is everything OK, Mimi?”
She turned to him and a strand of her hair dropped down. “Is nothing.”
Joe thought about her father going off with a dancer. “I’d like to know,” he said. “I mean… Families, eh?”
Mimi smiled and stroked his cheek. Joe’s face became hot, as if her hand had magic powers. “Is it because you miss Italy?” he asked.
“Yes, a little, but … this place make me sad, Joe.”
“What, the cafe?”
She nodded. “I speak to Nonno at the hospital and he tell me how the cafe was, long ago. A cafe is like a person, Joe – they are all different. Some cafe is relaxed, some are … how you say…” She made a snooty expression.
“Posh?”
“Yes. Some cafe is ’appy, but this one … this one is sad.”
Joe gazed around and realised that she was right.
“In Italy,” she said. “Everyone love the cafe, or the restaurant – they meet and talk, but not here, and it make me feel sad.”
“Is there … is there someone, back in Italy?” Joe asked, desperate to know. “I mean … like a boyfriend?”
“No,” said Mimi. “But once…”
“Yes?” said Joe.
An odd expression passed over Mimi’s face, like she was seeing through the walls. “My town have a festival of all local food,” she said. “Sausage, pasta, cheese, bread, everything. And they cook too – everybody sharing and tasting. Is fantastic, Joe. There was a young man, cooking fresh tomatoes. I ask him what he make. He say to me ‘a sauce’ – but he no even look at me … antipatico.”
“Anti-what?”
“Antipatico – mean not nice or rude. He cook and taste, and cook and taste. And then he mix the sauce with the pasta and then serve it for people to try. So I taste.”
“And?”
“Oh.” She gathered the ends of her fingers and kissed them. “It was beautiful, and so simple, Joe. Fantastic. I look at him and he look at me … then … PATTACRACK!”
“What?”
“When I look i
n his eyes, I hear PATTACRACK!” said Mimi, with her eyes popping wide open. “Like thunder.”
“Was he good-looking?”
Mimi pulled the corners of her mouth down. “Not really – big nose, big ears.” She laughed. “But this is not important, Joe – his food. Mamma mia!”
“Then what happened?”
“My friends take me away to try other food, and when I go back, he was gone.”
“But he must have been a local boy,” said Joe.
Mimi shook her head. “I go to see the pasta maker the next day. I pretend I want to buy his pasta. I ask about the man who cook the sauce. He say, ‘Ah, Giovanni? He go back to Naples.’ Is like he vanish, Joe, like the taste of his sauce – beautiful, but gone.” She stared out of the window as if she might catch sight of him.
“Didn’t you go to Naples to try and find him?” Joe asked.
“I couldn’t. Mamma needed me, and I had no money.” She gazed at him and tilted her head. “You ever look in someone’s eyes, Joe, and hear thunder?”
“Not thunder,” he said. “Heard music once.”
There was a knock at the window. Joe saw a smartly dressed young man, and for a moment he wondered if it was Giovanni, or a new admirer of Mimi’s. “We’re closed,” he said, though he thought it was pretty obvious.
“I’ve got an appointment with Mrs Davis,” the man said from outside. “I’m the estate agent.”
Joe opened the kitchen door and shouted upstairs. “Mam! Bloke outside – says he’s an estate agent to see you.”
“Let him in, Joe.”
He went around the counter and began to unlock the cafe door. The man came in and brushed the rain off himself. “Shocker,” he said. He looked around the cafe. “Well, this is retro.”
“Good evening,” said Mam as she entered. “You must be Mr Rawlings from the estate agent’s.”
Joe felt annoyed. “Mam, d’you tell Nonno this guy was coming?”
“D’you mind, Joe.” She turned to the man and said, “Please follow me and I’ll show you the premises.”
“She’s selling it,” said Joe as Mam and the estate agent went upstairs.
“But you knew this, no?” said Mimi.
“Yes, but not straight away. Not while Nonno’s still in hospital.” He gazed at the two black-and-white photographs on the wall. “Not now.”
“Poor Joe,” said Mimi, touching his arm, but Joe realised that no one else cared – not like he did.
Joe went straight to the hospital after school and told Nonno about the estate agent.
“You got to remember, Joe,” said Nonno. “The cafe is your mam’s. Look at the state I’m in – I can’t help now.”
“But Mimi’s here to help.”
“Only for a little while,” said Nonno. “I know what you think, Joe, but there’s something you need to realise – the cafe is our family business, but I gave it to your mam when it was already struggling. What kind of inheritance is that? Sure, I hoped that something would change, but it’s not her fault. The lunch trade went when the mines closed down, then more recently the car factory. People don’t eat out, Joe, not around here. Now your mam wants to sell. How can I stand in her way?”
Nonno’s face was drawn and sad. “I suppose so,” said Joe.
“I did more of the story for you,” said Nonno, holding up a cassette tape.
Joe went straight up to his room when he got back.
“I remember the day that Hitler invaded Poland in nineteen thirty-nine. Papà and Mario were worried because Britain and France declared war against Germany, but Italy and Mussolini did nothing. It was a very tense time. Britain was at war. Everyone was nervous – Mussolini thought that Hitler was doing well and he didn’t want to be left out. Then Hitler invaded France, and that was when we were really worried.
I think Papà knew what was coming and he started stock-piling provisions. He was preserving food round the clock – drying and storing beans, corn and potatoes. One day I was helping him as he was salting some fish, so that it would keep. ‘What’s going to happen, Papà?’ I asked.
He stopped and stared at me, like he was deciding whether I was big enough to be told. ‘Italy will join Germany and declare war against Britain.’
‘No, Papà,’ I said. ‘Mussolini is not that stupid.’
It was only two days later, very early in the morning, that I heard the knocking all the way up in the attic. It was an angry knocking, and I just knew something bad was happening.
PC Williams and an army officer came into the kitchen at the back of the cafe. I remember PC Williams just kept saying, ‘Sorry, Mr Merelli.’
The army officer explained that because Mussolini had joined Hitler and Germany, the British government had decided to intern all enemy aliens. I’ll never forget those words – enemy aliens.
Papà was confused, so the police officer put it in plain terms. ‘You’re under arrest.’ Mamma started crying, but Papà just laughed. He kissed her and told her not to worry as he’d be back later, but PC Williams shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Merelli, you won’t. You’ll be taken to the army barracks and interned indefinitely.’
‘A prisoner of war,’ the army officer added.
‘But I live here for years now,’ said Papà. ‘I open this cafe, I work here and have friends. Mussolini is a clown. My sister and her husband, Mario, come away from Italy to be here in Wales too!’
‘I’ve got orders,’ the army officer said. ‘I’m giving you and your brother-in-law five minutes to get what you need and come with us.’
I realised that what was happening was not going to be sorted in a few days. ‘I’m going with Papà,’ I said.
‘No. You’re under age,’ said the army officer. ‘And you were born here, which makes you British.’
‘I’m Italian!’ I shouted.
‘Listen!’ Papà said as he grabbed me by the shoulders. ‘You’re in charge now. You have to help Mamma and Zia. I need you to be brave and run the cafe like you know how. One day the war will be over and everything will be back to normal.’
He kissed me and said goodbye to Mamma, then he and Mario were taken away. I couldn’t understand how it could have happened. Why did the British think they needed to put all the Italians under guard? They did the same with Germans all over Britain, of course. At that moment, with all the confusion and anger in my head, I still had to open the cafe. Mamma wanted to close it. ‘And live on what?’ I said.
It was all that was left to us. It was all we had. So we opened.”
Joe stopped the tape. He sat there in amazement – he’d had no idea this had taken place. He went straight downstairs.
Gwen was the only customer as Joe entered the cafe. Mimi was sitting with her. “Mam,” said Joe. “Did you know that Great-Granddad was arrested in the war?”
“Yes, it was terrible,” she said. “Some of the Italians had been living in Wales for years, even longer than him, but it made no odds. They weren’t fascists, but the government decided to intern them just in case.”
“But why?” said Joe. “What were they afraid the Italians would do?”
“They thought that if they had sympathies towards the fascists they’d disrupt the war effort over here,” said Mam. “But Nonno’s papà didn’t agree with what Mussolini was doing, or Hitler, obviously. What brought this up?”
“I was listening to the tapes Nonno’s recorded,” said Joe.
“Oh,” she said and breathed in deeply.
“You look tired, Mam.”
“Yeah. Didn’t sleep well last night.”
“Why don’t you go upstairs for a rest?” Joe said. “I’ll take over until closing.”
“Thanks, love.” She kissed him and went upstairs.
Joe made a cup of tea and took it to Gwen. “On the house,” he said as he joined her and Mimi.
“Oh, ta, Joe,” said Gwen. “I hear your mam’s going to close the cafe?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s a such a shame,” sa
id Gwen. “Where will I go? Especially now you let us know when the bus is due. Very community-minded.”
Joe was surprised, as she didn’t exactly spend a lot of time in the cafe.
“Gwen,” said Mimi. “Can I ask what you do in the evening?”
“Me? Stay in. Watch telly. Why?”
“Do you go out at night?”
“Oh, no. A night out for me is pushing my wheelie bin to the front gate.”
“What about a meal out with your friends?”
“I can’t afford it.”
Joe received a text message. “Bus to Ponty is coming.”
“That’s me,” said Gwen. “Bye now.”
Joe opened the door for her.
“She’s lonely,” said Mimi, after she’d gone. “That’s why she come here.”
Joe realised Mimi was right as he watched Gwen make her way to the bus.
“I would like to hear the tapes I hear you talk about, Joe,” said Mimi.
“Nonno’s tapes?”
“Yes. You mind?”
“No. Course not.”
Joe enjoyed listening to the tapes again, especially sharing them with Mimi sitting beside him. They listened to the rest of the latest one.
“I heard the window smash in the middle of the night. I knew straight away it was on purpose. I couldn’t understand why people were hating us. Hating us for being the same people we’d always been – hard-working Italians. We had to get up in the middle of the night and board up the broken window. I found a brick with a note: ‘Fascists go home.’ I didn’t show it to Mamma – she was upset enough as it was.
The next morning I made a point of dressing up in a white coat, just like Papà. I wore a shirt and tie and I stuffed newspaper in his hat so that it fitted me. I was stepping into Papà’s shoes until he came back. I made up a sign, which I put over the broken window: ‘Business as usual. We are NOT fascists, now or ever.’
I saw people stop and read the sign, and then curiosity got the better of them.
‘What happened to Vito then?’
‘Where have they taken him?’
‘Daft, it is.’
I found out that Italians all over Britain had been interned. Some hadn’t been arrested, because they’d become British citizens – so they were left in peace.
