Sweet Pizza

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Sweet Pizza Page 6

by G. R. Gemin


  Papà had left Italy because there was no work and his family were struggling to make ends meet, so he came to Britain. Now he was somewhere under arrest and we were fighting for survival, all over again.

  It was difficult to get information, but finally we found out that Papà and Mario had been taken to the barracks in Cardiff, and were under guard – a prison camp, I suppose you could say. It was a ridiculous thing. Crazy.

  I decided to ask around for jobs, just to bring in a few extra coppers. I got the cold shoulder most places, but thankfully Mr Lewis the butcher took me on a few mornings a week while Mamma and Zia looked after the cafe.

  It was brave of Mr Lewis. He remembered that Papà had given him a lot of business, but, all the same, he was going against the flow.

  It was sometime later, while I was making a delivery for him, that Johnny Corbett was waiting for me in a back alley. He stood there grinning.

  ‘How’s it going, Adolf?’ he asked.

  I didn’t feel scared this time, what with everything that was happening. I was in no mood to put up with him.

  ‘I see you had a spot of bother with the cafe window?’ he said.

  ‘Was it you?’ I asked.

  ‘Me? No. But you Eyeties are not welcome – go back to Mussolini.’

  ‘I was born here.’

  ‘Welsh, are you?’ He came up to me. ‘Say you love Wales and hate Italy then.’

  ‘I love Wales,’ I said, ‘and I love Italy. We’ve done nothing wrong.’

  ‘You’re a Hitler-loving fascist.’

  They would have set upon me, but just at that moment Mrs Jones opened her back door. ‘Hello, Johnny,’ she said to him. ‘How’s your mam?’

  I could see Johnny was embarrassed. ‘Fine, Mrs Jones,’ he said.

  ‘Glad to hear it. Think she’ll be happy to hear you calling Beppe a fascist?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘OK. Let’s go then,’ she said. ‘Let’s go and see her now.’ She looked at the others. ‘And what about you boys? I know all your mams. Tell ’em as well, while we’re at it, shall we? With all that’s going on in the world right now you should be ashamed of yourselves. Go on. Get away.’

  They went with their tails between their legs.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Jones,’ I said, just managing to hold back my tears. She asked after Mamma and wished a speedy return for Papà. She was an angel.

  That’s all for now, Joe.”

  The tape ended. Joe looked at Mimi.

  “It makes me feel strange,” she said.

  “How d’you mean?”

  “Well, this cafe. Everything that happened, right here.”

  Joe nodded. “Yeah, I know. This was Nonno’s room back then.”

  He thought about the history within the walls, like the past was right in front of him. “I wonder who Mrs Jones was,” he said, gazing into Mimi’s dark eyes. “She must be someone’s mam or gran, mustn’t she? Like Nonno is my mam’s dad.”

  “You can find out, Joe,” said Mimi.

  “How?”

  “By asking Nonno.”

  The wind was icy.

  Joe was self-conscious of his stomach pushing out his rugby top, and he thought that being made to stand in the muddy field was cruel.

  “Is so cold,” said Mimi, rubbing her arms.

  Joe could only nod, as he feared his teeth would chatter if he spoke. Combi was standing on the touchline next to Mimi, wearing a huge coat and eating a Mars bar. “I reckon I’d be good at rugby,” he said. “Low centre of gravity, see.”

  Joe clenched his jaw and glared at him.

  Bonner was doing push-ups and punching out his breath. Then he stood up and grinned at Mimi.

  “Aren’t you cold?” she asked.

  “Don’t feel it,” said Bonner. He tapped his head. “I blank it out.”

  Joe wished he could blank out the whole experience.

  “Right!” shouted Mr Carter, the coach. “Let’s warm up with a sprint to the coloured bollards and back.”

  As Joe ran he could feel the freezing air cut into his lungs.

  “And again!” shouted Carter.

  Joe was still running back as everyone else charged towards him on the second lap. He was so out of breath when he came to a halt that he couldn’t even return Mimi’s sympathetic smile.

  “Y’all right, Joe?” asked Mr Carter.

  He nodded.

  “We’re going to do some scrum practice now,” he said. “I wanna try you in the front row.”

  Joe was more concerned with Bonner talking to Mimi on the sidelines. “Go on,” he was saying with his arms akimbo. “Feel my stomach – it’s like a brick wall.”

  “I’m sure,” said Mimi. “Joe! You OK?”

  “Yeah,” Joe said, still panting.

  “You don’t look it,” said Combi, pushing the end of the Mars bar into his mouth.

  Mr Carter called them together for the scrum and Joe joined the other players in the front row. They stood in a line and wrapped their arms around each other’s shoulders; then they bent over, facing the opposing players.

  “Lock your feet,” said Carter. “Make ’em like steel girders. Then when I say ‘set’, push like your butt is on fire.”

  Joe could feel the shoulders of the players behind him against his bottom. He had a sense that something bad was about to happen.

  “Crouch … Bind … SET!”

  They rammed forward and there was a crunch. It felt as if Joe had fallen from a high building and hit the ground head first. He was wedged between the heads of the opposing players. There were growls and grunts, and Joe whimpered as he stared at the muddy ground below him.

  The pressure, front and back, was unbearable. It was grinding and relentless, like he was being crushed between two elephants.

  When the scrum collapsed, Joe’s head slapped on to the ground, pressing into the mud. Bodies fell on top of him. His arms were still locked around the players either side of him, and he couldn’t breathe.

  I’m going to die, he thought.

  He imagined Mimi at his funeral, dressed in black and looking beautiful, Mam and Dad crying, and Combi eating a currant bun. Then he saw Mimi as a beautiful bride, and he felt warm and tingly. Someone took her hand and slipped a ring along her finger.

  It was Bonner.

  Oh, no.

  Joe heard a crash of cymbals and a roll of drums. He saw a huge velvet and gold curtain close before him, like at the end of an opera – then everything went black.

  When Joe opened his eyes Mam and Dad were looking at him from the end of the bed. They look serious, he thought. I must be in a bad way.

  He lifted his arm.

  “What d’you want, love?” asked Mam.

  “Wanted to see if … if my arm still worked,” Joe whispered.

  “All your body works, Joe. You blacked out – no harm done.”

  “No harm done!” he said. “Crushed to death, I was.”

  “I’m sorry, Joe,” said Mam. “Perhaps rugby was the wrong thing to try.”

  Joe wondered what the “right” thing would be, but decided not to ask. “How many days have I been here?”

  “Days?” said Mam. “Joe. You were out for a few seconds, and they took you straight to A&E. You’ll be fine.”

  “When we picked you up,” said Dad, “you were muttering something about Bonner’s wedding.”

  “That’s right,” said Mam. “What was that all about?”

  “How’s Mimi?” Joe asked to avoid the question.

  “She’s fine,” said Mam. “She wasn’t in the scrum, Joe.”

  “I meant, how is she after the shock?”

  “What shock?”

  Joe saw a look pass between them. “The shock of seeing me crushed to death,” he said.

  “She was devastated, Joe,” said Mam. “Pacing up and down and wringing her hands, she was. It was like an opera. She’s downstairs now, cooking you a special soup.”

  “Special soup?”

 
“Yeah, for people who’ve had near-death experiences.”

  “Oh, there’s nice of her.”

  “She went to see Nonno too,” said Dad. “And he gave her another tape.” He nodded towards the cassette player on the desk.

  “Oh, good,” said Joe. “You should listen to them, Mam.”

  “I know the story,” she said. “Oh, and there’s news – Mr Malewski’s made us an offer on the cafe.”

  “Mr Malewski?”

  “Apparently he wants to turn it into a restaurant.”

  “Restaurant! But I’ve got ideas, Mam,” said Joe.

  “I’ve got a few myself,” she said, “but I’d be arrested. Look, I haven’t accepted the offer – people round here won’t thank me for helping them take over the town, but it’s an offer.”

  There was a knock at the door and Mimi entered with a tray.

  Joe smiled to see her. She seemed even more beautiful somehow – glowing, he thought. Then he saw Combi follow her in. “All right, Joe? Brought you Zombie Wrangler.”

  Joe would have preferred to be alone with Mimi, and he certainly wasn’t in the mood to be killing zombies. Combi set up the game console as Mam and Dad left.

  Joe tasted the soup. It was lovely. “Grazie,” he said. “Stupendo.”

  “Prego,” said Mimi as she sat on the end of the bed.

  “Little more basil, maybe,” he added.

  Mimi glanced at him, and Joe smiled.

  “Have you played Zombie Wrangler, Mimi?” Combi asked.

  “No. I don’t play these games.”

  Joe rolled his eyes for Mimi’s benefit. He gathered his fingers and shook his hand, but Combi was already handing her the controller. “I’ve set it on ‘easy’.”

  The screams, zaps and noise of the game didn’t help Joe’s head, which was still throbbing.

  “Ah, you killed me!” said Combi.

  “I wish,” Joe muttered. He glanced at the tape recorder and decided to put on headphones to listen to the tape.

  The annoying noises of the game were replaced with Nonno’s soft, close voice.

  “I worked extra hard after Papà and Mario were taken away. One day a young man came into the cafe. He asked to speak with us in private. He was the son of one of our Italian neighbours, Domenico Zecchini. Well, this boy, Lou Zecchini, was born in Wales like me, and he’d been called up for the war. He was one of the soldiers at the barracks in Cardiff, guarding the interned Italians.

  ‘It’s crazy, this internment,’ Lou said. ‘My dad was arrested and interned at the barracks, so now I’m guarding him – my own dad! It’s insane. But I’m not allowed to speak out as I’m in the army.’

  He banged the table with his fists, he was so angry.

  He’d brought us a message from Papà and Mario. They were being treated well and were going to be moved soon, but they didn’t know where.

  Lou took a big risk getting that message to us.

  ‘What if I were to come to Cardiff?’ I asked. ‘D’you think I could see Papà?’

  Lou shook his head. ‘No visitors allowed.’ Then he had a thought. ‘There’s a far side of the camp, away from the road. The men are allowed outside between eleven and twelve. You can talk through the wire fence. I’ll let them know the day you’re around, but if any of the guards spot you they’ll send you packing.’

  That night me, Mamma and Zia prepared food and some wine in the hope I could pass it to them. Me and Mamma wrote a letter to Papà, and Zia wrote one to Mario.

  The next day I arrived at Cardiff station and walked to the army barracks, which were a few miles away. I had the food in a duffle bag. I also had a pair of pliers in my pocket, which was a bit silly, but if Papà wanted to escape then I wanted to help him.

  When I got to the barracks I checked my watch – I was early. I could see the guards at the gates but I couldn’t see Lou. So I walked round to the far side and waited behind a tree. I was shaking with nerves. There was a platoon of soldiers on drill with a sergeant shouting orders at them. I can still hear the crunch-crunch of their boots on the tarmac.

  At eleven o’clock on the dot I saw men being led out into the courtyard. They wandered around, under guard. I saw Papà and Mario straight away, just by the way Papà walked with his hands behind his back, as if he was taking a passeggiata. Lou must have spoken to them because they were looking for me. I went up to the fence. Of course, I didn’t want to be spotted so I just raised one arm and hoped they’d see me. They did, and slowly came towards me. I did my best to hold back my tears as I knew that we might not have much time. I forced a smile as they came to the fence.

  ‘Ciao, Papà.’

  ‘Ciao, Beppe.’

  I passed food through the fence, but the salami and the wine were too big.

  ‘How is Mamma?’ Papà asked.

  ‘She’s OK, but no one tells us anything.’

  He nodded. ‘They’re moving us.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Liverpool. They are sending us away, on a ship.’

  I tried to speak, but Papà flashed his eyes wide. ‘Listen! They are sending us both to Canada. You’ll have to look after everything, Beppe. You’re in charge.’

  ‘But why Canada?’

  ‘They think we are enemy aliens, and in Canada we’ll be far away. I‘ll be back, Beppe. I promise.’

  I passed the letters from Mamma and Zia through to him and Mario, and then I heard a shout. A soldier was running towards us. Papà put his fingers through the fence. I clasped them and started to cry.

  ‘Get away from this fence!’ the soldier said.

  ‘I’m talking to my son!’ Papà’s voice was hard and dark, and it made the soldier step back. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ Papà said to me. ‘One day we’ll laugh about this.’ He smiled, but it wasn’t his usual smile. He seemed scared, and I’d never seen him scared before. I remembered the salami and the wine, and pleaded with the soldier. ‘Will you take these for them? Please?’

  He checked around. ‘Throw them over and go quickly.’

  I threw the salami and wine over the fence, which got the attention of the other Italians. ‘Go,’ said Papà. ‘Go back to the cafe. Bacio per Mamma.’

  Walking away from that fence was the most painful thing I’ve ever done in my life. I couldn’t believe that everything had turned so bad in such a short period of time. I hated the British and I hated the Italians for joining Hitler. I’ve never felt so angry, or so scared, and I wondered if I’d ever see Papà again.

  I’ll stop for now, Joe.”

  It all seemed to be getting worse for Nonno, and sending Italians to Canada was mad. Joe realised that Nonno was running the cafe when he was no older than he was. He was feeling peculiar – sort of tingly and a little scared. He thought about what Nonno had said about everything turning bad so quickly.

  “Time is precious,” he said aloud.

  Mimi turned away from the video game and smiled.

  “Fifty-seven zombies I killed, Joe,” said Combi. “You wanna game?”

  Joe got up and went to the bedroom window.

  “You OK?” asked Mimi.

  “I’m fine.” Joe gazed down at Mr Malewski’s Emporium. The cafe might be sold to a man who would turn it into a restaurant, and take it away from Joe’s family forever. “It’s up to me now.”

  Joe sneaked out without telling anyone. He hadn’t a clue what he’d say to Mr Malewski but he wanted to go all the same.

  The shop was busy and Joe wished he’d asked Mimi to come with him. He wandered down the aisle, looking at the produce. “You liked the sausage, Joe?” asked Marta. “Why not try a different one?”

  “No, thanks,” he said. “Why does your dad want to buy my cafe?”

  “To start a restaurant. Good business,” she said. “Maybe one day I’ll own your cafe, as well as Emporium.” She laughed, which Joe thought she did a bit too often.

  Mr Malewski walked up to them, together with Dariusz, who was carrying a leg of ham over his shoulder. Joe f
elt like he was surrounded. “Why don’t you buy one of the other shops for your restaurant?”

  “No kitchen,” said Dariusz. “You have kitchen, tables and chairs – a restaurant. Job done. Where is Mimi?”

  “Around,” Joe said.

  “She has boyfriend?” Dariusz asked, staring at him with his fierce blue eyes.

  Joe was irritated by the question. He pulled the corners of his mouth down and shrugged at the same time. It worked and felt natural.

  “Did your mother take my offer yet, Joe?” Mr Malewski asked.

  “Don’t buy the cafe, please,” he said.

  Mr Malewski frowned. “Why?”

  “People don’t eat out any more. Not around here,” said Joe, using Mam’s own argument.

  “Disagree,” said Mr Malewski. “When people are away from home they come together. We will cook food for Polish, Russians, et cetera, et cetera. Good business.”

  “Good business,” repeated Marta.

  Through the shop window Joe saw the cafe across the road. It was closed and seemed all too sad. He imagined it brightly lit, full of people eating and raising their glasses. “Why don’t you do a trial?” he said.

  “Trial?”

  “Use the cafe one evening. Cook meals for the Polish or whoever and … you pay us for using the cafe.”

  Mr Malewski glanced at Dariusz, then back at Joe. “No.”

  “Wait, wait,” said Marta. “It’s a good idea – try before we buy!”

  Mr Malewski spoke to Dariusz in Polish. Dariusz shook his head. Marta spoke to them both, flapping her hands to get their attention. She turned to Joe. “How much do you want for one night using your cafe?”

  Joe didn’t have a clue, but found himself saying, “Fifty per cent of profits.”

  It was odd – he had spoken so confidently.

  “Fifty per cent! Too much,” said Mr Malewski.

  “OK. Sixty–forty to you,” said Joe.

  “Sixty–five, thirty–five,” he replied.

  Joe did the hand gesture under Mr Malewski’s nose. “If you buy the cafe you’ll have to spend a lot of money,” he said. “This way you don’t lose.”

  “And I help cook.”

  Joe turned and saw Mimi.

 

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