by G. R. Gemin
“OK,” said Mr Malewski. He spat on his hand and held it out.
Gross, thought Joe, but he shook on the deal, and Marta clapped.
“You’re not serious?” said Mam, standing in the lounge with Dad.
“Is great idea,” said Mimi.
Joe did the gesture with his hand. “We can’t lose. Mr Malewski and his son provide the food and cook it, and we get forty per cent of the profits.”
Mam was staring at his hand. “How do we know he’ll give us forty per cent?”
“We make sure,” said Mimi. “We find how much he charge and how many come to eat.” She pulled at the skin under her eye with a finger. “I watch them.”
“You should have consulted me, Joe,” said Mam.
“Sorry,” he said. “But can’t we just give it a try? Please!” He did the hand gesture again. “It’s free money.”
Mam felt his forehead. “How you feeling, Joe?”
“Never better,” he said.
The next day Joe went to see Nonno at the hospital and explain about Malewski’s evening meals in the cafe.
“Sixty–forty, you say?” Nonno asked.
“Yes,” said Joe.
“How many nights?”
“One so far – Polish night … for people from Poland.”
“And what did your mam think?”
“Not exactly ’appy,” said Joe. “But if it works out then Mr Malewski might not need to buy the cafe, will he? He can just use it in the evenings.”
“Maybe,” said Nonno. “How you feeling?”
“Fine… I been wanting to ask you,” said Joe. “Who was Mrs Jones? You know, the one that saved you from Johnny Corbett in the back alley?”
Nonno’s half-smile was bigger, as if the muscles in his face were getting stronger. “She was lovely, Joe. She had a lovely daughter too – Gwen.”
“Our Gwen?”
“Yes.”
“Does she know that her mam saved you that time?”
“She wasn’t even born, Joe.”
“Still. Be nice to tell her.”
Nonno began to eat the food and Joe was struck by a thought. “Who taught you to cook, Nonno?”
“Papà and Mamma.”
“Mam doesn’t cook much, does she?” said Joe.
“No.”
“Why?”
“She always let me do it,” said Nonno. “I like to cook.”
“I was telling Mimi about your lasagne,” said Joe. “I wanna cook it sometime.”
“You like Mimi, don’t you?” said Nonno.
Joe wished he could stop the blood racing to his cheeks.
* * *
When Joe got back to the cafe there were boys lined up against the window. They were cupping their hands over their eyes to see inside.
As he entered, Mam said, “Can you have a word with your schoolmates, Joe? They’re gawping and drooling on the window – it’s putting the customers off, and they’re not after a hot drink either, if you follow my drift.”
Mimi entered the cafe from the kitchen. “Hello, Joe.”
The cafe doorbell clanged with the surge of boys entering and shouting orders for drinks. Combi pushed his way to the front. “All right, Mimi?”
“Now, boys!” shouted Mam. “One at a time, please.”
Joe tried to push them back, like a rugby forward.
“Get back, you RABBLE!” shouted Bonner, standing in the doorway.
The boys fell silent and backed away.
“Thanks, Bonner,” said Joe.
“Still alive, I see?” said Bonner, slapping Joe on the shoulder. “Not built for rugby. You need a body like mine, see.”
He walked up to Mimi. “Prynhawn da, ferch brydferth.”
“What language is this?” asked Mimi.
“Welsh,” said Bonner. “Means ‘Good afternoon, beautiful girl’.”
Mimi laughed. “Grazie.”
“Come to invite you to dinner,” Bonner said. “At my place. Mam’s cooking.”
Joe panicked, and he felt Combi nudge him in the ribs.
“She can’t,” said Joe.
Mimi turned to look at him.
“Why?” said Bonner.
“She’s … she’s helping Mr Malewski to cook.”
“When?”
“Thursday,” said Joe.
“I meant tomorrow,” said Bonner.
“OK,” said Mimi.
Bonner beamed. “Tomorrow it is. Right, boys – Chicken Box. About turn!”
Combi nudged Joe again as the boys followed Bonner out.
“Will you quit nudging me,” said Joe.
“Well, you gotta do something,” whispered Combi.
“Like what?”
“She’s your cousin – you gotta protect her.”
Joe had a mind-flash of himself as the heroic tenor in an opera, sword at his side, facing Bonner, who was dressed in black and had a goatee beard.
“I’ll follow him to the Chicken Box,” said Combi. “See what I can find out.”
“You do that,” said Joe. “Enjoy the greasy food.”
“Jealous,” said Combi as he walked out.
Joe sat with Mimi to listen to the new tape from Nonno.
“Do you really want to go to Bonner’s for dinner?” he asked.
“Yes. I like to try different food and cooking, Joe.”
“Want me to go with you?”
“No. Is OK.”
Joe imagined Mimi and Bonner at a candlelit dinner table. His stomach grumbled; then he was calmed by the sound of Nonno’s voice.
“The day we heard, I was behind the counter as usual, with Mamma and Zia. It was the third of July nineteen forty. Lou rushed into the cafe, his eyes looking wild. ‘Did you hear?’
‘What?’ Mamma asked him.
‘The ship was sunk.’
‘What ship?’
‘The ship that was taking the Italians to Canada. Hit by a torpedo.’
Mamma started crying.
‘We don’t know Papà was on it,’ I said. ‘We don’t know anything.’
Lou shook his head. ‘There was only one boat taking interns anywhere – the Arandora Star.’
It turned out he was right. The Arandora Star was sunk by a German submarine as it sailed to Canada from Liverpool. It took a long time to get confirmation, but finally we were told that Papà and Mario were on board. I remembered Papà looking at me through that wire fence at the barracks. I held that picture of him in my head, and I remembered thinking that it would be the last time I saw him. It was only later that we heard there were survivors; but who had survived, and how many, we didn’t know.
As the news filtered through, people who had deserted us were coming back to say they were sorry. I was so angry – it seemed as if the Italians could now be forgiven because of the irony that the ship had been sunk by a German torpedo.
We had to sit tight and wait to hear if Papà and Mario were dead or alive…”
Joe stopped the tape. He was totally shocked.
“That is awful,” said Mimi. “They send them away and then…”
“Sunk. Torpedoed,” said Joe. He pressed play to hear the rest.
“One day PC Williams came in with a sack. It was full of money – contributions from people to have the window replaced. I started shouting about the fact that Papà could be dead and that when he was arrested we got little sympathy, only bricks through the window. ‘It was guilt money,’ I said. Mamma took the money off him, telling him it was a nice gesture.
The next day an army officer came in with PC Williams. They were very serious. I held my breath. They informed us that Papà had been rescued from the sea and taken back to Liverpool, but there was no sign of Mario. Zia broke down, and Mamma did too, but I was so happy. Of course I felt sorry for Zia, but Papà was alive.
‘There’s something else,’ said PC Williams.
‘What is it?’
‘When your father was brought back to port he was interned again—’
‘What? They’re still going to intern them – even after this?’
‘Beppe, listen to me,’ said PC Williams. ‘Your father escaped. He’s on the run, and he’s only making matters difficult for himself. The army are on the lookout for him. If he comes here, my advice is to tell him to give himself up.’
I kept my calm until they’d gone. I was furious but happy at the same time.
‘Papà’ll show them,’ I said. ‘What’s the point of giving himself up? So they can put him back on another boat to Canada, and be torpedoed again? He did the right thing, Mamma.’
I wanted to see him again, but at the same time I wanted him to keep safe and away from Bryn Mawr.”
Joe could feel Nonno’s happiness, as if it was great news that had just happened. He went downstairs with Mimi to see Mam.
“Did you know about the Arandora Star sinking?” he asked.
“Of course I did.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Nonno didn’t like to talk about it really. Anyway, your great-granddad survived, Joe – unlike poor Mario, who drowned.”
“Is strange,” said Mimi. “If Mario had not died, I would not exist.”
“How?”
“Think about it, Joe,” said Mam. “Mimi’s great-grandmother, Nonno’s aunt, married again years later, and then she gave birth to Mimi’s grandmother.”
“Oh, I see,” said Joe. “And if Vito had drowned too, I wouldn’t exist … or you, Mam. Scary.”
“Life is very fragile,” said Mimi.
“I’m glad Vito didn’t drown,” said Joe. “And I’m sorry Mario did … but I’m glad he did too, if you know what I mean.”
Mimi smiled.
“I’d better crack on with dinner,” said Joe.
“You? Is OK,” said Mimi. “I cook.”
“I want to,” said Joe. “I really want to.”
The recipe Joe chose was a simple dish compared to the lasagne he used to watch Nonno make, but it was his first solo effort. He put on an opera CD, and Mimi watched over him as he began frying garlic and anchovies. The fishy smell was very strong.
“We cook it for very little,” said Mimi, “and then we add the tomatoes.”
“I want to try doing it on my own,” he said.
“OK. I only ’elp, Joe.”
Mam came in from the cafe. “What are you going to cook?” she asked.
“Pasta puttanesca,” said Joe. “It means ‘tart’s spaghetti’.”
Mam’s eyebrow arched up.
Joe held up his hands. “It’s just a recipe, Mam.”
“How’s he doing?” she asked Mimi.
“Good,” said Mimi. “But a bit bossy.”
“Why don’t you check on the customers?” Joe said as he guided them into the cafe and closed the door.
He checked the recipe, and added tomatoes, chillies, capers and black olives. He wished Nonno was with him as he stirred the sauce.
When it was time to boil the pasta Joe asked Mimi to help him weigh out the right amount for four people.
“How will I know the pasta’s ready?” he asked.
“You try it as it cooks,” said Mimi. “If still hard, more time; if too soft you cook too long. Al dente – not too hard, not too soft.”
Joe tasted a length of pasta. It was still a little hard. When it was just right, they drained it through a colander and Joe began to put portions on to each plate.
“No,” said Mimi. “We mix the pasta in the pan with the sauce.”
“But the picture in the recipe book has the sauce on top of the pasta,” said Joe.
“Is wrong,” said Mimi. “We mix. The sauce must stick to the pasta, for taste. Doesn’t matter what it look like – taste is more important.”
“All right,” said Joe.
They mixed the pasta and the sauce together.
“Bravissimo,” said Mimi.
Joe glanced at Mam, who was watching from the doorway. When he caught her eye she smiled and said, “Well done.”
As they set the table Joe worried that the meal would taste horrible and everyone would go hungry, though he was soon encouraged by Dad. “Smells champion, Joe.”
“Yes, thank you,” said Mam.
Joe waited anxiously for Mimi to try it. He watched her twirl her fork in the spaghetti and taste it. “Is very good, Joe,” she said. “Buonissimo.”
“Yes, lovely,” said Dad and Mam.
When Joe tried it he was pleased. It was fishy, and he liked the comforting heat from the chilli. He felt content watching them eating the food he’d made.
“So, Mimi,” said Mam. “When d’you think you’ll be going back to Italy?”
Joe felt that the atmosphere of the first meal he’d cooked was ruined.
“Nonno wants her to stay,” he said.
“What? When did he say that?” asked Mam.
“Today,” said Joe, though it wasn’t completely true. “When I went to see him. He said he wanted her to stay because … while he’s in hospital he wants you to have as much help as possible, Mam.”
“Well, he never said it to me.”
“He’s had time to think about it, hasn’t he?” said Joe. “Oh, and he prefers Mimi’s food to the hospital’s. He reckons he’ll get better quicker if he eats her food.”
Mimi grinned, but Mam was looking at him like she didn’t believe him.
“And we need to diversify,” Joe added.
“What?”
“I was watching this programme on telly. Apparently the key to business success is diversity, this guy was saying – extending your business activities to disparate areas … not desperate, disparate. Had to look it up; it means different.”
Dad’s mouth was hanging open.
Mam put her hand to Joe’s forehead. “Len,” she said. “Can you take him to Dr Dhital in the morning?”
“I feel fine,” said Joe. “I just feel different about the cafe.”
“Different how?”
“I was watching another programme on the telly and some guy was selling his granddad’s war medal. He got forty pounds for it.” He did the hand gesture. “A paltry forty quid!”
Mam grabbed his fingers. “And so?”
“So what was the point of selling it?” said Joe. “It was his family’s history!”
“Yes, but… Oh, I see,” said Mam with a sigh. “The cafe’s worth far more than forty quid, Joe, and you’re going to the doctor’s tomorrow so he can check you over.”
“I’m fine!”
The phone rang and Dad picked it up.
“Hello… Oh, hello, Gwen… Oh, we can’t have that, can we… I’ll come round.” He hung up. “Gwen’s light’s gone out in her bathroom – said I’d go round.”
“I’ll come with you, Dad,” said Joe. “I wanna ask Gwen something.”
He was glad to get away.
“Oh, I’m a nuisance, aren’t I?” Gwen said as she opened the door.
“You are,” said Dad. “We were saying what a nuisance you are on the way here. Weren’t we, Joe?”
“We were,” said Joe, joining in the tease.
Gwen appeared concerned until Joe and Dad burst out laughing.
“You ’ad me going then.”
Gwen began chatting as Dad checked over the wiring. “It’s amazing what you find out on the Internet at the library,” she said. “They’re running a scheme, see, where they help you look up your family tree. Well, you’ll never guess… My uncle, on my father’s side, was a gardener for Aneurin Bevan – the founder of the NHS!”
“Was he really?” said Dad. “Jump the waiting list at the hospital with that info.”
“D’you think so?” said Gwen.
Dad laughed. “You never know. Joe! Power on!”
Joe flicked the switch and the light came on. “That seems OK now, Gwen,” said Dad. “Loose wire.”
“Thank you, Len. Now, how much do I owe you?”
“Don’t start.”
“Oh, no, c’mon.” She t
urned to Joe. “Tell him to let me pay.”
“He won’t, Gwen.”
Dad started packing away his tools. “Tell you what,” he said. “Call it ’undred quid…” There was a glimmer of fear on Gwen’s face, then Dad added, “When you win the lottery.”
She laughed, and Joe remembered what Mimi had said about her being lonely. “Why don’t you come round for dinner, Gwen?”
Gwen’s laugh faded. “How d’you mean, Joe?”
“To our home, over the cafe, for dinner one evening.”
By the expression on Dad’s face Joe was worried he’d put his foot in it, then Dad said, “Yeah… You been a loyal customer, Gwen. We got a proper Italian in, as you know. Lovely grub, Mimi does.”
Gwen smiled. “Well, I don’t know what to say. I’d love to.”
As they drove back Dad said, “That was nice of you, Joe. Inviting her.”
“Will you tell Mam?” said Joe.
“Oh, I don’t think she’ll object, but you get any other bright ideas just put ’em past me first, yeah?”
“OK,” said Joe. “I was thinking… I never knew you subbed the cafe.”
“Well, I don’t mind,” said Dad. “But listen, Joe, I don’t like to see your mam so wound up – like with this business with Malewski.”
“I didn’t do it to wind her up, Dad. I just don’t want the cafe sold.”
“I know, Joe. But I remember the cafe when I first started courting your mam. Back then it was still a busy place, but Bryn Mawr is not the same as it was.”
“That’s what I keep hearing – but it’s a town with people, lots of people,” said Joe as he shook his hands in exasperation.
“I noticed you’re using your hands a lot, Joe,” said Dad. “What’s this mean?” He held his fingers and thumb together. “It’s not rude, is it?”
“No,” said Joe. “It’s Italian.”
“Oh.”
“Helps you get your point across, Papà.”
Dad glanced at him.
“Papà means dad, Dad.”
“I know.”
Joe grinned at him.
Joe was excited and nervous as Mimi opened the valve to let the water into the chamber of the espresso machine. She stood with her hands on her hips, waiting. Mam and Dad watched from the doorway. “Switch on, Joe,” said Mimi.
