Lost in Rome

by Cindy Callaghan

  “And you think it was Lorenzo?” Rico asked.

  “He was alone in the kitchen,” I pointed out.

  “How do you know that?” Gianna asked.

  Rico said, “It’s amazing what you can learn when you’re crouched on the floor in Jane Attilio’s apartment.”

  Gianna asked, “What? Crouched?”

  AJ said, “Don’t worry, I don’t get it either.”

  Gianna finally realized what we meant. “You listened to my private conversation?” she shrieked.

  “You let Lorenzo in the kitchen,” I said defensively. “Pizzeria de Roma is Amore’s biggest competition. Don’t you think that was, like, a bad idea?”

  AJ said, “Whoa. Stop right there. He was in Maria’s kitchen? Lorenzo?” He threw his hands up in frustration. “He would totally ruin the sauce.”

  “No way,” Gianna said. She tilted the scooter’s mirror to catch a glimpse of him. She studied him for a second. “You think?”

  “Totes,” I assured her. “And I think he’s following us to find out where Maria gets her stuff.”

  “Or maybe he’s following me,” Gianna said.

  I loved her optimism, but she just wasn’t being realistic. “Don’t worry,” I said. “We’ll get back at him.”

  AJ asked, “Like, how? Are we talking about food contamination? Or maybe give them a little cockroach infestation? A health code violation? A huge ‘closed for renovation’ sign?”

  “Your mind is way more creative, and scarily sinister, than I’d ever imagined,” I said to AJ.

  “Really, dude,” Rico said. “Remind me not to make you mad.”

  “So, what’s the plan?” Gianna asked.

  “It’s brewing,” I assured them. “You leave that to me. We’ll get him when he least expects it.”

  “Cool.” AJ looked at his watch. “But right now we need to track down some tomatoes. Or is it tom-ah-toes?”

  No one answered his question.

  Rico unfolded the paper with instructions and looked around. “They’re there.” He pointed to a nearby open-air market.

  “But Lorenzo will see where we get them,” I said. “He’ll try to copy Aunt Maria’s sauce.”

  “Fret not, Pizzeria Matchmaker, I’ll take care of that,” Rico said. “You get”—he checked the paper—“a hundred tomatoes.”

  “I’m on it,” I said. I ran about two steps, then turned back to Rico. “Don’t actually injure him.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” Rico said. Then to Gianna, he said, “You’re helping me.”

  “I am? I don’t know; that’s not really my style.”

  “Make it your style,” I said. “This is kinda your fault. Aunt Maria told you to stay away from him.”

  “She also told you to ‘no mess with the love,’ ” Gianna said.

  “True, but that hasn’t been a disaster,” I said.

  “Yet,” she added, and left with Rico.

  I hoped that wasn’t true.

  AJ asked me, “What do you want me to do?”

  “Stay here and guard the garlic,” I said. “If you see me do this”—I flapped my arms like a bird—“that means I need help with the tom-ah-toes.”

  “So, I’m your wingman?” he asked.

  “If that’s what you wanna call it. Sure.”

  “I’m calling it that,” AJ confirmed.

  Maybe I should tell you what my opinion was of AJ at this point. I liked him. Not liked liked (well, maybe a little). I thought he was a fun wingman to have around. But if those tomatoes grew feet, organized into an army, and started taking over the planet, I don’t know that I would want him in my rebel troop. I didn’t think he could handle a serious zombie tomato event.

  Zombie tom-ah-toes? Now, that was an idea for a story.

  20

  I found the vegetable stand in the outdoor market where Rico had directed me. The tomatoes looked red and ripe and without the slightest hint of coming to life with a desire to take over the planet.

  “Buongiorno,” a woman wearing a short black apron with pockets said. “I help you with something?”

  “Sì. I am Lucia Rossi, Maria’s niece. She sent me to get tomatoes for her.”

  “Ah, sì. You are early this week. She was just here.”

  “Right. I know. We had a little sitch—situation.”

  She looked at me like she didn’t understand.

  “You see, my sister Gianna, she likes this boy. The kind that she shouldn’t like, if you know what I mean. And, well, she let him into the kitchen of all places, and—”

  The woman stared at me blankly. She didn’t follow what I was saying. “You know what?” I asked. “Never mind. I’ll just take a hundred tomatoes.”

  She hoisted a jug onto the table and then another, and another and two more. Four.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “For Maria, I peel and crush. Always I peel and”—she smashed her fist into her palm, like, really hard—“crush.”

  Now, that’s a woman I’d want in my rebel army troop.

  “Gotcha. A lot of crushing.” I looked at the jugs. Now I knew why Aunt Maria had sent all four of us. I couldn’t carry all this. I stepped out into the open space and flapped my arms, but my wingman was nowhere to be found.

  Grrr.

  The tomato woman looked at me. “You okay?”

  “Sì.” I took two of the jugs. “I’ll come back for those.”

  “No problem,” she said.

  I carried one in each arm. Man, they were heavy. How did Aunt Maria do this? She must’ve had some kind of system. “Oh.” I turned back to the woman. “What do I owe you?”

  “You no worry. Maria never need to pay with me.”

  I nodded.

  Then she asked, “You don’t have the case?”

  “Case of what?”

  “Maria, she put the tomatoes in a—” She made a motion with her hands like a big square. “It has a handhold, and she pull it on the wheels.” She pointed to the jugs. “Too heavy to carry like that.”

  No duh.

  “Box with a handhold, huh?” I set the jugs down and looked around the market. “Gimme a minute, please.”

  “Sure. You have one minute, two minute, as many minute as you want.”

  I walked around to the various vendors. I smelled leather and oil, even though I saw neither.

  “Acqua?” a man selling bottles of water asked me. He kept the bottles in a cooler with a handle that slid out to roll it along.

  I looked into it. He only had three bottles left, I guess because it was late in the day. “Can I have all three bottles?” I asked.

  “Sì!” He seemed excited to sell out.

  “And your cooler, too?”

  “This?” He pointed to the cooler. “No. No. Not for sale.”

  I reached into the back of my pocket. “How about five euros?”

  “No. No.” He shook his head.

  “How about ten euros?”

  “No.” He considered. “Fifteen euros?”

  “Deal,” I said, and BAM! I had a way to get the jugs to Aunt Maria’s without my arms falling off.

  I rolled it behind me, loaded the jugs, and returned to the scooters, where AJ stood eating a panino.

  “Seriously? You left your wingman for a sandwich?”

  He looked at the sandwich. “Sorry.” Then he said, “I thought I was the wingman.”

  “You’re mine and I’m yours. We’re each other’s wingman. That’s the way it works.”

  “Really?” AJ asked. “You think?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  He looked at the cooler. “What’s that?”

  “One hundred tomatoes. Peeled and”—I smashed my fist into my palm—“crushed.”

  “Sweet.” He bit the panino. “You want a bite?”

  “I guess.”

  • • •

  By the time Rico and Gianna returned, laughing, AJ and I had lifted the cooler onto the back of one of the scooters and secured it. />
  “What’s so funny?” I asked.

  “You should’ve seen how Rico distracted Lorenzo,” Gianna said.

  “That dude is such an idiot,” Rico said. “I blew cherry pits through a straw and pegged him right in the face.” He laughed so hard he could hardly get the words out. “I was hiding, and he was looking all around, like ‘What was that?’ And he ran in our direction, but we had moved.”

  Gianna said, “When he got to the place where we had been, Rico blew another from a totally different spot.”

  “Then we split up and pegged him from two sides. He didn’t know what to do with that,” Rico added. To Gianna he said, “I swear you’ve done that before. Your aim was on the money.”

  “First time, I swear.”

  “Where is he now?” I asked.

  “He took off,” Rico said. “I don’t think we have to worry about him anymore today.”

  “Today,” I repeated. “What about the rest of the week?”

  “What’s your plan to get even with him?” AJ asked.

  “The details are still coming together in my head,” I said. “This type of genius takes careful consideration, but it’s gonna be good.”

  21

  “To the Piazza di Spagna and the Spanish Steps,” Rico said, starting up his scooter, the back end of which sagged due to a cooler with four heavy jugs of crushed tomatoes.

  He gave us a forward wave and rode off. Slowly.

  The other motorists honked at us, and a few yelled. Luckily, I couldn’t understand their Italian. Slow was not the Italian way of driving. A group of teen boys on bicycles chuckled as they pedaled past us.

  I had come here to the Spanish Steps the last time I was in Rome, but that was such a long time ago that I hardly remembered. The Piazza di Spagna was huge and very crowded. The Fontana della Barcaccia sat in the middle of the piazza. People of all ages sat on the edge of the fountain, sipping coffee or eating granitas or gelato with little plastic spoons. Shopping bags from Fendi, Prada, and Gucci sat on the ground next to them.

  Behind the fountain was a grand staircase—I mean it was HUGE, and beautiful. I didn’t count, but it looked like more than a hundred massive stone steps. At the top was an ancient church. Flowers—pots of colorful violets and daisies—lined the steps on either side.

  Ladies in flowing skirts, carrying baskets filled with long-stemmed red roses, strolled up and down the steps. When they saw a couple posing for a photograph, one of the ladies would encourage the man to buy a rose for his date.

  “We have to go up there.” Rico pointed to the top of the steps. “There are shops. One of them sells herbs.”

  As I followed Rico up the steps, I was totally overcome with déjà vu. You know the feeling like you’ve been somewhere or done something before? Well, I had actually been here before, but it was more than that—I felt like I had been here before with Rico. And as fast as the feeling came, it left.

  AJ and Gianna walked up too. Our climbing was interrupted by a woman selling roses from a basket. “For your girlfriend?” she asked AJ.

  “Oh, she’s not my girlfriend. She’s a friend.”

  The woman said, “And she’s a girl. So, she is your girlfriend. Buy her a flower.”

  “Um . . . er . . . um.” AJ couldn’t form a single non-mumbled word.

  “No, thanks,” I said.

  We caught up to Rico and Gianna, who were taking a rose from a different woman. I imagined Rico couldn’t say “No, thanks” either, and Gianna probably really wanted the rose.

  The woman handed one to me.

  “No, thanks,” I said again.

  “Oh, you take this. You are Maria Rossi’s niece, sì? You must have a rose.”

  “How did you know that?” I asked.

  “It’s all she’s talked about for days, and you look just like her.”

  I took the rose. “What do we owe you?”

  “Nothing. I’d do anything for Maria.”

  “Wow. Thanks.” I wondered what Aunt Maria had done for her.

  “I am Carina.” She shook my hand.

  “Hi. I’m—”

  “Lucy. I know. I hope you have a wonderful visit.” She turned to another customer after saying “Ciao” to us.

  We made it to the top of the steps and found the shop that had the herbs for the sauce. Thankfully, herbs were much lighter than jugs of crushed tomatoes. Then we headed back to Amore Pizzeria, with the tomato jugs weighing us down. After safely tucking the coveted ingredients way in the back of the walk-in fridge, we all helped with the few remaining dinner customers.

  “Do you need me to, you know . . . make any matches?” I asked Aunt Maria.

  I followed her eyes to the dining room. “Is all taken care of,” she said.

  There were couples holding hands, giggling, smiling, and exchanging phone numbers.

  “How did you do that?” I asked her. “How did you know who to match with who? I didn’t ever show you my notes.”

  She rang up two customers at the cash register. “Grazie,” she said to them. They walked down the cobblestone alley arm in arm.

  “The notes do not matter. Is not like sauce. There is no recipe you can follow,” she said. “It is a feeling. A gift.”

  “Matchmaking is a gift?” I asked.

  Aunt Maria smiled. “Sì, one that runs in the family. You aren’t the only one who knows the matchmaking.”

  22

  I couldn’t believe it. “Whoa! You can do it too?”

  She laughed. “Yes, I can.”

  “That is, like, cool with a side of oh yeah!”

  “Right. ‘Cool,’ ” she said. “Yeah.”

  “I can’t believe this! Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” I asked.

  “Meddling in matters of love is big responsibility. Some matches go wrong. I know this.”

  “But lots go right.” I pointed to the backs of the couple who had walked out a minute ago.

  “Oh, I know. I make many, many good matches, but then I stop.”

  “Why?”

  She looked at the clock. “For another day,” she said, and reached under the counter. “But look at this.” It was a basket with three envelopes.

  “What are those?”

  “Letters from people asking the Pizzeria Matchmaker for help,” she said. “They think you are the new Beatrice.”

  “Who’s Beatrice?”

  “I tell you the story later. You are not the only one who can tell the story. That run in the family too.”

  “We have a lot to talk about,” I said.

  “Sì. We will talk while we make the sauce.”

  Then she pulled a large piece of laminated paper from under the cash register. “Salvatore the deliveryman leave this here on the counter today.” She handed it to me.

  “The happy guy who brings meat and bread? He brings menus, too?”

  “Sì. Salvatore. He bring everything. That is the job of the deliveryman.”

  “I guess,” I said. I thought it was a little strange that he would deliver pasta and menus—very different things.

  She pointed to an item on the menu—the New York—that I had added. “What is this?”

  “It’s great,” I said. “I’ll show you how to make it.”

  “I hope you will. Now, we better start on the sauce. It take six hours.” Aunt Maria announced, “No big dinner tonight. Me and Lucy, we make the sauce. We will eat while we clean up.”

  I followed her into the kitchen.

  Vito had a big pot of leftover spaghetti. He put some on a plate and cut it up for Meataball, then made a plate for himself.

  I took a round roll and hollowed out the soft middle. Then I filled it with spaghetti, sauce, and mozzarella cheese. I set the other half of the roll on top and pushed down.

  “What you doing?” Aunt Maria asked.

  “It’s a spaghetti Parmesan sandwich. I made it up.” I took a bite.

  “Mamma mia.”

  “It’s good.” I handed it to her, and she t
ook a bite.

  “Sì. It is good,” she agreed. I think she was surprised she liked it!

  I made one for everyone.

  AJ bit into his. “It’s the perfect way to take spaghetti on the go. The only thing that would be better would be if we could put it on a stick.”

  I thought about this while I cleaned. Spaghetti on a stick? Good idea! Could it be done?

  With everyone helping, it didn’t take long to reset the dining room for lunch tomorrow.

  Aunt Maria waved her arms. “You are all done with the cleanup. Grazie. Now, you go. Lucy and I have to work.” She shoved everyone out the door.

  The gang left. Aunt Maria locked the door behind them and turned off the lights except for the kitchen. “Get the ingredients.”

  I did as directed while Aunt Maria lifted a huge metal pot akin to a cauldron onto the stove. She slid a little step stool over so that she could get high enough to see inside the pot.

  She poured in olive oil without measuring and put the burner on low-medium while she showed me how to use a garlic press.

  She said, “You put the garlic in the oil.” She waited for me to press seven cloves and add them to the oil. I added it carefully and snapped my arm back when the garlic popped and sizzled.

  “Now you stir.” She took a very long silver spoon off a hook on the wall. “Only this spoon.”

  “How come? Does it have some special Italian magical power?”

  “Always with the story, you are,” Aunt Maria said. “It is the spoon I always use to make the sauce, and the sauce is always good, so that is the way to make it.”

  “My explanation is much more interesting.”

  “Sì,” she said. “But just a story.”

  We carefully worked through the rest of the secret recipe, adding tomatoes and herbs. She measured nothing, and I wasn’t allowed to write anything down. “That is how it stay a secret. It is here.” She pointed to her head.

  “How do you know you’re getting it right if you don’t measure?”

  “You taste every time. Your taste know if it is right.” She took a plastic spoon and touched the garlic and oil with it. She let it cool for a sec, then let me lick it. “Close your eyes. This is how it should taste right now.” She paused. “Remember it.”