Lost in Rome

by Cindy Callaghan

  I wasn’t confident I was going to remember, so I concentrated.

  Aunt Maria threw the spoon away and continued her sauce routine.

  “You have a lot to tell me,” I said. “What’s with this family ‘gift’ that I seem to have inherited from you? You know, I always thought there was something special connecting us.”

  “I did too.” She pinched my cheek.

  “How did it start?” I asked her.

  “I was making the pizza.” She pointed into the dining room to the picture on the wall. “Right there.”

  I nodded and continued to slowly stir with the silver spoon and commit the details of the recipe to memory while listening.

  “I was young and married to Ferdinando. My lady friends were not married. They would come over for the pizza. Ferdinando’s friends would come over for the pizza too. I started getting ideas in my head about the pizzas they liked and a feeling in my heart about which lady would match well with which man.”

  “That’s exactly what happens to me.”

  “The matches, they worked.” She used the tips of her fingers to sprinkle sugar in the bubbling red liquid, stirred, and dabbed a bit on the end of a plastic spoon for me to taste. “Remember that,” she said about the taste. “Sometimes you need a little more sugar, sometimes less.”

  I tried to memorize the taste—not as easy as it sounds.

  “The matches is how we got the name Amore Pizzeria. Amore is love in Italian,” she said. “Everyone loved the matches.”

  “Then what happened? How come you ‘no mess with love’ anymore?”

  “Because of a bad match I made. I paired a woman with a man, and they go off to America. Then I met another man who I just know is the perfect match for her, but she is gone.” A sad look came over her face. “He never marry. I always see him and he so sad. I think this is my fault. I feel so guilty, I stop the matching.”

  Everything had been added to the pot. Aunt Maria turned the heat down and stirred the deep-red liquid with a long wooden spoon. “Now, we let it simmer.”

  23

  Dear Pizzeria Matchmaker: I like pepperoni pizza. I’m coming into Amore tomorrow. Please make a match for me.

  Dear “Beatrice”: Please help me find my true love. From Kelsey

  Dear Beatrice II: Please make me a match. Love, Basil and Tomato

  Cara Beatrice: Voglio incontrare il mio vero amore. Da Bianca

  I piled the four new letters on top of the old ones. AJ rolled out dough. “What are you going to do with those?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” I said. “I don’t even know anything about Beatrice. Aunt Maria was supposed to tell me about it last night, but we got so preoccupied with matchmaking that we didn’t have time. Do you know she does it too?”

  “Matchmaking?”

  I nodded and helped spread sauce on the dough. “Well, she used to, but not anymore.”

  “How come?”

  “She made a bad match and felt so guilty about it that she swore she wouldn’t do it after that.”

  “Oh man, that’s heavy stuff,” AJ said.

  “Yeah. I don’t know how I would feel if a match I made went bad. I mean, should a matchmaker really be responsible for what happens after the intro?”

  “That, Lucy, is a question for a matchmaker, which is your department,” AJ said. “I roll dough. You make matches. It works for us.”

  I sighed. “I don’t know.” I wiped my hands on a towel and picked up the small pile of letters. “I guess I’ll just hang on to these for now. What did Beatrice do with them?”

  “Well, she was dead when she started getting letters, so I don’t think there really was much she could do with them.” He slid the crusts into the oven. “How can you be Italian and not know about Beatrice and Dante?”

  “Well, I don’t. So tell me.”

  “It’s a love story,” he said, and made a face, like love was gross. “Beatrice Portinari lived in Florence about a bajillion years ago. As a child she met Dante at a party. For Dante it was love at first sight. Supposedly, they wrote letters to each other for many years.”

  “How romantic. No one does that anymore. Maybe a text sometimes.”

  “Whatever,” he said. “Eventually they each married other people, but it is said that Dante always loved her.”

  “And they reunited?”

  “No,” he said. “She died, remember?”

  “Oh, that’s a terrible ending,” I said.

  “Blahbity blah,” he said. “But there’s more.”

  “Well, don’t keep me waiting. Bring it on,” I said.

  “In Florence there is a tomb for Beatrice. Letters started mysteriously appearing. They asked Beatrice, or her ghost or spirit or whatever, for help finding love.”

  “People think I’m Beatrice?” I said. “Like, reincarnated? Or back from the dead?”

  “It’s more likely that they think you’re like Beatrice,” AJ said. “Maybe that you can help with their romantic needs.”

  “But a modern version,” I added. “What does the dead Beatrice do for them?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe makes their wishes come true, I guess. Like a wish in a fountain.”

  I looked at the letters. “I can’t make wishes come true. I’m not a magician. If they think I am, I’m going to disappoint a lot of people,” I said. “It’s just pizza and a feeling in my gut.”

  “I guess they’ll take whatever they can get.”

  “What do you think I should do with these?” I indicated the letters in my hand. “They don’t have addresses, so replying isn’t an option.”

  He tied a bandanna around his head and headed toward the walk-in refrigerator. “I bet you’ll think of something.”

  I was left wondering about a lot of matchmaker-y things and something else. The Beatrice and Dante story was bothering me, and I wasn’t sure why.

  AJ had propped the refrigerator door open and called out to me, “We’ll go to the Festa de Santa Elizabeth tomorrow night and take your mind off it for a while.”

  “What’s that?”

  He brought out a crate of cheese and sifted through it. “It’s only one of the biggest, funnest summer events in Rome. It’s a street festival that lasts all night. There’s food and dancing and music. It’s a total blast,” he said. “If there was a place like that where we could go every night, that would be awesome.”

  “Sounds great. But won’t we have to work?” I asked.

  “Nah. All the businesses close. Everyone will be at the Festa.”

  “If there really was a place like that all the time, no one would ever work,” I said.

  “I guess, or maybe then it would be more usual,” AJ said. “You know, like, normal and not such a big deal.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Well, it sounds like fun.”

  “Oh, it is.”

  “What should I wear?”

  “That’s really more Rico’s department. Besides, we’ve got customers.”

  • • •

  I could tell by the smirks on the women’s faces that they were looking for more than pizza.

  “Table for two?” I asked them.

  “Yes. And two matches, please.”

  No one else was here for lunch yet, but they would be soon. I sat them smack-dab in the middle of the dining room, thinking that would give me lots of options.

  “Tell me about your pizza. What do you like?”

  One of the women said, “Roasted vegetables.”

  The other said, “Mushroom.”

  Mushroom was easy peasy, but roasted vegetables? I didn’t have an immediate idea in mind. I went to grab my notepad.

  I kept it under the register, but when I went over, it wasn’t there. I looked on the counter, near the bar, on the ledge between the dining room and kitchen.

  It was gone.

  24

  I hustled into the kitchen and found Meataball keeping AJ company while he moved stuff around in the walk-in refrigerator. “Have you seen my matchma
king notepad?”

  “It was under the register.”

  “It’s not there now.”

  “Dunno,” he said. “Can you do it without your notes?”

  “I guess I don’t have much of a choice.”

  I sat more customers, and soon I had a selection of men to choose from: pepperoni, plain, basil, and jalapeño peppers.

  I’d never worked with jalapeños before, so I left him out.

  “I’ve matched basil and mushroom before. It’s a tried-and-true combo, but what about the lady with roasted vegetables?”

  “What is your gut telling you?” AJ asked.

  “Strangely, it’s telling me jalapeño.”

  “Then go with it.”

  “What if it’s a disaster?” I asked.

  “You won’t know until you try,” he said. “It might not be.”

  “I guess,” I said. “Let me know if you see my notes.”

  “Will do.”

  I switched the customers’ seats around. Then I watched and waited. Right away I could tell something was up with mushroom and basil. The woman’s face grew redder with each passing minute, and as I delivered her pizza, she tossed her Coke in Mr. Basil’s face. He jumped up and yelled, “What? Are you crazy?”

  She looked at me. “You are a terrible Pizzeria Matchmaker, and I’m going to tell everyone.” She slid her phone out of her purse and tapped the screen. “There. It’s posted. Now everyone knows you’re a fraud.” She stormed to the door.

  “Wait,” I said. “I’m sorry. Let me try again.”

  “No way. I’m never coming back here.” She left Amore and I could hear her yelling down the cobblestone alley that I was not a real matchmaker. The would-be customers turned and walked away.

  My heart raced.

  A bad match.

  I went into the kitchen to the walk-in refrigerator and stepped inside. I sat on the floor and held my head in my hands. A second later there was a knock on the door.

  “What?” I called out to AJ.

  A voice that wasn’t AJ’s asked, “Can I come in?”

  Rico closed the door behind himself. “Bad day?” he asked, and sat down next to me.

  “Pretty much.”

  “AJ filled me in. Was it the jalapeño?”

  “No. It was mushroom and basil,” I said. “You know, when I moved them together, I had a feeling it wasn’t a good match.”

  “Then why did you do it?”

  “Because to me, mushroom and basil just go together. Like peanut butter and jelly.”

  “Maybe you underestimate your gut.”

  I thought for a second. My gut was bubbling like a pot of simmering sauce at the moment. “Maybe I do.”

  We sat in silence for minute. “It’s cold in here.”

  I didn’t respond to the comment. “Maria, she used to be a matchmaker—”

  “We went from zero matchmakers to two. Big week in Rome.”

  “And she made a bad match that made her feel so guilty that she stopped doing it.” I explained Aunt Maria’s story.

  Rico asked, “Are you wondering if you should feel guilty?”

  “The thought crossed my mind.”

  “I don’t know what the Webster’s Dictionary definition of matchmaker is, but I think you’re just the thing that puts two people together. You create an opportunity to see if there is an initial spark,” he said. “I don’t think the matchmaker is in charge of everybody’s happily ever after.”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “That’s the job of the fairy godmother.”

  That got a smile out of me. “It is?”

  “Sure. They handle the whole bippity boppity boo.” He asked, “Don’t you guys get together for annual meetings or something?”

  I chuckled.

  “Well, you should.”

  “I guess we should,” I said. “My notes, the ones about the matches, are missing. What am I gonna do about that?”

  “I don’t know, but we better find them before someone else does, or people all over Rome could be matching themselves based on pizza,” he said. “That would be terrible. The city could crumble.” He stood and held his hand out to help me up. When I stood, we were face-to-face.

  His eyes.

  I knew them.

  I had definitely written about eyes exactly like his, or dreamed about them, or something. I had that déjà vu feeling again.

  “Are you making fun of me?” I asked about Rome crumbling.

  “Never,” he said.

  He opened the refrigerator door and let me leave first.

  A loud burst of laughter came from the dining room. It was Jalapeño.

  AJ fiddled with his phone while watching the dining room. “See.” He pointed to my stomach. “Your gut did that.”

  Rico said, “Who needs notes?!”

  Then AJ held up his phone. “You won’t believe this.”

  “The post from that lady?” I asked, figuring the unsatisfied customer’s words had jettisoned through the “interwebs” as Aunt Maria called it.

  “No. I was flipping through FaceSpace to see what was going on, and guess what someone posted?” He didn’t wait for us to answer. It says, ‘Pizzeria Matchmaker’s recipe for romance for sale.’ And there’s a photo.” He showed me.

  “Those are my notes!” I yelled.

  “I guess we know what happened to them,” Rico said.

  I pointed to the background of the picture. It was a tiny silver corner of an old pinball machine. One I’d seen before.

  “Oh no, he didn’t,” I said.

  I picked up the broom and bopped the handle on the ceiling four times. Then I yelled up the vent, “Gianna Rossi, we need to talk!”

  Four stomps followed, and a second later Gianna came in the back door. “What’s up?” she asked.

  AJ showed her the post.

  “Oh my God. Are those your notes? You lost them?” she asked.

  “No. I left them by the register, and now they’re gone.”

  “Isn’t that sort of the definition of lost?”

  “Lost? They were stolen.” I stared at her, waiting for her to catch on to my line of thought. “And I know by who.”

  “Who?” she asked. “You think I took them?”

  “No. I think Lorenzo did.” I pointed to the pinball machine. “Do you know where this picture was taken?”

  She shook her head.

  “At Pizzeria de Roma,” I said.

  She asked, “How do you know what Pizzeria de Roma looks like?”

  Busted.

  “That’s not important. What we’re talking about is that we heard Lorenzo and you talking through the vent the other night. Has he been back?”

  “I haven’t seen him since the spitball thing.”

  “I had my notes after that. How did he get them?”

  “I don’t know,” Gianna said. “Maybe it wasn’t him.”

  I looked at AJ’s phone again. “People are bidding. It’s up to eighty euros!”

  Rico tapped numbers into his own cell phone. “Don’t worry. I’m on it.”

  “What are you gonna do?”

  He whispered, “I know a gu— Hey!” he said into the phone. “Come stai, mio amico?” He walked away so we couldn’t hear him.

  Just then our friendly neighborhood deliveryman came in, pushing a dolly stacked high with cardboard boxes. “Buongiorno!” he cried, the same way he had every other time he’d come into Amore Pizza. “Today I have butter and sugar and flour. Lots of flour.” Vito spoke to him in Italian. I guess my Italian had improved, because I understood that Vito referred to our delivery guy as Salvatore and asked him about a man named Mossimo.

  Salvatore asked Gianna, “Did you get the sample of the menu I left for you?”

  “Yes. Thanks. I have just a few changes.” Gianna went to the front of the store by the register to get the sample menu. She handed it to Salvatore.

  He said, “I take it to the printer.”

  “Okay. Thanks,” Gianna sa
id.

  I asked, “So you deliver everything?”

  “I have a truck. I deliver anything anywhere. I used to run a restaurant myself, but I like to be out in the city. Not all day in the kitchen. So now I am silent partner. My brother and grandnephew, they run the restaurant. I do the accounting books at night, and all day I ride around and deliver stuff. Lots of sunshine.”

  “Which restaurant?” Gianna asked.

  “Pizzeria de Roma. You know it. It is in the piazza by the Fontana del Cuore.”

  “Yeah,” I said very casually. “I’ve seen it.”

  “I go now,” Salvatore said. “Ciao!” he cried with his standard level of pep.

  “Ciao,” we echoed with much less excitement.

  Once he was gone, I said, “He’s Lorenzo’s great-uncle.”

  “Seems that way,” Rico said.

  AJ asked, “Do you think he knows what Lorenzo did to the sauce and that he stole the matchmaker notes?”

  “I don’t know, but maybe Lorenzo will need to explain it to him when we give him a dose of his own medicine.”

  “Now?” Gianna asked.

  “Tomorrow.”

  “What exactly is this master plan?” AJ asked.

  I supplied the deets.

  “I like the way your mind works,” Rico said.

  25

  The next morning it was time to put my plan into motion. We walked through the piazza, past the Fontana del Cuore, and hid behind a statue near Pizzeria de Roma. Lorenzo’s scooter wasn’t out front. We waited for him to arrive and unlock the doors.

  For this plan to work, Gianna was going to distract Lorenzo.

  “Are you ready?” I asked her.

  She chewed on her nails.

  “Just like we practiced,” Rico said. “You can do it.”

  Vroom!

  “There he is,” I said.

  He parked his scooter, tucked his helmet under his arm, and headed for the door with keys in his hand.

  “Now?” Gianna asked.

  “Wait—wait—”

  Lorenzo unlocked the doors and was just about to step inside when I said, “Now!”

  Gianna walked toward Pizzeria de Roma with a hair flip, like we’d discussed, but—

  Oh no!

  The heel of her sandal caught between two cobblestones, and she fell.