On cue, Daniela carried in a huge, covered ceramic bowl and placed it in the centre of the table. Then came its twin, which she set down beside it.
‘Oh, Alfredo!’ Arianna cried. ‘Grandma Moretti’s pasta dishes! I haven’t seen them in years.’
‘I know. I haven’t used them in years.’
‘Do you remember the day we filled them with water and soaked our old postman from the bedroom window?’ The table erupted into laughter. ‘As our punishment,’ Arianna finished, ‘we had to dry all the envelopes in the sun and hand-deliver every last one of them!’
Alfredo stood up and placed a hand on top of each ceramic lid, and the table went quiet. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I present Grandma Moretti’s secret sauce!’
He lifted the lids in a cloud of hot steam. The aroma was incredible. One of the dishes was piled to the top with ribbons of pasta and perfectly placed last-minute basil leaves, while the other contained a mountain of spicy red sauce. Arianna passed the plates forward in rotation, and her brother smothered every plate with a healthy combination of pasta and sauce. Daniela appeared again, with freshly grated bowls of pecorino and Parmesan cheese and a basket of warm bread.
‘Now, this sauce has been in our family for as long as anyone can remember,’ Alfredo said, ‘and it has quite a kick. I hope everyone likes garlic and chillies.’
Soon the only sounds in the room were the clicking of cutlery and the soft groans of approval. It was as if the Moretti ancestors were gathered by the ceiling rose in anticipation, floating near the cornicing on a temporary visa from the other world to make sure that the family reputation lived to see another day.
‘Oh, Alfredo, it’s magnificent!’ Arianna said. ‘Grandma would be so proud!’ Everyone raised a glass to the host.
Fergal was nervous that he was going to smash one of the good plates or knock over his crystal wine glass. He had been clumsy as a child, but that had been because of the cramped living space and the constant need to dodge fists and flying objects. He didn’t know what had got into him over the past few days to make him so jittery. It was as if he was trying not to feel too much for Fintan, because somewhere at the back of his mind he felt he didn’t deserve to be happy.
He reached for the bread and almost knocked over his glass. When he looked around the table, he realised that he had emptied his plate well ahead of everyone else. Fintan laughed. ‘My God, Fergal, do they not feed you here?’
Everyone joined in the laughter, and Fergal went bright red with embarrassment. Alfredo and Arianna were always trying to get him to eat more slowly, but rushing through meals was a hard habit to break, even though he no longer had to worry about his brothers’ antics or his parents’ attacks. The inner Belfast voice was back: Fintan’s used to this kind of life, it said. He belongs in it. You’ve just borrowed it, so you have. You don’t deserve it, not one bit.
Fergal felt genuinely hurt that Fintan had drawn everyone’s attention to him like that, and he began to fume silently. It struck him suddenly, as he looked around at the assembled company, that he had never eaten with his own family like this, around a table. The table had always been covered in damp washing as Angela waited for the rain to stop so she could hang it up on the makeshift line in their tiny back yard. They had eaten in the living room, in front of the telly. Maybe Fintan doesn’t really love me, he thought suddenly. Maybe he just feels sorry for me.
The wine was strong and thick. Fergal had never tasted anything quite like it, but it made him feel more and more vulnerable. He looked around at the familiar faces and convinced himself they were all looking back at him with pity in their eyes. He felt Fintan’s hand trying to take his, but he knocked it away. Ignoring Fintan’s puzzled look, Fergal pushed back his chair, excused himself and went upstairs to the toilet.
Fintan followed him and tapped on the bathroom door. ‘Fergal? Fergal, let me in. What’s the matter?’
The door clicked open and Fergal stood there, looking furious. ‘Did you have to make me feel so stupid, in front of everyone?’ ‘What? What are you talking about?’
‘Jesus, don’t pretend you don’t know!’
‘I don’t! You mean because I teased you about eating quickly?’
‘Bingo!’
‘Ah, Fergal, I didn’t mean anything. God, but you’re oversensitive! Come here...’
Fergal pushed him away. ‘Look, I know I didn’t grow up like you, with too much of everything to choose from, but—’
‘Oh for fuck’s sake, Fergal, I’m not going to apologise for not being poor. What are you saying, that I wanted to make you look like a fool? Jesus Christ, I don’t believe it!’
‘Fucking believe it, Fintan. Why on earth would you be even slightly interested in me, anyway? Are you bored or something? Are you just looking for someone to keep you amused till you get back to Paris or London or where-fucking-ever—’
‘Fergal, stop it! I don’t deserve this shit over a throwaway remark.’
‘Is that all I am to you? Someone you can throw away?’
‘Don’t twist my words. Why are you being like this? Have you drunk too much, or—’
‘Oh, how fucking convenient: the drunk Paddy. Sorry, sir—’
‘Stop it, Fergal, stop it! You know I didn’t—’
‘Oh, fuck off.’
Fergal pushed past him and rejoined the supper party. Everyone managed a second helping of the pasta, except Fergal, who was feeling more self-conscious than ever. ‘With so much garlic in the sauce,’ Alfredo joked, ‘none of us has a hope of being kissed tonight!’ He shot a little glance at Fintan and Fergal. ‘Unless, of course, the kisser has also been eating it...’
Fergal looked stony-faced and Fintan coughed uncomfortably. Alfredo, realising he had touched a nerve somehow, dropped the subject and asked Fintan what he thought of Rome.
‘I love it. I’ve been giving it a lot of thought, and the more time I spend here, the less I want to leave.’ He glanced at Fergal for a second. ‘I was talking to Dad today, and I’ve decided I want to apply for a place at the art institute here to continue my studies, concentrating on oils. My years in Paris have been incredible, but it’s time to move onwards and upwards - and where better than here?’
Fergal thought his heart would come out his mouth. He felt completely stupid about the earlier fight.
‘That’s wonderful news, Fintan, it really is,’ said Alfredo.
‘Yes,’ Brendan said. ‘I’m delighted to think of my son spending time here - and it’s yet another excuse to come back. We do have to find him somewhere to live, though, a little studio flat, somewhere as close to the institute as possible. Alfredo, do you know an agency we could approach?’
Alfredo thought for a moment, his face serious. ‘Fintan, if you’ll permit me, I would like to offer you the other spare room in this house, at least until you find somewhere. That way you can take your time to find the right place. The room is full of junk right now, but it could easily be ready by the time you get back.’ Fergal was stunned. ‘Alfredo, that’s an amazing offer,’ said Fintan, shooting a look at his father to gauge his reaction, ‘but I couldn’t possibly expect you to go to any more trouble than you have already. Honestly, it would be too much.’
‘Yes, Alfredo,’ said Brendan. ‘You’ve done so much already.’
‘Brendan, Fintan.. .this week has been unforgettable, and I would be insulted if you came back and stayed in a hotel. Fergal, tell Fintan here that it’s not such a bad house to live in, will you? The food has its moments, even if I say so myself.’
Fergal managed to nod his head. He couldn’t look at Fintan. ‘It’s settled, then,’ said Alfredo, raising his glass. ‘To our new house guest, Signore Fintan Fiscetti!’
They raised their glasses. Although Arianna was a little concerned about her brother’s generosity, she knew of old that there was no point in challenging him, and she was deeply moved by the fact that he seemed genuinely happy, for the first time in a long while.
As the remain
s of the main course were taken away, Brendan was deep in conversation with Alfredo, and Arianna asked Fintan about Paris; He told her about St Germain and the view from the top of the steps at the Sacre Coeur. ‘You can walk almost to the top of the Eiffel Tower now. There are steps all along the steel framework, and although it’s steep, it’s definitely worth it.’
When Arianna turned to talk to Brendan, Fintan leaned closer to Fergal. ‘I wanted to tell you earlier, but maybe you don’t care?’
The chairs were pushed back a bit, and the room seemed to breathe more easily. They decided to take a break from eating, and Alfredo warned them all jokingly about Daniela’s imminent dessert - ‘No pressure, of course, she only spent most of yesterday making it in our honour!’
Fergal was dying to ask Fintan about his decision to move to Rome, but he didn’t know how. Luckily, Arianna asked the questions instead. ‘That’s great news about the art institute, Fintan.’
‘Well, it will be if they accept my application. I have to go back to Paris and update my portfolio. I have to photograph the newer pieces and make slides for the institute to appraise, then I’ll ship all the stuff to London or Bath for storage.’
‘How long will that take?’
‘It’s hard to say. I’m hoping no more than a month or so. I have the apartment in Paris for another three months, but I’ll see if the landlord doesn’t mind me leaving earlier. Dad might even get his deposit back.’
Fergal felt smaller and smaller as he listened. While he had been living with his Granny Noreen in her wee two-up-two-down mess, Fintan had probably been ordering a latte somewhere in Paris and deciding what to paint. He couldn’t help feeling jealous and inadequate, even though he knew it was hardly Fintan’s fault.
Arianna lit a long cigarette by the open window, once she was sure no one minded, and Fintan looked at her enviously and then at his father. ‘Look, I’ll only have one. You don’t have to watch. Anyway, it’s all Paris’s fault. I didn’t smoke as much before I moved there.’ He glanced at Fergal. ‘But I certainly need one tonight.’
Brendan looked at Alfredo, and they both threw their eyes to the ceiling in despair.
It was ten o’clock before Alfredo gave the signal for dessert to be served. Normally Fergal would have refused the creamy concoction because of his voice, but as he wasn’t singing the next day, he accepted the large portion and tried his best not to wolf it down. He ate each spoonful with exaggerated slowness, and all Fintan could do was tut in annoyance at him. Again the talking vanished, replaced by muffled sounds of approval, and when Daniela appeared with more wine they all applauded her.
They moved into the front room to take coffee and sit by the low fire listening to music. Fergal tried to sober up a little and recover some of his confidence. He was desperate to clear the air with Fintan. Finally he asked Alfredo, ‘Can I show Fintan the spare room where he’s going to stay?’
‘Oh, but I’m sure it’s a mess, Fergal...’ But when Alfredo saw the look on Fergal’s face, he relented, and the two young men left the room as calmly as they could.
Fergal opened the door of the spare room. Sure enough, it was full of all kinds of things, in neat enough piles. He snapped on the light and moved a few boxes so they could get in and close the door behind them. He couldn’t look at Fintan.
‘Well, here it is, then.’
‘Fergal, you didn’t bring me up here to show me the room. Why the fuck did you get so angry with me?’
‘I just...I don’t know. You made me feel stupid, really stupid. Do you not see that?’
‘For fuck’s sake! No, I don’t see that. What I see is someone overreacting to a simple—’
‘Simple? What? Do you know how hard it is for me to sit here and listen to all these people talking about their wonderful lives and their wonderful travels? It makes me feel...’ His voice trailed off.
‘What, Fergal? What? Tell me.’
‘I’ve told you too much already. It makes me feel worthless, that’s all. There you were, running about in Paris smoking your head off, while I was stuck in Belfast trying not to get shot or get my head kicked in. Jesus, Fintan, don’t be coming back to Rome on my account. I’ll only let you down eventually.’
This time Fintan got angry. ‘Don’t flatter yourself, you self-obsessed wanker! Jesus, you’re just like my fucking father, do you know that? Yeah, the rich, privileged opera star sitting downstairs, who, along with my even richer mother, has bankrolled me since I was born - big fucking crime, being born wealthy. No wonder he thinks you’re so good, you two are like peas in a pod. You both think everything in this world is about you. Why did I ever get involved with a bloody singer? Fuck you, Fergal Flynn - fuck you!’ He pushed Fergal out of the way, headed back downstairs and asked Arianna for another cigarette.
Fergal listened to him descend the stairs and burst out crying, feeling stupider than ever. He knew he had drunk too much, and he began to feel a bit sick. He went into the bathroom to rinse his mouth out, and when he saw his face in the mirror he wanted to punch himself. Well done, Flynn, he thought. You’ve just driven him away. Are you fucking happy now?
When he rejoined the dinner party, Fintan was recounting more details of his life in Paris to Arianna, who seemed fascinated. ‘Tell me, if you don’t mind my candour,’ she asked, ‘do you have a girlfriend there? They say the women in Paris are incredibly beautiful - they eat all day but remain as thin as cigarettes.’ Brendan and Fintan both laughed, and Fintan answered, ‘Well, I’ve painted many beautiful women as part of my life studies, but to answer your question, no, I don’t have a girlfriend I’m leaving behind.’
Fergal panicked for a heated second, thinking that Fintan was about to tell her he was gay, but the moment passed. There was a strange momentary silence, but Daniela’s timing triumphed again: she appeared in the doorway with coffee and chocolates laid out on antique silver plates. Everyone complained loudly, but no one refused a taste of the handmade confectionery.
It was well after midnight, and well after several cognacs, when Brendan peered at his watch and stood up to say his goodbyes. He toasted the whole room and then each guest individually, leaving his host till last.
‘Alfredo, my dear returned friend, what can I say? This has been an unforgettable trip to Rome. Not only have we reconnected after all these years, but my son is coming back to stay here in your beautiful home. What a host you are! I insist you come to London as soon as your timetable allows so that I can attempt to return this royal hospitality. Salute!'
A few tears escaped Alfredo’s eyes as he smiled in gratitude and stood to receive Brendan’s embrace.
Arianna and Brendan went out to the taxi and Fergal attempted to walk Fintan out, but Fintan told him it wasn’t necessary, said goodbye coldly and walked off. Alfredo and Fergal waved the taxi off from the front door. When they came back in, Daniela was starting to clear away the dinner things so Fergal insisted on helping her. He knew Alfredo could see something was up, and he didn’t want to talk about it.
Alfredo thanked Daniela for all her work and begged her repeatedly to leave the larger jobs till the next morning, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She made a disgusted face and told him it would be a sin to leave such a mess overnight. Alfredo was a little emotional and completely exhausted, so he hugged Fergal and said goodnight, urging Daniela to take home any food she wanted. By the time he got to the top of the stairs, it was all he could do to step out of his clothes and draw his blankets up around him before he was gone into the other world, dreaming of Salvatore.
Fergal was miserable. When Daniela left, he thought about storming over to Fintan’s hotel right then and there, but he knew he was in no state to make any sense. Besides, he was still angry with him. He stomped up to bed in a rage, getting angrier and angrier as he thought about what Fintan had said. It was all he could do not to cry himself to sleep. He couldn’t believe everything could turn so quickly from good to bad, and the more he thought about their arguments, the less he understoo
d them. He was convinced that Fintan wouldn’t come back at all - and it was all his own fault.
30
Alfredo was worried about Fergal. He knew that he and Fintan had had some kind of a fight, but when he tried to inquire politely about it Fergal nearly bit his head off, so he stayed clear of the subject.
Alfredo was a little distracted anyway by a phone call he had decided to make. He found Salvatore’s number in his book and made sure his office door was closed before he dialled slowly. As he waited for someone to answer, he absent-mindedly drew a heart beside Salvatore’s name, like a schoolboy with a crush.
Salvatore’s brother answered. ‘Pronto, Santamaria Brothers?’
Alfredo took a deep breath and asked nervously for Salvatore. But when Salvatore came on, he sounded terribly polite and stand-offish. Alfredo nearly lost his confidence, until he realised that his brother must still be within earshot.
‘Salvatore, is your brother nearby?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘So that’s why you sound a bit odd!’
‘Yes, indeed.’
‘Listen, would you like to come to my garden for that drink?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Is tonight at seven o’clock too soon?’
‘No.’
‘Wonderful! I’ll see you then.’
‘Yes, that should be fine. I’ll drop the meat over then.’
‘Great.’
Alfredo put down the phone and looked at himself in the mantel mirror. Was he being ridiculous to think he could find someone, at nearly fifty years of age? He shook his head and started humming ‘Que Sera Sera’.
Fergal was going out of his mind. When Father Mac phoned that morning to say that Angela’s passport had come through and she could come to Rome the following month for the recital, he barely reacted.
‘Fergal, what’s the matter? You sound awful tired or something.’
Roman Song Page 30
