by Paige Toon
‘Yes. Would you like to see?’
‘Later, later,’ he replies, releasing me and clapping his hand on my back with a laugh. ‘First we have a birra.’
‘Let me,’ Alessandro says. ‘You go out to the terrace.’
My father takes the bench seat and delves straight into the cured meats, deftly folding two slices of salami in half before popping the whole parcel into his mouth.
‘Are you feeling better?’ I ask awkwardly as he chews and swallows.
‘Fine, fine. Big fuss over nothing.’ He throws a dirty look at the inside door before patting his jeans pocket. ‘I have pills to take. No worries. That’s what you Australians say, right? No worries?’
‘Yeah.’ I laugh nervously as he pops an olive into his mouth.
This is so weird.
‘When you gonna come see me at Serafina’s?’ he asks. ‘Tomorrow?’
‘You should be resting,’ Alessandro interrupts, appearing at the terrace doors with a glass of beer for Giulio and a can of lemonade for himself.
Giulio makes a noise of disgust.
Alessandro sighs and sits down, picking up the glass of NotFanta and passing it to me. ‘Salute,’ he says.
‘Salute!’ Giulio responds enthusiastically. ‘Welcome to Roma!’
‘Thank you,’ I reply.
‘Grazie,’ Giulio corrects me.
‘Grazie,’ I obligingly reply.
He beams at me.
I feel oddly disconnected as I take a sip of my drink. ‘Cristina made this for me,’ I tell them, trying to rustle up my small-talk skills. ‘I don’t know what it is.’
‘Aperol Spritz,’ Giulio replies. ‘Prosecco with Aperol Bitters and soda water. Very popular drink, here in Italy. Where is Cristina?’ he asks, eagerly looking around as though she might be hiding somewhere.
‘She’s out this evening,’ I tell him.
‘How did you sleep?’ Alessandro asks me.
‘Well. Too well,’ I add with a wry smile. ‘Cristina woke me about half an hour ago.’
‘But that’s a disaster – you won’t sleep tonight.’
‘He knows all about the jet lag,’ Giulio chips in. ‘He’s always travelling around.’
‘In his campervan?’
‘Si, si, but before that he flew.’ Giulio moves his hand through the air to denote an aeroplane. ‘All around the world.’ Now he waves his hand above his head in a circle like a helicopter. ‘He’s seen more than anyone I know.’
And I have seen nothing. Could we be less alike?
*
It’s not long before we set off for dinner at an Italian bistro a few minutes’ drive away. It’s situated on a street corner and is triangular in shape with big windows and about a dozen wooden tables lit by candlelight.
Giulio orders for us, which surprises me, but as Alessandro doesn’t bat an eyelid, I’m guessing this behaviour is typical. He must know what he’s doing if he’s worked in the restaurant trade for years.
When a golden platter of deep-fried deliciousness arrives at our table, I breathe a sigh of relief.
‘Frittura alla Romana,’ Giulio declares, pushing the plate towards me. ‘Fried vegetables, veal brains and lamb sweetbreads.’
My hand freezes mid-air. I used to think I’d be adventurous when I went travelling, but the last few years have taken their toll. My gut churns as I search wildly for what might be a nice green vegetable, but I can tell by the expression on Giulio’s face that I won’t get away without trying a little of everything. Bravely choosing something brown in colour, I attempt to remain poised under his scrutiny.
And scrutiny is the right word for it. Giulio watches me like a cat staring at a hole in the wall, waiting for a mouse to appear. Thankfully, the sweetbread or whatever it is tastes quite nice and his face lights up like a lantern when I tell him so.
This experience is repeated continuously over the course of the evening and I’m giddy with delight at the sight of a simple spaghetti alla carbonara appearing before me. It’s the original Roman recipe made with no cream or mushrooms, just egg, grated parmesan and diced pancetta, but it’s gorgeous. We also have grilled, juicy, marinated lamb cutlets and fava bean scafata made with cherry tomatoes and pancetta.
As the night wears on, it becomes clear that food is the one subject that is guaranteed to capture my father’s attention.
He doesn’t ask me much about myself, but he’s happy to talk and I do my best to listen. I hear about the time the mayor came into his restaurant, and another occasion when he met the Pope, along with countless other anecdotes. It’s hard to keep up with what he’s saying, not least because he occasionally switches from English to Italian halfway through a story, but when the conversation drifts to his family, I concentrate because they’re my family too.
What I really want to know is what he’s not telling me: what happened during Mum’s stay in Italy? What was his relationship with her like? How did he come to fall in love with her? And why did she leave so suddenly? I hope one day I’ll feel comfortable enough to broach all of this, maybe when Alessandro is not around. I still can’t believe that he’s being so welcoming to the offspring of his stepfather’s mistress, but I’m grateful for his presence and the way he’s acting as a buffer between Giulio and me, translating when necessary and filling the gaps when I’m lost for words.
I find watching my father fascinating. He gesticulates wildly and becomes very animated when he’s talking about something he cares about, which seems to be most things, but particularly the food that arrives at our table.
What was he like twenty-eight years ago when my mother met him? What attracted her to him?
‘Do you have any photos from when you were younger?’ I ask Giulio as we walk back to Alessandro’s van at the end of the evening.
‘Si, si, when you come to Serafina’s, I show you. I also teach you how to make pizza, how to make pasta,’ he adds nonchalantly.
‘Give Angie a chance to settle in, Giulio, she’s here for the whole summer,’ Alessandro points out.
It’s early June, now.
‘Why you say only the summer?’ Giulio demands to know. ‘She might decide she like Italy enough to stay. We find her a nice Italian boy. She get married and never leave.’
Now I laugh out loud. He’s had too much to drink.
‘Is possible,’ he adds with a shrug.
Finding a man and settling down is the last thing I plan on doing. I’ve waited my whole life to see the world – there’s no way I’m getting tied down again so soon.
‘One step at a time,’ Alessandro replies mildly, giving me an apologetic look as he opens up the side door.
I climb in and buckle up. I’m not tired in the slightest so I’m glad when Alessandro says he’ll take a yawning Giulio home first. I could do with drawing out the evening as long as possible.
We pull up in the car park behind Serafina’s.
‘Tomorrow I show you inside,’ Giulio tells me abruptly, getting out of the van.
Alessandro says something to him in Italian and Giulio responds boisterously before opening up my side door and beckoning for me to get out. He kisses both of my cheeks, making a loud, wet suction noise, which is not nearly as unpleasant as it sounds.
‘It is good to meet you,’ he says, switching to English. ‘You more like your mother than you think. You have her smile!’
His comment has a radiator effect on my stomach, which may or may not be linked to the wine I’ve consumed. He stumbles ever so slightly as he turns away, then laughs and waves dismissively at the van before making his way heavily up an external staircase that leads to his apartment on the first floor.
‘Is he going to be okay?’ I ask Alessandro through the still-open passenger door. He’s frowning at Giulio through the front window, but he turns and gives me a weary smile. ‘He’ll be fine. Hop in,’ he adds, patting the seat next to him.
I climb in, looking up through the window in time to see Giulio closing his apartment door behind
him.
That was undoubtedly one of the strangest nights of my life. I have a father and his name is Giulio and he’s fifty-five and he likes to talk and I think he likes me and I think I like him, but it’s all a bit crazy, and I can’t get my head around any of it. I’m not sure what I feel.
‘Right,’ Alessandro says, checking his watch.
Disappointment makes my insides wilt. He’s going to take me home now and I’m going to be stuck there for hours, on my own, mulling over everything while sleep evades me.
‘How about a tour of Roma?’
I stare at him. ‘Are you serious?’
He shrugs and puts the van into drive. ‘Sure. Why not?’
I clap and bounce on my seat like a child and he pulls, smiling, out of the car park.
Chapter 11
We drive at a comfortable speed along the wide streets of what Alessandro tells me is the Parioli district, or the second quartiere of Rome, identified by the initials Q.II. There are a few other cars on the road, but it’s not busy. From the number of outdoor tables under canopies, I gather the restaurants normally spill out onto the pavements, but right now the staff are shutting up shop for the night, and when we stop at a set of traffic lights, I watch as they stack chairs and close shutters.
‘What’s it like, where you come from?’ Alessandro asks out of the blue.
I turn to look at him. His face is half cast in shadow and half lit by the glow of an electric billboard outside his window.
‘Tatooine,’ I reply with a smile. Will he get the reference?
‘Luke Skywalker’s home planet in Star Wars?’
‘Exactly!’ The light turns green and he sets off again, the diesel engine threatening to drown out our conversation.
‘So you live in a desert.’ He raises his voice, unperturbed.
‘Yes.’ I twist towards him in my seat, tucking my left foot under my opposite knee to get comfortable. ‘People who fly in say it’s like looking down on the surface of Mars. That’s how they imagine it, anyway, with the red sand. But the town and the surrounding area look more like the moon. We have over seventy opal fields with about two hundred and fifty thousand mineshaft entrances – they look like craters from above, with cream-coloured rock piles beside them.’
Opal was initially discovered in Coober Pedy in 1915 by a fifteen-year-old boy called William Hutchison. He was part of a syndicate prospecting for gold, along with his father. He wandered into the bush in search of water, but returned with opal – masses of it. A mad mining rush followed.
‘It must get very hot out in the desert?’
‘Yes! And windy and dusty. It gets really cold in winter, too, but I live in a dugout – that’s a cave underground – so the temperature is pretty stable: between twenty-one and twenty-four degrees.’
Alessandro throws me a look of confusion. ‘Did you just say you live in a cave?’
I nod. He listens intently as I tell him about my dugout, asking the occasional question. It’s unusual for me to be doing so much of the talking. I haven’t had a lot to say in the last few years, preferring to hear about what Nan’s and my visitors have been up to.
I’m in the middle of telling Alessandro about Louise’s old bedroom, which was decorated like an underwater mermaid’s cave, complete with silver fish hanging from the ceiling and shells carved straight out of the sandstone walls, when he reaches across and places his hand on my knee, silencing me instantly.
I stare down at his hand and it squeezes.
‘Angie,’ he says.
My eyes dart up to look at his face, but he nods straight ahead, letting me go as I turn to see what has got his attention.
I literally gasp out loud.
The Colosseum is right there at the end of the street.
I sit forward in my seat so I can get a better view as it looms closer and closer. Each of its arches is lit up and it’s glowing like a beacon in the night sky.
We drive right up to it and almost the whole way around, while I stare out of my window in astonishment. I’ve seen dozens of pictures, but nothing compares to the sight of this enormous structure in real life. Evidence of its age is clear in the pockmarked stone. It’s mind-boggling to think that it was built almost two thousand years ago, especially considering the oldest surviving public building in Australia – Old Government House in Parramatta – is only around two hundred years old.
As we come almost full circle, Alessandro points out Palatine Hill and the Forum. The unlit buildings look brooding and ancient in the darkness, making me long to return in the daytime so I can explore properly.
‘Make sure your bag is secure,’ he advises when I say this out loud. ‘Unfortunately, we have a lot of pickpockets in this city.’
We pass what he says is the Monument of Vittorio Emanuele II, or Altare della Patria. It’s a huge, white monument situated high at the top of some steps with statues and fountains and curved rows of backlit columns. Alessandro tells me that, in daylight, it reminds him of a wedding cake, but we fly by too quickly for me to pay it as much attention as I’d like, the van leaning heavily as we take the corner at speed. It’s a relief when we begin slowly zigzagging through narrower roads.
Alessandro points out a building that looks like a giant, brown-brick drum. ‘That’s the back of the Pantheon.’
Surely he’s not being serious. Is he really able to get us this close?
He pulls onto the kerb and cuts the engine.
‘Come,’ he urges.
I climb out of the van and follow him into a nearby square.
We’re right in front of the Pantheon’s main elevation.
The portico looms over us, completely obstructing our view of the domed roof. It’s lit up, but it looks dark and shadowy behind its eight giant columns.
‘It’s incredible inside,’ Alessandro says. ‘It’s one of my favourite buildings. Almost two thousand years after it was built, it’s still the world’s largest unreinforced concrete dome. You know about the oculus? The big, round hole in the middle of the roof?’
I shake my head.
‘It’s open to the elements. When it rains, you get wet.’
‘Doesn’t it smell of damp?’ I ask. ‘If water gets into one of our dugouts, it reeks for about two years.’
‘Is that right? Well, no, because the floor inside is slightly convex. The rain runs into still-functioning Roman drainpipes underneath.’
Refuse collectors are at work nearby, carrying rubbish bags from outside cafés and dumping them into an awaiting truck, so we move on before we get caught behind it.
As we drive, I stare out of the window at the chunky rough stonework on the buildings lining the narrow streets. Everything seems so old, so full of history.
Alessandro pulls over again and we cross the road and head down a short passageway, coming out in a long piazza. Three marble fountains, with jade-coloured water lit from within, are spaced equally along its length.
‘Piazza Navona,’ he tells me as I do a slow about-turn, staring up at the yellow-painted buildings lining one side.
I’ve seen this place in films. I shake my head, stunned. I feel as though I’m in a wonderful, bewildering dream. I’ve wanted this for so long.
‘There’s a good gelato place nearby,’ he says. ‘I’ll take you sometime.’
‘This is incredible,’ I murmur as we return to his van. ‘I can’t believe we’re driving around the centre of Rome. You seem to know it like the back of your hand.’
‘I’ve lived here for a long time,’ he replies.
‘How long?’
‘On and off, all my life. But tell me more about Coober Pedy. I’ve never heard of anywhere like it.’
It doesn’t take an idiot to work out that he’s trying to deflect attention away from himself.
But I’m not sure why.
Chapter 12
‘Your football team had to drive a nine-hundred-kilometre round trip to play matches?’ Alessandro asks with a laugh. ‘But that’s insane!
’
‘At least we had a football team,’ I point out good-naturedly. ‘Even if it was “just” Aussie rules.’
He pointed this out earlier, the nitpicker.
I used to go to some of the Saints’ matches myself when I was growing up, and I didn’t mind the long journey. It was nice to visit somewhere different. Roxby Downs, where the rest of the league’s teams are located, is bigger than Coober Pedy and more modern, but ultimately, it’s another outback mining town.
‘Okay,’ Alessandro says, reverting to the business of being my tour guide. ‘This is Ponte Vittorio Emanuele II.’
Ahead is a stone bridge flanked with statues. On our left, the surrounding up-lit buildings reflect prettily in the dark water, but it’s the view to our right that takes my breath away.
‘Castel Sant’Angelo,’ Alessandro says of the towering cylindrical building on the other side of the river.
A pedestrian bridge, also lined with statues, runs right up to it. The rampart defences are lit with an orange glow against the navy blue sky, and a single statue at the very top shines with bright white light.
‘Once the tallest building in Rome,’ Alessandro tells me. ‘Commissioned by Emperor Hadrian as a mausoleum for himself and his family, but later used by the popes as a fortress and a castle. Now, it’s a museum.’
There are so many places I want to visit. I experience a thrill of excitement at the thought that I’ll have plenty of time to explore in the coming weeks.
Once over the bridge, Alessandro turns left and at the end of the street is a very familiar, very famous sight: the dome of St Peter’s Basilica. I’ve seen it on the news countless times and in movies. They even screened the film adaptation of a Dan Brown novel, in which it appears, on the flight over.
Alessandro finds somewhere to pull up, mounting a steep kerb that would stonewall a normal car.
As we walk across St Peter’s Square – or Piazza San Pietro – he tells me that we are no longer in Italy but in the Vatican City, the world’s smallest country.
The colonnade, with its forest of columns, curves symmetrically on either side of the plaza, and the cobbles beneath our feet are shiny and smooth from foot traffic over the years, so shiny that the lights from all around are reflected in them.
