by Paige Toon
‘You’ll have to go up to the rooftop one day,’ Alessandro says, nodding ahead at the dome. ‘You stand right amongst the statues. The view is very special.’
He points out the entrance to the museums and the Sistine Chapel on our right.
‘How many times have you been?’ I ask.
‘Once. That was enough.’ He shudders. ‘I don’t like queues. Or people.’
I laugh, assuming he’s joking, because he seems like a pretty sociable guy, but maybe he prefers his own company if he travels alone in Frida.
‘Why did you name your van “Frida”?’ I ask. ‘Are you a Frida Kahlo fan?’
He doesn’t seem fazed by my abrupt change of subject.
‘Her paintings intrigue me, but I’m not particularly drawn to her work. I like the name, that’s all.’
‘Where did you and Frida go most recently?’ I’m curious.
‘Most recently? We spent a bit of time in the “Stans”.’ Alessandro catches my confused look. ‘You know, Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan. . . Came home via Russia, Georgia, Turkey, Greece and ferry from Albania.’
‘Have you ever been to Australia?’
‘That’s one place I haven’t been. What about you?’
‘Me?’
‘What were the last countries you visited?’ he asks.
‘I’ve never been anywhere.’
He thinks I’m pulling his leg.
‘I’m serious. Until yesterday, I’d never stepped out of South Australia.’
He comes to a stop and stares at me. ‘You haven’t travelled anywhere?’ Now he’s not only disbelieving, he’s disappointed. Disapproving, almost.
‘Not out of choice,’ I feel compelled to explain. ‘I’d planned to go travelling when I turned eighteen. But then my grandfather died and my grandmother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. I couldn’t leave her.’
I explained some of this in one of our first phone conversations, but I didn’t go into detail. I wouldn’t expect Alessandro or Giulio to know what it was like to be a full-time carer. Few people understand.
His eyebrows pull together. ‘Your grandfather was an opal miner?’
I wasn’t seeking his sympathy; I just couldn’t bear the look on his face.
I nod.
‘How did he die?’ he asks tentatively.
‘A section of his mine caved in.’ I still find it difficult to say the words out loud, even after ten years.
Nan and I were there when he was brought out from under the ground. He hadn’t a hope of surviving, but we had hoped anyway. That hope had been crushed with the weight of a couple of tonnes of rock.
My grandfather had seemed so small in death but, in life, he’d been the heart and soul of our world. He was always up for a laugh, and when he found opal, his energy would soar to stratospheric levels. Those were the best days, the days when he’d whack on his music and dance around the living room, twirling me in circles to the likes of Johnny Cash and Roy Orbison.
We stopped playing his records after he died. I’ve always felt as though a part of us died with him.
‘He was like a father to you?’ Alessandro asks quietly, and I nod.
‘And your grandmother. . . She was your mother.’ He says it as a statement, not a question. ‘You must have been heartbroken to lose her.’
A darker emotion twists and coils around my grief.
‘I lost her a long time ago.’ I swallow down the lump in my throat and begin to slowly walk forward.
I was heartbroken, but more so years ago. I think they call it anticipatory grief. Those moments when I realised she was slipping away from me, the first time she forgot my name and the second and the third. . . The days I found her out in the yard, rattling at the gates and trying to get out because she wanted to take lunch to my grandfather, even though he’d long since passed away. . . The blank look on her face when she couldn’t recall the recipe for the Anzac biscuits she often used to make. . .
I try to explain what it was like as we head in the direction of Alessandro’s van. ‘But right now. . .’ I hesitate, but can’t stop the words from spilling out. ‘Right now I’m too upset with her to feel sad that she’s gone. I’m sure she had her reasons, but it hurts that she lied. She lied to me and to my mother. I’m pretty sure both of my grandparents did.’ I imagine the letter, squirrelled away in my grandad’s wine rack, and I feel so racked with frustration, resentment and hurt that everything else – sorrow, relief, guilt at feeling that relief – is momentarily blasted away. ‘They kept my father from me, all of these years. How can I ever forgive them for that?’
My eyes fill at such a speed that I drag my sleeves hurriedly across them. I mutter an embarrassed apology and pick up my pace.
We reach the van in silence and I know I’m going to be kicking myself about this later. Talk about too much, too soon.
But when we’re buckled up and Alessandro’s hand is hovering over the key in the ignition, he says to me in a low voice: ‘You will forgive them. One day, you will forgive them. You must.’
A glint of gold catches my eye when I turn to look at him. I notice that the chain hanging around his neck has broken free from beneath his black T-shirt, revealing a small gold cross pendant.
‘Are you religious?’ I ask, distracted.
I don’t know why I’m surprised – this is a devoutly Catholic country, after all – but I didn’t get a sense of reverence coming from him in the piazza just now.
He reaches up and tucks his pendant back beneath his T-shirt. ‘I have a tumultuous relationship with God,’ he mutters, bringing Frida noisily to life. ‘Right! I think it’s time to bring a smile to your face!’ he shouts over the engine.
I’m glad we’re leaving the darkness behind.
At least for a little while.
Chapter 13
The next morning, Cristina wakes me up soon after nine. She literally bounces on my bed until I roll out of it and somehow manage to land on my feet.
‘Sorry!’ she says, not sounding the least bit apologetic as she backs out of the room. ‘I’m under strict instructions from Alessandro. He’s been texting me. Jump in the shower and I’ll make you a coffee!’ she shouts over her shoulder as she heads in the direction of the kitchen.
Because I tied my hair up while it was still wet yesterday, it’s in an interesting place this morning. And by interesting, I don’t mean good. I don’t bother to wash it again, but I do dampen it down and secure it into a bun.
I rarely bothered with my appearance in Coober Pedy – there seemed little point as no one cared what I looked like, or at least I didn’t mind what anyone thought. For some reason I don’t feel nearly so nonchalant now.
*
Last night, after we left Piazza San Pietro, Alessandro and I skirted along the banks of the river for a while before returning to the centre. He pulled up on a corner – I didn’t know what we were doing or where he’d brought me. Then, outside my window, the Trevi Fountain burst into life.
It was so big and bright and beautiful – the largest Baroque fountain in Rome, Alessandro said. It definitely brought a smile to my face.
The view fell dark again and we realised that the fountain lights were being tested. It was after two in the morning, but there were still a dozen or so people about when we climbed out to take a closer look.
Alessandro stayed in his van for the next stop, shouting, ‘Spanish Steps!’ out of his window at me as I peered over some railings at a set of wide stone steps leading to a fountain at the end. He’d said that would be our last stop, but he must’ve had a change of heart because he parked up not far from Villa Medici and took me to a viewpoint.
‘At sunrise, it is even more beautiful,’ he said as I gazed at the rooftops stretched out before us. ‘The sun rises behind, backlighting the trees in the park and casting morning light on the church domes all across the skyline. But I am too tired to wait until sunrise, I’m sorry,’ he said with a small smile.
I shook my head with
wonder. ‘This has already been one of the best nights of my life. Thank you.’
He didn’t say a lot after that. I hope it wasn’t another case of too much, too soon, but I’ve always worn my heart on my sleeve and I find it hard to shut up when gratitude is due.
*
Cristina is in the kitchen when I emerge and she’s dressed and ready for the day in smart black capri pants and a white shirt. Her hair is fashioned into a spiky style that sits high on her head. She’s not wearing make-up, as far as I can tell.
‘Hey,’ I say, my eyes widening at the sight of what looks like a latte on the countertop. She pushes it towards me. ‘Thank you!’ I exclaim, relieved that it’s not a strong espresso.
‘Lots of milk,’ she replies knowingly.
Did she catch me grimacing yesterday?
‘How was last night?’ she asks.
‘Oh, it was amazing.’ I shake my head with awe. ‘We went to the Colosseum, the Pantheon, St Peter’s Square, the Spanish Steps, the Trevi Fountain. . . Where else? All over the place. I can’t believe I’ve seen so much of Rome already.’
She seems perplexed. ‘With Giulio?’
‘No, with Alessandro,’ I reply.
And then it dawns on me that she had been asking what it was like to meet my father for the first time.
I realise I’ve barely thought about our encounter since I woke up.
‘Alessandro took you on a tour of the city?’ Cristina asks with even more surprise than the thought of Giulio accompanying me.
‘Yes. But, oh, meeting Giulio was great!’ I tell her hastily. ‘We went for dinner at a bistro and had a good chat. It was great,’ I repeat lamely, failing to find a sufficiently eloquent description on the four hours of sleep I’ve had. ‘Thank you for the drink and snacks, by the way.’
‘Aperitivo,’ she replies. ‘Italian word for pre-dinner drinks and snacks,’ she explains.
‘I see! I liked the Aperol—’
‘Spritz.’
I wasn’t speaking particularly slowly, but I suspect she’s naturally a faster-paced person than I am. I think it’s that, rather than impatience, that has her completing my sentence for me.
‘Are you going into work today?’ I take a sip of my latte and hope I’ll soon come to feel less daunted by her.
‘Yes, later.’
‘Is black and white the uniform?’
She lets out a wry laugh and glances down at her outfit. ‘No, we don’t wear a uniform. Giulio tried to introduce one once, but Alessandro wouldn’t be seen dead in red. He’s picking you up at ten o’clock.’ She snatches a set of keys from the benchtop. ‘These are for you. Let me show you how the door works; it’s a bit tricky.’
She leaves shortly afterwards – off to meet a friend for brunch. I didn’t dare ask if that friend is Rebecca, the vixen from yesterday morning.
Alessandro arrives ten minutes later, wearing a faded black T-shirt and the well-worn jeans from yesterday.
‘How did you sleep?’ he asks after we’ve exchanged kisses.
‘Not as well as I would have had Cristina not woken me up by jumping on my bed like a nutcase.’
His lips lift at the corners. ‘Good. We’ll have your jet lag sorted in no time. Shall we go? Giulio is keen to see you.’
‘How is he this morning?’ I ask as I grab my keys.
‘Fine. Chirpy.’ He opens the door, touching his hand to my lower back as he ushers me through.
On the way to the restaurant, Alessandro talks me through the journey, pointing out the short cuts I would take if I were walking. I’m not sure I’ll remember – in fact, I’m almost certain I won’t – but I do my best to keep up with his directions.
He parks behind the restaurant, then leads me around the outside of the building to the front door rather than taking me in through the rear entrance.
‘Giulio will want you to see it in its best light,’ he explains.
Windows line the front of the building as we pass, and a glance in reveals bench seats with black padded backs fixed to the walls. The space between them is filled with wooden tables and chairs, and the walls are whitewashed with minimal decoration. The eating area appears to be on a lower level to that on which we’re walking, and when we enter through a glass door, I notice a few steps leading down to it.
On the left is a bar area with bottles lined up against the wall and straight ahead is a tall, slender desk, on top of which sits a telephone and a reservations book.
At the back is a large serving hatch, and beyond is a big orange dome and a couple of people at work. Giulio bursts out through the kitchen door and spies us, opening his arms wide.
‘My daughter!’ he cries, beaming from ear to ear. ‘You are here in the Marchesi restaurant!’
Grasping my upper arms firmly, he kisses each of my cheeks. His kisses are different to Alessandro’s – they land with intent, whereas Alessandro’s are not much more than cheek brushes.
‘This is great,’ I say, looking around. ‘Has it changed much since my mother worked here?’
‘Si, it used to be full of, how you say? Knick-knacks.’ Giulio points to the walls. ‘Shelves. Ornaments. Red walls. Strings of chilli, garlic. I thought it was a little too. . .’ He clicks his fingers as he thinks of the right word. ‘Cluttered.’ He points at the ceiling. ‘My father, I don’t think he like this. He call it boring.’
I assume he means his father wouldn’t approve from the afterlife. He passed away a few years ago.
‘I like it,’ I say with a smile. ‘It’s fresh and clean.’
‘I think so too,’ he agrees with a decisive nod. ‘I introduce you to Maria and Antonio.’ He beckons me towards the kitchen while Alessandro heads behind the bar.
The two people in the kitchen could be brother and sister, they look so alike. They’re both about my height, but a good few stone heavier, and they have short dark curly hair with shocks of white at the temples. Their round faces grow even wider with smiles at the sight of me.
Giulio introduces us and they simultaneously burst into excited Italian, wiping their hands clean on their aprons so that they can greet me like an old friend.
They don’t speak English, so I ask Giulio if they’re related.
‘Married forty years,’ he replies. ‘They worked with my mother and father and now they are here with me,’ he says fondly, squeezing Antonio’s shoulder.
I glance past them to the counter. ‘What are you making?’
‘They make dough for pizza,’ Giulio replies. ‘They are the best.’
*
What I didn’t realise about Serafina’s is that it is still a family-run restaurant. I’d assumed that Giulio had taken over completely from his parents, but he spends part of the morning explaining that much of the produce that is used in the kitchen is grown on the family’s land in Tivoli.
Giulio’s sister Eliana, her husband, Enzo, and two of their three children who are still living at home, Jacopo and Valentina, prepare much of the produce, such as the pork and fennel sausages, ricotta and antipasti pickles. Many of the vegetables, herbs and salad come from the two families’ gardens, and the wild mushrooms used in some of the dishes are foraged from the surrounding land. A few gelato flavours are made at home by Eliana with fruit from the orchard, goats produce the milk that makes some of the cheeses and free-range hens provide the eggs used to make the pasta. Serafina is still in charge of the ravioli, but the rest of the pasta and sauces are prepared by Giulio and his team at Serafina’s, as is the pizza dough. Maria and Antonio make it fresh every morning. That giant dome that I saw when I arrived is a wood-burning clay pizza oven which gives the pizzas a distinctive taste.
Giulio put his fingertips to his lips and blew a kiss while making a brilliantly clichéd ‘Mwah’ sound when he told me this.
I still can’t get my head around the fact that this exuberant Italian man is my father.
By the time Cristina appears for lunch service, I feel as though I’ve been at Serafina’s for seve
ral hours, but in fact it’s been less than two. My body is weary with exhaustion and I feel hungry, but I know I’m not, from the way Giulio has been making me try various morsels in the kitchen. It seems jet lag has well and truly kicked in. It’s so strange to be finally experiencing it.
‘I’ll make you a coffee,’ Alessandro says when I prop myself up at the bar next to Cristina.
Giulio has ushered me out of the kitchen now that it’s about to get busy.
‘Maybe you should go for a walk, get some fresh air?’ Alessandro suggests.
‘I think I’m too tired. Is your van outside? Can I go for a lie down instead?’
He claps me over the top of my head and makes a tsk sound. I laugh and bat him away. At that moment, a petite brunette walks through the door and stops short, her face like thunder.
Alessandro says something to her in Italian. She glares at him as he checks his watch, then tosses back her long hair and struts over to the cash register, ignoring him. She barks something at Cristina and flicks her gaze in my direction. Cristina answers in English.
‘This is Angie, Giulio’s daughter,’ she explains, gesturing to me and then the girl in turn. ‘And this is Teresa.’
She’s about my age, tiny but well-proportioned, with an oval face and a small, upturned nose.
‘Ciao,’ she says, without cracking a smile. I’m glad of Maria in the kitchen, because the Italian women I’ve met so far haven’t exactly exuded warmth.
Teresa picks up a pencil from behind the cash register and twirls her dark locks up into a bun, slotting the pencil into her hair to secure it.
Show-off.
I turn at the sound of Alessandro placing an espresso in front of me. His eyes are still on Teresa as he absentmindedly passes me a sachet of sugar. I think of milk, longingly.
The next thing I know, Cristina is behind the bar, upending the contents of my tiny espresso cup into a larger cup and adding hot milk from the coffee machine.
Alessandro splutters something at her in Italian.
‘Pay attention!’ she berates him in English, passing me a frothy cappuccino.
