by Paige Toon
I sigh happily and lick my fingers. I’ve had toasted paninis back home, but that was something else.
The queue to get into the Pantheon is long, but it moves quickly, and soon after I’ve eaten I find myself standing inside the enormous domed space. The air is blissfully cool against my sun-kissed skin and I’m reminded of walking into my dugout and escaping the hot desert air.
But that is the only way in which the Pantheon makes me think of home.
I am in awe.
I crane my neck, staring with wonder at the unsupported roof with its big round hole in the centre. There are lots of people here, but everyone is speaking in hushed, reverent whispers and there’s no jostling for position as there was outside the Trevi Fountain.
I can see why Alessandro calls this his favourite building – it’s stunning.
Yet again, my thoughts have led me to him.
I realise that I’ve barely thought of Giulio today at all. He was the person I came to Italy to meet, but we haven’t spent much time with each other. Our closest bonding moment was when we looked at his family photos together and he and Alessandro told me about Marta. He still hasn’t asked to see my photos of Mum.
But I know he’s happy I’m here – yesterday at Serafina’s he was introducing me to some of his regular customers as his long-lost daughter. He seemed proud of me, standing there with his arm around my shoulders. It was nice. But it still feels surreal and I’m struggling to get used to the fact that he’s my dad.
Maybe, I reason with myself now, I don’t need to get used to it. It’s not like he’s ever going to be a dad to me. My grandfather was the one who made up bedtime stories to tell me and taught me how to ride a bike and play the piano. Maybe the best that I can hope for Giulio and me is to be friends.
A shrill ringtone pierces the hushed silence and I look around, feeling embarrassed on behalf of the culprit. To my alarm, people nearby turn to look at me. Aghast, I realise the sound is coming from my new phone, so I quickly answer it, speaking in a hushed voice into the receiver as I hurry away from those I’ve offended.
‘Hello?’
‘Angel.’
‘Alessandro!’ I feel slightly breathless. ‘How did you get my number?’ I whisper.
‘Cristina. Where are you?’
‘I’m in the Pantheon. It’s amazing.’
‘Want to call me back?’
‘Sure. What’s your number?’
‘It’s in your phone, Angel,’ he says with amusement, ending the call.
Yes, all right, I haven’t had one of these things before.
I leave the Pantheon before I’m quite ready in order to call him.
‘It’s slow here this afternoon,’ he tells me when he answers. ‘I’m not needed. Would you like to meet for gelato? I can give you a ride home.’
‘I’d love that. The place near Piazza Navona?’
‘You remembered.’
We arrange to meet in half an hour and I set off, wondering how Cristina could ever have called him selfish.
Chapter 20
I see a figure, dressed in black, standing by the middle fountain in Piazza Navona, and know immediately that it’s Alessandro.
He smiles when I reach him, bending down to give me two quick kisses.
A few wings flutter – there’s no denying that he looks gorgeous today in his faded T-shirt and ripped jeans – but I sternly remind my butterflies of Cristina’s warning and that helps to bring them under control.
‘Do you only ever wear black?’ I ask as we walk.
‘Pretty much,’ he replies.
‘Why?’
He shrugs. ‘It’s easy.’
‘Cristina said Giulio once tried to get everyone to wear red T-shirts at Serafina’s.’
He snorts. ‘No one wanted that.’
‘She blamed it on you,’ I tell him teasingly.
‘Stefano didn’t want to wear them, either,’ he responds haughtily. ‘Cristina’s the only one who doesn’t care what she looks like.’
I didn’t think he came across as caring much about that sort of thing himself, but I remember his sexy leather jacket and wonder if his level of vanity is another thing I know nothing about.
At the gelateria, I’m mesmerised by the incredible display. Every colour of the rainbow is laid out before me – I count at least six different shades of green, from pale pistachio, lime and melon to vibrant apple, kiwi and mint. Even the traditional flavours seem superior to anything I might have had in the past: lemon looks as light and airy as the clouds, wild strawberry is as pink and vivid as my nan’s favourite lipstick and chocolate is so rich and dark that it looks almost black. I have no idea how I’m supposed to choose, but somehow I manage it.
‘How’s Giulio today?’ I ask on our way out, cones in hand.
‘Good. Try this.’
‘Wow. That’s amazing. What is it?’
‘Bacio. Chocolate hazelnut cream.’
I’ll be having that next time. ‘You want some of mine?’
‘No, it’s okay. Pesca is one of the flavours Eliana makes.’
Pesca means peach. I know because I ordered it, not because I’m making a whole lot of headway with my Italian.
‘Giulio is looking forward to taking you to Tivoli tomorrow,’ he says.
I glance at him. ‘Giulio is taking me?’
‘Yes.’
‘What about you?’
‘I thought it would be a nice thing for you to do together.’
‘Won’t you join us?’
His brows pull together as he glances at me. ‘You want me to come?’
‘Yes, I do,’ I admit.
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know Giulio like I’m getting to know you. I’m not as comfortable with him,’ I find myself confessing. ‘I’m nervous about meeting the rest of my family. I know you’ll help me get through the day without too much stress.’
He doesn’t say anything for a little while, but he’s not eating his gelato either.
‘If you really want me to come, I’ll come,’ he says mildly.
Relief chases away my worries, but it’s followed by a stab of uncertainty.
‘Are you sure you don’t have plans to do anything else?’ It’s his day off, after all. What if he’s seeing Susanna? Or someone else.
‘No plans,’ he assures me, catching a gelato drip with his tongue.
I tear my gaze away and simultaneously remember, Aren’t they your family too?
It was a question I asked him a couple of days ago when he referred to Giulio’s family as exactly that: ‘Giulio’s family’. Does he not feel welcome around them? He’s not a blood relative so do they make him feel like an outsider? Is that why he doesn’t want to go?
Maybe I should give him an out…
But before I can say anything else, my attention is caught by a young Hungarian couple on the street. They’re studying their map with confusion and I can hear that they’re trying to work out how to get to Piazza Navona. I pause to tell them that it’s in the direction we’ve just come from.
Alessandro splutters with astonishment as soon as we walk away. ‘You speak Hungarian?’
‘Only a little,’ I reply. ‘I recognised a few of the words they were saying and I know how to say, “It’s over there.” ’
‘Why Hungarian? How did you learn?’
‘An online language course.’ It’s very similar to the Italian one I’m taking at the moment. ‘I only speak a little,’ I repeat. ‘I learned as a favour to a friend.’
‘Which friend?’
‘Two, actually,’ I correct myself. ‘Vera and Laszlo. Vera was my nan’s friend, but she and I became close.’
‘And Laszlo?’
‘Laszlo is a widower who came to Coober Pedy on a whim from Hungary a couple of years ago with dreams of finding opal. He barely spoke any English, but I sensed that Vera liked him – her husband had passed away the year before and Laszlo had lost his wife – so she and I did a language course t
ogether so they could get to know each other. She would have found it too daunting to attempt something like that on her own.’
Alessandro shakes his head. ‘You’re full of surprises, Angel.’
‘It was no big deal.’ And honestly, it wasn’t. It’s the sort of thing anyone would do to help a friend. ‘Anyway, how do you know how to speak Hungarian? You understood what I said.’
He shrugs and walks on. ‘I can get by in most European languages.’
‘That’s awesome.’
‘Languages are the one thing I seem to be okay at,’ he mutters, polishing off the last of his cone and checking his watch. ‘I wonder if Cristina is finished with Rebecca.’
‘You know that’s where she is today?’
‘She told me earlier. Maybe you can help pick up the pieces,’ he says darkly, getting his phone out of his pocket and dialling a number. He speaks in Italian and ends the call, shaking his head. ‘She doesn’t want a lift home. They’re already out at some bar, drinking. I doubt you’ll see her tonight.’
‘Oh. Okay.’ I was planning on cooking steaks for dinner – I picked them up yesterday during a break from Serafina’s. Before I can think better of it, I turn to him: ‘Have you got dinner plans?’
Chapter 21
‘Can I ask you something?’
Alessandro and I are sitting on the sofa, side by side, facing each other. An empty bottle of red is on the coffee table, but there’s still some left in our glasses.
‘Fire away,’ Alessandro replies.
‘When did you find out about my parents’ affair? Was it when I first spoke to you at Serafina’s or did you already know?’
He stares at me. Then he looks down. ‘I already knew.’
‘How?’ I ask with surprise.
He swallows. ‘I saw them together one night. At Serafina’s. It may have been the night your mother refers to in her letter.’
I’m shocked. He saw them having sex?
‘I was too young to understand what I was seeing, but I understood that what they were doing should be kept a secret.’
My heart goes out to him. ‘You must’ve wanted, so badly, to talk to your mother.’
‘No.’ His response is sharp. ‘That was the last thing I wanted to do.’
‘Because of her depression? You were worried about her?’
He nods deliberately.
‘Did you live upstairs, above the restaurant?’
‘No.’ He shakes his head once. ‘We lived in an apartment not far away. Andrea and Serafina lived upstairs.’
‘And you were staying with them that night?’
I’m trying to put two and two together, but once again he shakes his head.
‘I had walked to the restaurant alone. My mother had taken sleeping pills. I couldn’t wake her and was worried.’
I’m appalled. ‘But you were only a child!’
‘Yes.’ He nods gravely.
‘Was your mother okay?’
‘Yes,’ he replies. ‘That time, she was okay.’
From the way he said that time, I have a horrible feeling that there was another time when his mother wasn’t okay. I know Marta passed away years ago, but I haven’t heard how she died.
‘Do you mind if we talk about something else now?’ he asks with a small smile.
‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry, Alessandro. I didn’t mean to be nosy.’
He nods at me. ‘You’ve got your halo on today.’
‘What? Oh, my hair.’ I smile ruefully and tug at my frizzy curls.
‘Wear it like that tomorrow,’ he says.
‘Why?’
‘You’ll see.’
I’m intrigued, but his smile is secretive and I doubt I’ll get it out of him.
He edges himself down so his head is resting on the back of the sofa and his legs are stretched out before him.
‘You look tired,’ I comment.
‘I am. Can I sleep here tonight?’
‘On the sofa or in your van on the street? You can’t drive.’ That’s for sure. He’s had a couple of beers as well as the wine.
‘I like this sofa. Sleeping on a hill is no fun.’
I smile. ‘I don’t know what Cristina will say, but I don’t have a problem with it.’
‘She won’t care. I’ve slept here before.’
‘It’s settled then.’
‘Good. I’ll wash my hair and shave here in the morning before I see Nonna.’
‘Is that what you call Serafina?’ I ask with glee, loving that he’s being more open in this sleepy, drunken state.
He nods.
‘So she is like a grandmother to you?’
‘She tried to be.’ Or was that, ‘She tries to be?’ It sounded like the former, but I probably misheard.
His sleepy smile has faded a little so I don’t ask. His eyes fall closed.
I stand up and gather the empty glasses and bottles together and take them to the kitchen. When I look over at him, he’s shuffled down to lie on his side, taking up the whole sofa. I attempt to hunt out a spare duvet with no luck. I can’t even find a blanket.
Remembering his sleeping bag in his van, I don’t think twice about snatching up his keys from the coffee table. Luckily I do manage to think twice about closing the front door before I go, realising at the last second that I’ll need my own keys to get back inside. I don’t imagine the other residents would have appreciated me banging my door down, trying to rouse Alessandro.
Out on the pavement, I look left and right for Frida.
That’s right, we walked uphill. I find the van just around the corner. I unlock it and slide the side door open, climbing in and reaching up to grab the end of Alessandro’s sleeping bag from the roof space. It falls on top of me as I pull it down. I’m about to bundle it together and get out of the van when I recall his comment about needing a shave. He can get his razor himself in the morning, but what about a toothbrush? Surely he’ll want to brush his teeth tonight.
I decide to open a couple of cupboards to see if his toothbrush is easy to spot. The first I try is full of black clothes and smells of his deodorant. I smile to myself and go to close it, but a flash of pink catches my eye. Thinking it might be a washbag, I reach into the cupboard and pull out a stuffed toy. It’s a rabbit, a pink one.
Did an old girlfriend give him this? She must have meant a lot to him if he still has it. I feel an unwelcome prickle of jealousy and stuff it back in the cupboard. I can’t even ask because he’ll think I was snooping.
On that note, I decide to give up on the toothbrush idea, but as I’m about to slide the door shut, I spy a dark-grey washbag on a shelf on one of the open cupboards.
Bullseye.
I grab it and return to the house.
Alessandro is snoring lightly and it’s clear he was never going to be brushing his teeth tonight in any case. Unzipping the sleeping bag and laying it flat over him, I turn out the lights and go to bed.
Chapter 22
The next morning, as we’re preparing to leave the apartment, a postcard slides under the door. I swoop down and pick it up.
‘You have your mail hand delivered?’ Alessandro asks as I turn it over. ‘Why doesn’t Salvatore put it in the mailbox along with everybody’s else’s?’
‘Dunno.’ I shrug. ‘Maybe because I make him coffee.’
‘When?’
‘The last couple of mornings. There’s enough for two in that Moka thingie, and Cristina has been sleeping in.’
I read the postcard with a smile.
Dear Angie, am I the first? I reckon I had this in the mail before your bus dust had settled. I listened to the audiobook last night. You do Scarpetta better than Patricia Cornwell. I miss you, but I’m glad you’re gone. Love Jimmy
‘Who’s it from?’ Alessandro asks.
‘Jimmy, my grandad’s old mining partner.’
‘What does he mean, Scarpetta?’
‘You’ve never heard of Patricia Cornwell?’
‘Yes, but…’
He shakes his head, confused.
‘She writes crime books about a medical examiner called Kay Scarpetta,’ I explain. ‘Jimmy loves them, but he finds reading difficult as he only has one eye. He was in the same mining accident as my grandfather.’
‘Ah,’ he says, but once more he frowns. ‘Sorry, I still don’t understand. What does he mean, “you do Scarpetta better”?’
I laugh. ‘I’m sure he’s joking, but I read to him. We were only part way through the Scarpetta series when I left, so I sorted him out for audiobooks. Patricia Cornwell herself must’ve read the last one he listened to.’
Jimmy and I would sit outside under the palm trees in our front yard – we didn’t have a back one because the dugout was built into a hill, although we did have a bench seat up top where Nan and I used to watch the sunset.
When I first started reading aloud to Nan, that’s where we’d go, but Jimmy came over one day as we were about to get started and asked if he could listen in as well. He couldn’t manage the hill with his bad leg so we moved to the front yard. We sat there every evening for years.
Alessandro is quiet as I lock up. I think he’s feeling as rough as I am.
When we arrive at Serafina’s, he sends me upstairs to retrieve Giulio from his apartment.
‘Buongiorno!’ my father exclaims, giving me a hug. ‘You ready to meet everyone?’
‘Yep!’ I reply brightly.
‘Ah, Alessandro is here,’ he says, spotting Frida. ‘Good. I thought he change his mind about coming to Tivoli. After he call me last night, I didn’t see his van in the car park.’ He sounds ominous.
‘He stayed at Cristina’s,’ I explain.
The look on his face… ‘With you?’
‘Not like that!’ I reply, laughing and blushing simultaneously. ‘He slept on the sofa. Cristina was out so he kept me company.’
