by Paige Toon
*
I’m still feeling sick with worry when I go into work. Giulio, Maria and Antonio are in the kitchen.
‘What you bring for me today?’ Giulio asks enthusiastically, his arms outstretched in anticipation.
I shake my head. ‘I didn’t bake this morning, sorry.’
I didn’t have the heart for it.
He looks terribly disappointed, but I think he’s putting some of that on.
‘Where’s Alessandro?’
‘He’s upstairs, doing his washing. His clothes,’ he elaborates at my look of confusion. ‘They’re dirty, they need a clean.’
‘Oh, I see.’
Serafina’s was closed yesterday so I set about getting it ready for the day’s customers, putting chairs that were upended for cleaning purposes back in place around tables. Cristina is off for the next few days visiting her family in the south, but she’ll return on Saturday afternoon, which is also the day of her thirtieth birthday. She’s planning to go out with friends that night and has invited me along.
Stefano waltzes in shortly before opening time and goes straight to the stockroom to put on some music.
The door swings open and a tiny blonde, wearing a summery assortment of colours – yellow T-shirt, bright blue shorts, pink shoes – appears, looking hesitant. Giulio spies her and comes over to greet her. I hear her say ‘Alessandro’ and after Giulio has chatted to her for a bit, he disappears out the back. She doesn’t look over at me as she waits.
Soon afterwards, Alessandro appears.
I’m not sure that I’ll be able to look at him again without feeling an element of fear, not now that I know what I know.
‘Buongiorno,’ he calls to the girl as he approaches her.
He doesn’t glance my way.
‘Ah, new waitress,’ Stefano mutters as he materialises from the stockroom. ‘How long will this one last?’
I’m on edge as I lay the tables, watching out of the corner of my eye as Alessandro chats to her. He’s smiling more than he usually does when he’s at work, I notice. Eventually he calls down to us in the main body of the restaurant.
‘Stefano, Angel!’
We look up at him.
‘This is Julia, she starts today.’
‘Ciao,’ Stefano replies, while I forget and greet her in English.
‘Angel is from Australia so we try to speak English,’ Alessandro tells Julia, adding for our benefit, ‘Julia is from Poland, but she’s lived in Italy for most of her life.’
She’s petite, with delicate features and perfectly arched eyebrows. Her golden-blond locks are tied up into a high, sleek ponytail that swings from side to side as she walks. She’s younger than me, I think, probably in her early twenties.
Alessandro gets on with showing her how everything works while Stefano and I finish setting up.
‘Why are you so quiet today?’ Stefano asks, when his attempt to get me to dance with him fails.
‘I didn’t sleep very well,’ I reply.
‘I will make you a coffee,’ he decides.
A couple of minutes later, he Latin dances across the room to the sexy sound of a woman singing about ‘Havana’ coming from the loudspeakers, and he does all this while trying not to spill a drop. It’s impossible to keep a straight face. He presents me with my coffee, but before I can take it, he whips it away and puts it on a nearby table. Then he grabs my hand, spins me around in a circle and starts to do the mamba – a dance I can sort of manage from my teenage years of watching Dirty Dancing on repeat, but it’s a very, very messy version.
Alessandro comes out of the kitchen and stops short at the sight of us, Stefano singing to me while I try to control my laughter.
Julia, who has followed Alessandro out of the kitchen, giggles.
‘Stefano!’ Alessandro barks.
Stefano lets me go with a roll of his eyes. Alessandro says something crossly to him in Italian, but ‘Angel’ is the only word I understand. When Alessandro is finished, Stefano turns to me and gets down on one knee.
‘Angel, I apologise,’ he says, placing his hand over his heart. ‘I am very embarrassed about my behaviour on Friday night. It was unacceptable and I will never fall asleep on your bed again.’
Alessandro says something else to him.
‘And I will never again be sick in your bathroom. Next time I will use Cristina’s.’
I laugh and look at Alessandro. He gives me a small smile, but our eye contact lasts only a second before he gets down to the business of showing Julia how to use the coffee machine.
*
It’s a strange day. Alessandro is no different to the Alessandro of last week, but he’s so different to the man from Friday night and Monday that I consider checking upstairs to see if he has a twin brother hidden away.
Gone is the hand holding and intimate conversation – apart from the entertaining way in which he chastised Stefano, he’s completely professional.
Professional and detached.
‘Is Stefano your boyfriend?’ Julia asks me during a quiet spell between lunch and dinner.
‘No, no. We’re friends,’ I reply.
‘He’s cute.’
‘He is,’ I agree, waiting to see if she’ll say the same about Alessandro.
She doesn’t.
The first time she calls me Angel, I jolt. But Stefano called me Angel when he apologised so I’m not sure whether or not to correct her.
Later, Giulio addresses me as Angie and she overhears.
‘Is it Angel or Angie?’
‘It’s Angie,’ I reply. ‘Alessandro nicknamed me Angel for some reason.’
‘It’s cool. It suits you.’ She sounds sincere, but then what would I know? I thought I was a good judge of character until I met Alessandro. I can’t work him out at all.
One thing that doesn’t stack up is how reserved he is about base jumping. Most of those guys on the YouTube videos that I watched are larger than life extroverts keen to show the world what they can do. That’s not Alessandro. At least, I don’t think it is. The sport jars with his personality.
Is he a different person in the six months that he’s not here? Maybe he feels suffocated being around Giulio, as if the past is a noose around his neck. Maybe, away from Rome, he’s more like the man he was yesterday: warm and loving. But that doesn’t fit with what he’s said either.
He’s not open to love, so why would he give it? He claimed that he’s a loner. Does he really just travel aimlessly, climbing mountains and jumping from cliff edges?
How can anyone live like that?
I wonder if I can ask Logan, when he and Lea come to Rome next weekend, about what Alessandro was like when they knew each other years ago. Surely the Alessandro from yesterday can’t be too different to the Alessandro that Logan jumped with – the two men were so at ease with each other.
*
At about eight thirty on Friday night, a young couple walk into the restaurant, and, hearing their Australian accents, Alessandro calls me over. I take them to their table and strike up a light-hearted conversation about where they’re from. Not unpredictably, they want to know where I hail from in return and, as I tell them, I’m struck with an agonising homesickness.
I’ve been struggling with melancholy all week – Alessandro’s distant behaviour has been really getting to me.
I long to be at home, surrounded by familiarity.
Not my room at Cristina’s.
Home.
There’s a stinging at the back of my eyes as I brightly take their drinks order and go to give it to Alessandro, but I’m so close to tears that I have to duck into the stockroom to compose myself.
Alessandro follows me.
‘Angel?’ he asks uncertainly.
‘I’m fine,’ I reply, but it’s obviously a lie.
‘What’s wrong?’ His voice is low and deep, not quite sure of itself.
‘I’m tired. I haven’t slept well this week.’ I can’t turn around to look at him – I’m too clo
se to tears.
‘Do you want to go home?’
You have no idea how much.
‘Julia and Nino can handle your tables.’ Nino is our new waiter. He started today.
‘No, I’ll finish my shift.’ It doesn’t feel fair on the others when they’re still finding their feet.
‘I’ll give you a lift later—’
‘No,’ I reply sharply. ‘I’d rather walk.’
The silence hangs heavy between us.
‘I’ll be out in a minute,’ I add.
The room falls quiet so I get a tissue from my bag and dab my eyes. I assume he’s gone, but a glance over my shoulder reveals otherwise. He’s leaning against the wall, staring at the floor. I steel myself to turn around.
‘I’d better get back,’ I say, trying to sound brighter.
He nods, avoiding my eyes as he reaches down to take my hand.
He doesn’t hold it properly – he cradles it from beneath – and then he very slowly runs his thumb across the length of my palm.
Goosebumps erupt over my entire body.
A moment later, he meets my eyes.
I have absolutely no idea what he’s thinking.
‘Okay,’ he says, squeezing my hand once before walking out of the room.
*
‘I see you tomorrow?’ Giulio asks as I’m gathering my things at the end of the night.
I shake my head. ‘Weekend off.’
‘Aah, I see. You gonna do some baking?’ he asks hopefully.
I smile at him. ‘Yes, actually. I’m baking a cake for Cristina’s birthday, but I could also make something to take to Tivoli on Monday?’
‘Fantastico!’ he exclaims. ‘I will pick you up at nine o’clock pronto.’
He doesn’t ask me what else I’m getting up to this weekend, nor does he ask if I’d like to do something with him.
I’m okay with that.
Alessandro is nowhere to be seen so Giulio unlocks the front door to let me out. My heart is heavy despite the cheery farewells from him and Nino. Julia has already left, gone off to meet her boyfriend, blessedly. That, at least, is something.
I’m about to cross the road when I hear the sound of footsteps pounding the pavement.
‘Angel!’ Alessandro calls, catching me up. He’s wearing his leather jacket, which I’m assuming he’s just retrieved from his van.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask.
‘Walking you home,’ he replies with a frown as if it were obvious.
‘I told you I wanted to be alone.’
‘No, you told me you wanted to walk.’
He has a point. We set off across the pedestrian crossing in silence.
‘Why do you want to be alone?’ he asks when we reach the other side of the road. He seems genuinely perplexed.
I shrug. ‘I don’t know. I felt like a bit of breathing space.’
‘I won’t talk if you don’t want me to.’
I can’t help but smile. ‘I don’t mind if you’d like to talk to me.’
But he doesn’t. Not for the next five minutes. At first the silence feels awkward, but after a while I begin to relax.
We pass the bistro on our left and I look across the road to the short cut before glancing at Alessandro.
‘That way?’ he asks, meeting my eyes.
‘Is that okay?’
He looks hesitant, but he nods.
We cross over the road and head down a street lined with apartment blocks.
‘Which one did you live in?’ I ask tentatively.
He doesn’t ask how I know. Maybe he thinks Giulio told me.
His tone is subdued when he replies. ‘The third building on the left.’
It’s identical to the ones on either side of it and not at all dissimilar to the block I’m living in with Cristina – six storeys, cube-shaped, with balconies out the front.
‘Which floor?’ I ask as he comes to a stop in front of his former residence and looks up.
‘Fifth. The one on the right.’ His tone is leaden.
The confusion of the last few days dissipates – I unthinkingly reach for his hand.
‘I was in my bedroom when Carlotta. . .’ His Adam’s apple bobs up and down. He’s still gazing up at his apartment. ‘I came out and. . . she wasn’t there.’ When he looks at me, his eyes are full of horror. ‘I saw the open door and called out to her. She wasn’t on the balcony so I searched the house.’
‘Where were Giulio and your mother?’
‘Giulio was at work; my mother was asleep.’
‘Carlotta wasn’t your responsibility,’ I say softly but adamantly.
‘I should have been looking after her.’
‘It was not your fault.’
He averts his gaze.
‘Alessandro,’ I state firmly. ‘It was not your fault.’
‘She seemed happy in front of the television,’ he tells me in a choked voice. ‘I had only gone to my room for a few minutes. When I came out, she was gone.’
It actually hurts to look at him, to see those emotions; the memory dredged up before my eyes.
‘My mother woke up when she heard me shouting her name. She went straight to the balcony. And started screaming.’
I need to make it stop. . .
Grabbing his arm, I turn him to face me and slip my hands beneath his leather jacket so I can give him a hug. A moment passes before he returns the gesture. His breathing is ragged. I hold him tighter and he tightens his grip on me too, burying his face against my neck.
I can smell leather and the orangey scent of his shower gel, mingled with his warm skin.
My arms are around his slim waist, gripping his muscled back. His hips are pressed against mine, our stomachs flat against each other, my chest flush to his – it wouldn’t be possible to get any closer fully dressed.
I don’t know how long we stand like that, but it’s a while before his breathing settles into a regular pattern.
‘Are you okay?’ I whisper and feel him nod against me.
He lets out a heavy rush of breath as he releases me.
The cold air hits my body and I shiver, craving his warmth as we continue our walk to Cristina’s apartment. My head is racing through everything he’s told me.
‘When does Cristina get home?’ he asks as we arrive at the apartment block.
‘Tomorrow. Do you want to come in for a bit?’
‘Sure.’
Inside, I kick off my shoes and he takes off his jacket, then I set about switching on lights and lowering blinds while he grabs himself a beer from the fridge and makes me a cup of tea. When I spy him about to fish my teabag out, I call to ask him to leave it in a bit longer.
‘You take your tea the British way,’ he says.
‘It’s also the Australian way,’ I reply with a smile. ‘You’ve never been to Australia, have you?’ I think I recall him saying that it was the one place he hadn’t visited.
He shakes his head. ‘I’d like to go sometime, see where you grew up. Do you have any photos?’
‘Yes. Do you want to have a look?’
‘I’d love to.’
I’m not sure this is going to do my homesickness any good, but I retrieve my photo album anyway. Alessandro brings my tea over to the sofa, sitting close but far enough away from me that we’re not touching.
‘I like that you have a photo album,’ he says.
‘What else would I have?’ I’m baffled.
‘A phone.’
I laugh. ‘I’m a bit behind when it comes to mobiles. I never needed one in Coober Pedy as I never went anywhere. Even my new phone is as basic as they come. I’ll use my proper digital camera if I want to take pictures.’
I begin to flick through the photos of friends to try to find some of the town and my dugout, but he stops me. ‘Tell me about these people.’
I revert to the beginning. It’s only a single-photo-per-page album, each photo secured inside a plastic pocket. I wanted it to be as lightweight as possible for my tr
avels.
‘That’s Bonnie and Mick. They’re my next-door neighbours. This is their dugout.’
‘The walls are carved straight out of the rock,’ Alessandro muses, studying the rough surfaces.
‘Yes. Most people paint them to prevent the dust from falling.’
Not that it works. One thing that I’ve noticed since I’ve been here is how clean everything is in comparison to home. I keep running my fingers across shelves like my nan used to do, and I’m still surprised at how free of dust they are when they come away.
I turn the page to reveal a couple in their early sixties. ‘That’s Vera and Laszlo.’
He takes the photo album from me with a smile, bringing the picture closer so he can study it.
‘You’re playing a board game?’
‘Yes, in my kitchen. Scrabble was our thing.’
‘Scrabble?’
I explain the gist of the game.
‘The Italian version is called Scarabeo,’ he says. ‘It’s a little different. Sorry, go on.’
‘Laszlo would only be allowed to do English words, while Vera and I could only do Hungarian.’ I smile, thinking of the trouble we had trying to remember new vocabulary. Laszlo wasn’t the greatest at spelling anyway so we always had to check everything against the Hungarian dictionary that I’d had the bookshop order in for us.
‘We should play this to practise your Italian,’ Alessandro says.
‘No way, you’d win.’
‘Are you competitive, Angel?’
‘I am when it comes to Scrabble, yes,’ I reply with a laugh. ‘And probably also Scarabeo.’
‘Who are they?’ he asks of the next picture.
‘That’s Magnus and Astrid on the hill behind my dugout.’
‘Krumkake,’ he says, remembering the Norwegian waffle cookies that I brought in last week.
‘That’s right.’ I’m impressed.
‘What are these things?’ he asks of the pipes protruding out of the sandy earth behind Magnus and Astrid.
‘Air vents,’ I reply. ‘It’s how you can tell if a hill is a home or just a hill. They circulate the air in the dugout.’
‘Fascinating.’
He turns the page. Jimmy’s one eye stares back at him, so dark brown that it almost looks black in this picture. His other is hidden behind a dusty eye patch, and his grey beard is long and unruly, contrasting with his coffee-brown skin.
