by JJ Marsh
He kept his distance and stayed on the opposite side of the street, with the guy in his peripheral vision. Once at the port entrance, Pietro kept walking until he overlooked the private marina. He got out his binoculars and scoured the horizon, making a long sweep from right to left. At first he thought the young man had gone, but when the Vespa approached, he saw him emerge from behind an advertising billboard. As before, the guy jumped on as a passenger and the rider swiped them into the port. The Vespa buzzed its way down to the marina, Pietro’s binoculars following their progress.
The guard lifted the barrier and the rider saluted him. Pietro moved his focus ahead, counting the boats till he found number seven. It was a relatively small yacht, around 25 metres long, with the name Naiade painted in gold on its navy hull. The Vespa came to a halt right in front of the gangway leading onto the deck. The two riders went aboard. A blonde woman, her right hand shielding her eyes from the sun, was waiting at the top to meet them. She shook hands with each of them and they retreated inside.
Pietro put down the binoculars and lit a cigarette. He wandered back in the direction of the pizza stall and bought a Peroni. The old man behind the counter indicated the binoculars and asked if he’d been birdwatching.
Pietro replied that he’d been admiring the yachts. “If I had a million, that’s what I would buy. When you get sick of a place, you can just go somewhere new. That’s my idea of freedom.”
“You’d need more than a million,” said the man, shaking his grey head. “Those boats are a money pit and I should know. My youngest son used to crew on one of the charters. One of the respectable ones, mind you. Damned expensive things to run.”
Pietro swigged at his bottle and swallowed. “One of the respectable ones? What do you mean?”
The old man used one finger to pull down an eyelid, a gesture to signify he wasn’t fooled. “They look the part, all shiny and glamorous, but most of this lot are involved in shady stuff, like drugs, prostitution, arms dealing. The security they’ve got down there? It should be the other way around. Keep them away from us, that’s what I say. The stories my son used to tell ...”
Pietro’s attention was drawn by the Vespa emerging from the marina and leaving the port. Once they got outside, the guy he had followed jumped off the bike and with a clasped forearm handshake, said goodbye to his partner. Pietro finished his beer and wished the old guy a nice evening.
“So you don’t want any of my pizza tonight?” asked the man. “You seemed to like it yesterday.”
Pietro stared at the man. Was he that memorable?
He shook his head and made a decision not to come back to this joint. He didn’t like people being overfamiliar and anyway, he had to report to the boss.
Chapter 18
The driver of the Fiat Cinquecento had obviously checked nothing was coming in the opposite direction when he overtook the bus. Unfortunately, he didn’t see the Piaggio scooter coming up behind him on his left. He pulled out sharply, knocking the scooter over and sending both riders crashing into the street.
Ettore and Beatrice saw the whole thing as their vehicle was directly behind the Fiat. Ettore was out of the car instantly, rushing to the aid of the young couple lying on the tarmac. His jacket flapped back for a second as he reached in his pocket for a handkerchief and Beatrice noticed the holster and handgun. She didn’t have time to question why a driver needed a gun as she hurried to offer assistance. After a great deal of shouting, tears and gesticulation, it was established that the couple on the Piaggio had sustained cuts and grazes, but thanks to their helmets, no serious damage had been done. Ettore and Beatrice left them to exchange insurance details and insults and continued on their journey to Ecco, which gave nowhere near enough time for all of Ettore’s opinions on the standard of driving by young people these days.
When Beatrice eventually arrived, Agusto was ranting in Italian, slamming his palm on the stainless steel worktops and wagging his finger at the ragged semi-circle of chefs around him. Through the window in the swing doors, Beatrice could see Isabella pacing the restaurant, having a heated conversation on her mobile. Beatrice closed the door behind her and turned to see all eyes focused in her direction.
Chantal, whose eyes were red and tearful, pointed at Beatrice and asked Agusto an aggressive question. The only words she could make out in the stream of impassioned Italian were ‘lei’ and ‘ricetta’ – ‘she’ and ‘recipe’. Beside her, Suhail was shaking his head, his expression more sorrowful than ever.
“NO!” yelled Agusto, making everyone freeze. “Non è possibile!” He switched to English but the volume and tone remained at thermonuclear. “It cannot be Beatrice! Don’t ask me why I know, but believe me, I KNOW! Someone in this kitchen is responsible and when I find out whoever it is, they will be very, VERY sorry! Now get to work!” He stormed through the swing doors into the restaurant, leaving the kitchen team looking shaken and miserable.
Marcello was kind enough to bring her up to speed. “My cousin ate at Ristorante della Nonna last night. They have a new dessert on the menu: Affogato di Colazione. Your speciality. Someone has stolen our recipe.”
Beatrice stared at him. “That’s not possible. Only Agusto, Suhail and I know how to make that.”
Marcello shrugged and gave a sideways glance at Chantal. She broke into a volley of Italian of which Beatrice understood none of the words but all of the tone.
Beatrice held up a hand. “No, it wasn’t Chantal. She helped us with service but not the recipe. It definitely wasn’t her, it wasn’t Suhail and it obviously wasn’t Agusto. You have every reason to suspect me but I promise on everything I hold dear, I did not give away any of our secrets.”
Agusto’s brother Gennaio gave a deep sigh. “People come here all the time to copy our food. The dessert is popular, why not try to do something similar? A good chef can eat a dish, comprehend the contents and replicate it. I will talk to Agusto. He must not blame our staff. The only way we stay ahead of the competition is to innovate. He needs to invent a new dessert. Today, we must cook. Andiamo!” He clapped his hands and everyone moved off to their respective stations.
As Beatrice crossed the room, she patted Chantal’s shoulder. The girl gave her a watery smile and squeezed her hand.
Suhail was peeling clementines, a clean bandage around his neck. He didn’t look up but said, “Thank you.”
Beatrice replied in Italian, “Prego.” She pulled a plastic bag of dough from the fridge and eased it into a piping bag. So intent was she on her task that Suhail’s voice startled her. He wasn’t normally one for conversation.
“The young man I met yesterday, at your apartment. You said he is your partner’s grandson.”
“That’s right. Matthew has two daughters from a previous marriage. The youngest, Tanya, is Luke’s mother. He’s a very sweet little boy.”
“Yes, he is. If I understand correctly, your friends are homosexuals, yes?”
Beatrice’s radar twitched and her defences rose. “That’s right. They got married at Christmas. It was a beautiful ceremony. Luke was the ring-bearer.”
They worked in silence for several minutes, Beatrice filling cake moulds and Suhail picking pith from golden pieces of fruit.
“His mother is not concerned about the little boy? Do you think it is a good thing for him to spend time with such people?”
“His mother is certainly concerned about him. This is his first holiday without her. But when she learned Will and Adrian would be joining us, she was relieved. Luke adores them both. Who wouldn’t want their child to spend time with such role models? Kind, smart, interesting, responsible and fun to have around, I think they are an excellent influence. Would you like to check these cakes before I put them in the oven?”
That put an end to that conversation.
Friday lunchtime was an absolute misery. Among the kitchen staff, latent suspicion and hostility towards each other made cooperation complicated, everyone finding fault with everyone else. Agusto, in the f
oulest temper, sent back dish after dish, refusing to accept anything less than perfection. The waiting staff, who came under rising pressure from impatient diners as delays grew longer, shouted shriller and more irritable demands. The hours wore on. Beatrice and Suhail sent out one dove-shaped cake after another with clementine cream and angelica jelly spots until Beatrice knew she would relive the process in her sleep.
They made no affogati whatsoever. Agusto instructed staff to tell clients it was no longer on the menu. Over Easter, only traditional desserts. A new signature dolce from the inglese would appear on Tuesday. Beatrice hoped she would not be called upon for inspiration. The only other pudding in her repertoire was jam roly-poly with custard. She’d like to see Ecco’s five-star version of that.
In a browbeaten silence, the kitchen crew cleared up the leftover food, storing what could be used and binning the remainder. Hobs polished, surfaces sanitised, floors mopped, the Hieronymus Bosch scenes of an hour ago were nothing more than unpleasant memories. The swing doors opened and Isabella called to them all.
“Agusto wants to speak with you. Tutti!”
They threw their kitchen whites into the laundry basket and made their way into the dining room. Agusto stood beside the bar, pouring Prosecco into a dozen glasses, laughing with Gennaio. In what had recently been a packed restaurant, only one family remained at table and they were evidently friends of Isabella’s.
The team stood awkwardly outside the swing doors, waiting for instructions. For the first time, Beatrice saw a face she didn’t recognise. A young African man with a pleasant face was dressed in a black tunic with the typical black and white headgear of the kitchen. She was convinced he had not appeared on the list of kitchen staff.
Agusto waved them closer. “Come! We drink a toast to Easter and to the best team in Napoli!”
Isabella and Gennaio distributed glasses of fizz while Agusto continued his speech. Suhail murmured in Isabella’s ear and she summoned a waitress with a bottle of sparkling water.
“In every family, there is a balance. Me? I am fire. Sometimes the sparks, sometimes the ashes. My brother Gennaio? He is the earth. He speaks good sense and he tells me there is no spy in my kitchen. It could be any one of the diners who tries to repeat a dish. My team are loyal, hard-working and the best in the city! I want to thank you, all of you, for managing a stressful day and delivering a dining experience to make me proud. You are Ecco! Thank you all and saluti!”
Echoes of his final word rumbled around the room, the sense of resentment not entirely quashed. Fire and earth is all very well, thought Beatrice, but Prosecco may not be enough to soothe troubled waters.
Obviously of the same mind, Isabella got to her feet, her electric blue hair shining like a petrol spill in the afternoon sun. “These last months are very hard for us all. Questions of trust, safety and reputation affect everyone. Here at Ecco, we are family. An international, diverse, multi-talented family. There is no room for doubt. Someone is trying to damage this family and we will not survive unless we unite. Agusto and I make a promise here and now: we trust every single one of our employees. As Gennaio says, we must leave the competition behind. We innovate! We create! As fast as they steal our ideas, we create new ones. Ecco leads the way! Saluti!”
Responses to her toast were considerably warmer and smiles crept over some of less sullen faces.
“New ideas!” said Agusto, brandishing his glass like an Olympic flame. “We need new ideas! Tomorrow, we offer the normal menu and then we close for Easter weekend. Spend the time with your families. Relax. Feed your imaginations! On Tuesday morning, I want every one of you to bring me an idea for a top-class Ecco dish. I don’t care if you are the fish expert, Marcello, think of an amazing salad or a completely different kind of soup. Chantal, you understand vegetables. Suggest a secondo piatto without meat! Why not? Suhail, think about something exciting we can do with pasta. Something with a Middle-Eastern twist, huh? All these dishes need a story. Personal, local, global, I don’t mind. Bring me new ideas and I will work with them all. We are not only a team, but the winning team!”
Everyone found a space to put down their glasses and applauded Agusto’s rallying call. Beatrice could see by the light in their eyes it was genuine. Chatter broke out in smaller groups and Beatrice caught Isabella’s eye with a supportive smile.
Isabella beckoned her, and the two women sat at a table for two near the front door. They clinked glasses.
“My husband. Drives everyone crazy then makes them all love him again.”
“He does inspire devotion. I shall be worrying all weekend about how to create a brand new bowl of brilliance to satisfy his standards.”
A mobile phone trilled somewhere behind Beatrice, playing the James Bond theme.
Isabella lifted her glass to the light, admiring the bubbles. “If you could make this in edible form, that would satisfy me. You don’t need to worry, Agusto doesn’t expect anything from you. The role you are playing is much more important.”
“I’m not finding it easy to observe the staff but I do think I’m making progress. By the way, the young black man over there? Why haven’t I seen him before?”
“Benoît? He does the washing-up in the back room. He’s a sweet kid but can only speak French so most of our communication is like this.” She waved her hands about. “He comes from Cabo Verde and the only person who speaks French is Bruno which means that ...” She broke off, her eyebrows drawn together in concern.
All round the room, conversations withered into silence as Gennaio’s urgent tone caught everyone’s attention. He barked questions into his phone, his face pale.
Frustrated at her lack of comprehension, Beatrice scanned her colleagues’ expressions for some kind of clue. Every employee displayed wide-eyed concern, pity or even fear. Whatever the person on the other end of the conversation was saying, it was not good news.
Gennaio grabbed his jacket and ran out of the front door, Agusto on his heels. Isabella caught her husband’s sleeve and a rapid conversation ensued. She released him and sank back into her chair, her eyes fixed on the figures of the two brothers disappearing around the corner.
“What happened?” asked Beatrice in a low voice.
“Gennaio’s warehouse is on fire.”
“Oh my God! Is anyone inside?”
“No. On Easter Friday, almost no one is working. The problem is that Gennaio is our main supplier, so most of our produce is stored there. Next week could be a disaster. We can devise and imagine a million exciting ideas but what if there are no ingredients? Thousands of Euros’ worth of goods sit in that place. What is going on? Why is this happening to us?” She covered her face with her hands and wept silently.
Beatrice noticed the bitten fingernails and dark roots of her hair. Aware of people filing out through the kitchen, she stood up, came round the table and gave Isabella a hug.
She held her for several seconds until the heaving shoulders stilled. The restaurant was completely empty save for the two of them. For no apparent reason, the hairs on Beatrice’s neck rose. With a reassuring pat, she left Isabella’s side and double locked the entrance to the restaurant. She shoved open the swing doors to the kitchen and listened.
Nothing. She paced quietly around the room, seeking out this hitherto unknown ‘back room’. No more than a cubby-hole, with two sinks, four bins and an industrial-sized dishwasher, it must be incredibly hot and steamy to work in. Now it was empty and quiet. So what was bugging her?
Tutting at her own paranoia, she nevertheless picked up a knife-sharpener the size of a poker and opened the back door as cautiously as she could. The courtyard was empty, devoid of smokers but a movement attracted her attention in the garage. A hooded man was scraping a key along the paintwork of Agusto’s beloved Ferrari.
She roared with outrage and pelted across the yard towards him. The man took off in the direction of the street, leaving Beatrice outpaced. Furious, she hurled the knife-sharpener at his fast disappearing back, surpr
ising herself as it hit its target. The blow knocked him off balance and he stumbled sideways, falling onto his hip, but recovered himself and in one fluid movement, got to his feet and continued running into the next alleyway.
Beatrice gasped for breath, bent over with her hands on her knees. She was far too old for this sort of thing.
Once the police had taken statements, Beatrice was allowed to go. Gennaio and Agusto were still at the docks when the evening shift arrived for work. Maître d’hôtel Alessandro assured Beatrice he would take care of Isabella.
“Please, don’t worry. I will make sure she is fine. Did you read my paper?”
“Yes, I did. To be honest, I am amazed how much thought goes into it all. I have a lot to learn. One thing I spotted, the author shares your name. Is it you, under an alias?”
His expression was wary. “The paper was written by my brother. I am only the translator. He used to be a professor at the university and he has a brilliant mind. Everything Ecco is today came from his work.”
“I can see that. Extraordinary thinking. He doesn’t lecture at the university anymore?” she asked, with a feeling she might be on sensitive ground.
Alessandro’s face closed down. “No. He left. Agusto employed him here for a while, but it didn’t work out. My brother is meant for greater things. Would you like me to call a taxi for you? You must be tired.”
“Thank you, but I think my car is outside.”
Sure enough, when she went into the street with them, Ettore was still waiting.
She deflected any questions about the police presence by saying it was a restaurant matter and asking about his daughters’ Easter parade. That tactic got her all the way home without having to do anything more than smile and nod.