Prosecco and Promises

by Prosecco

  Ugh.

  That was horrible. I was horrible. Marjorie made me want to gnaw my own hand off a lot of the time, especially when she started going on about chakras and crystals and the power of positive thought, and especially when she came down to breakfast wearing a teeny vest and shorts and no bra, but she didn’t need me being a bitch to her. I felt like I’d been a grouchy, horrible version of myself for the last five years, at least.

  I shook it off, promising myself I’d text her later, and carried on walking up the hill. Something about this street felt familiar, like I’d dreamt it. I remembered taking these footsteps, remembered the graffiti on the corner, the bar with the picture of the black cat on the left. Further up and on the right, that’s where it was… something. It was like following a tune, letting my legs do the remembering for me. It was the strangest sensation.

  And there it was: Antonio’s. The antique shop. I hadn’t realized this was the place Allegra and Nikki had been talking about. I remembered this shop. It was exactly the same as it had been when I was seven. The gilded gold name above the door, now looking slightly more like rust; the dusty broken step at the front. When we had come past last time, all those years ago, there’d been a man sitting in a fold-up chair outside. He’d had dark hair and bushy dark eyebrows. He had worn a crisp, white shirt and winked at me. He’d had a kind face, and had beckoned us in, beckoned me in, promising trinkets and treasure.

  ‘You like history?’ He had smiled at me. ‘Come, come see the treasure!’

  The half-hour we spent in that shop was the first time I’d smiled since my mother died. I’d wandered amongst the trinkets and shiny objects, the boxes of photographs and ceramic bowls. Each item was something to be discovered, cherished. Each item had a story, and the man told me each of them, directing my attention to each new pretty thing as he led me around his shop.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he whispered, as he crouched down, strangely blue eyes contrasting with his dark hair.

  ‘Mia.’

  ‘Well, Mia, I’m very sorry about your mama. She was a lovely lady.’

  ‘Yes.’ My lip had wobbled.

  ‘When we lose someone, it makes us feel lost. What do we do when we’re lost? We find where we are!’ He presented me with the compass with a flourish. It was brass, heavy with a metal loop on top. The needle quivered as I moved. ‘We all need help finding our way. You keep it.’ He had clasped my hands around the compass and patted them briefly.

  ‘Daddy! Daddy! The man said I could have this.’

  My father had snapped back to the present, as if he had forgotten we were there. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘It’s a present, for your daughter,’ the man said, shrugging. ‘Small, small thing.’

  ‘No, I’m sorry, we can’t.’

  ‘But Dad—’

  ‘Please,’ the man had said, hands open, eyes sad. ‘For your lovely wife, a gift for your daughter.’

  ‘No.’ My father, jolting from the shock, had grabbed the compass from me and pushed it back into the man’s hands.

  ‘No, sorry, sorry, we can’t. Come on, Mia.’ He had grabbed my hand, and dragged me away.

  I had cried for the compass, and for the moment of kindness where an adult spoke to me about something real.

  ‘Mia, come on! We’ve lost your mother, and you’re crying over that?’ There had been tears in my father’s eyes, too.

  ‘Well, maybe we could find her if we kept the compass!’ I’d yelled, and run down the hill, away from him.

  That night he’d sung me to sleep, the same songs my mother had sung, and the next morning things had been a little better, a little easier. That heaviness had eased and my chest hurt a little less.

  And then we went home.

  There was no man sitting outside the shop now. The windows that had once been sparkling were smudged. There was no music quietly playing on a tinny radio. I stepped over the threshold, and looked at the items on the shelves, unloved and undusted. They didn’t shine any more. Instead, there was a dark-haired man, leaning back in his chair, eyes closed, hands behind his head.

  I coughed, but he didn’t stir. So I ignored him, walking down past the shelves as I had all those years ago. I blew on the dusty items, ran a finger across the shelf, and sighed. It wasn’t the same. Nothing stayed the same.

  I heard a sharp thud, the two chair legs hitting the ground, followed by a yelp. I poked my head around the shelving and met eyes with the guy. He yelped again, physically jumping, before launching into a stream of Italian, some of which had to be swear words.

  ‘Sorry?’ I clenched my teeth in a vague approximation of a smile.

  ‘English?’ The man sighed and rolled his eyes, throwing himself back in his chair. ‘You wanna buy something or what? Because buying we like. Wandering around touching stuff, not so much.’

  His English was perfect, though American-accented. He raised his eyebrows, unsmiling, as if waiting for me to run off in a huff, or complain.

  ‘Well, you’re certainly the charmer – no wonder this place is overrun with customers.’ I smiled at him, waiting for a response.

  He simply scowled at me, throwing up his hands. ‘Fine, you want to walk around for an hour pretending you’re actually going to buy any of this old crap, then go ahead, knock yourself out.’

  He focused on the papers in front of him, ignoring me. I watched him, that tense line in his jaw, his eyes not straying from the paperwork, his lips mumbling irritably. His dark hair fell over his eyes and he kept brushing it back, and it kept falling forward. I enjoyed watching how annoyed it made him, and how each time he brushed his hair back he muttered a little louder.

  ‘Are you gonna buy something or you gonna stare at me?’

  I smiled widely, just because I knew it would irritate him, ‘Neither. I’m going to ask you a question.’

  He waited, disgruntled. ‘Well?’

  ‘Where is the man who used to run this place? The man with the dark hair and the ice-blue eyes and the bushy eyebrows?’

  The man frowned. ‘You mean Antonio… the owner.’

  ‘He used to sit on the chair outside,’ I added, inanely.

  The man regarded me slightly differently now, scanning me as if my clothing could tell him anything about me.

  ‘He’s… he’s still alive, isn’t he?’

  I had a sudden need to thank the man, thank him for that one moment of kindness in a storm of sadness. Thank him for reaching out and trying to give me a lifeline, talking to me like I mattered and couldn’t just be bought off with ice cream and songs. And I wanted him to do the same thing now; to hand me a magical, historical item and tell me it had meaning and relevance and could fix me. I wanted that more than anything.

  ‘He’s alive. I don’t think he’d ever die – too much like defeat.’ The man still seemed to have the air of someone who is permanently inconvenienced by being in your presence, but at least now he was intrigued. ‘How do you know my grandfather?’

  ‘Your grandfather?’

  ‘How do you know him?’ His voice was throaty and defensive. ‘Because if you’re turning up as a long-lost relative from an affair a lifetime ago, to try to get money, I promise you, we’ve got nothing. And the old man’s still got his wits.’

  I guffawed stupidly, feeling like my eyeballs were going to pop out. There was a vein twitching in his temple and his hands were pressed flat on the table.

  ‘You’re worrying about money-grabbing fake relatives? Jesus! That’s your first thought?! What are you, police or something?’

  ‘I’m a lawyer. So I can tell you now, you’ll get nothing from us.’

  I pushed back my hair from my face, my hand resting on my forehead in sheer disbelief. The gall of the man. He looked so serious, that stubborn piece of hair flicking over his eye again, his shirt sleeves rolled up for a fight.

  ‘You don’t look like a lawyer.’

  ‘And you don’t look like a money grabber, but there we are.’ He crossed his arms in front
of his chest, straightening his back. His dark eyes were solid, unyielding, and I was shocked such a warm colour could be so cold. Fucking mentalist.

  ‘Okay, you got me.’ I grinned, flinging my hands up and starting to leave, before throwing him a wink. ‘Tell Nonno I said hello, okay?’

  ‘Whatever you’re playing at, it won’t work!’ There was an element of panic in his voice as it followed me towards the door. Then another voice spoke. One that was deeper and richer, with a musical tone. Less American – softer than that, full of disappointment.

  ‘Salvatore. I ask you to watch the shop and you’re shouting at customers?’ The voice launched into Italian, and I turned around to see the man I had wondered about, Antonio. He had aged, his hair now almost all white, his eyebrows grey and even fuzzier, but he looked strong, tanned, vital. Like he might have just worked on a vineyard for a couple of hours, or out on a farm somewhere. He certainly looked like he was going to give his grandson a hiding.

  ‘She was trying to swindle you!’

  The old man turned to me, considering me with a raised eyebrow. ‘What were you here for, signorina?’

  ‘You were kind to me once, years ago. And I found this place, and thought I’d say hello, and thank you.’ I shrugged.

  ‘That’s not what she said!’ Salvatore pointed at me. ‘She called you Nonno!’

  I pressed my lips together to hide a smile, and Antonio smirked at me.

  ‘Darling, was my grandson here talking at you with such passion and certainty, that you went along with it? Even though it was horse shit?’

  I laughed, and turned to Salvatore. ‘Well, you weren’t listening. It was easier to go along with it.’

  The younger man huffed to himself, picked up the ledger from the desk, and walked out without a backward glance.

  Antonio moved closer, squinting at me. ‘Now, you. I know you…’

  ‘I was here a long time ago, and only once…’ I help up my hands to make excuses.

  His eyes sparkled and he clicked his fingers, ‘No, you look just like her. Just like her. Isabella’s daughter.’

  I smiled widely, nodding. I was okay being known as that. Nowhere else was I ever called ‘Isabella’s daughter’. No one ever knew her. No one scanned my cheekbones and facial features the way Antonio was, measuring the similarities and being overjoyed when he found them. It was different to when Allegra did it, so desperate to find traces of her sister. Antonio was just pleased.

  ‘Your mother was a wonderful woman.’ He welcomed me to take a seat at the desk Salvatore had been sitting at. He leant against the desk. ‘I’m sorry about my grandson. He’s not always an ass.’

  ‘You sure?’

  Antonio snorted. ‘He just came back from being some fancy lawyer in America. Obsessed about getting swindled! I think some girl took him for everything he had.’

  ‘Well… that makes sense.’

  ‘A lawyer who can’t tell when a woman’s lying – some use that expensive education is, eh?’

  I shrugged. ‘Well, I’ll overlook someone being an arse if they’re heartbroken.’

  ‘That’s probably smart. So, why are you here?’

  ‘I… uh… nostalgia? Going back to my roots?’

  ‘Are you asking me or telling me?’

  I shrugged again. ‘I… I just wandered up here, and I remembered how nice you were to me after my mum died, and I wanted to see if this place was the same.’ I felt my smile fade as I looked around.

  Antonio seemed to know what I was thinking. ‘Nothing stays the same. My grandsons tell me I need to close the shop. But it’s history, it’s… it’s for ever, you know?’

  I smiled. ‘Oh, I know.’

  ‘You like history?’

  ‘I’m an archaeologist. Or, well, I’m trained as one. I haven’t been doing much archaeology for a while.’

  ‘Why?’

  I took a breath. ‘Family stuff.’

  He smiled, nodding slowly. We sat like that for a moment, quiet and comfortable. I watched the sun stream through the window, catching the dust particles in the air.

  ‘Did you ever learn any Italian?’ Antonio asked, and I shook my head, ashamed.

  ‘I wanted to, for a while, but I think it was too painful for my dad.’ I suddenly realized it was true as I said it. ‘Everyone here speaks excellent English.’

  ‘Tourism.’ He waved it away. ‘Although I spent some time in England, many years ago now. It is a shame about the language. I’m sure your nonna would love to talk to you.’

  I looked at him. ‘How sure?’

  The smile was crooked but sweet. He just snorted and nodded. ‘We all have “family stuff”, signorina, one way or another.’

  The man wasn’t wrong. I had sat long enough, though, spilling my guts to a stranger. It made me feel vulnerable. As Allegra said, people on the island liked to talk. Perhaps they already were, if he knew about the frosty reception from my grandmother.

  ‘Sorry… I, uh, my aunt will be wondering where I am.’ I stood up to leave.

  He smiled at me, a little twinkle in his gaze. ‘Come to dinner, tomorrow. I’ve got stories about your mother. You wanna hear them?’

  ‘Are they happy stories? I only want to hear happy stories.’

  Antonio smiled and patted my hand. ‘Only happy stories. Come tomorrow. I’ll come and get you from your aunt’s.’ He gripped my hand suddenly, squeezing it as his light eyes met mine. ‘Happy stories.’

  I smiled. ‘Thank you.’

  When I left to wander back down the hill, the sun was softer and less harsh; it felt like a smile on my skin. I had gone in there thinking that perhaps, after all these years, that compass would still be sitting there on the shelf, like it had been waiting for me. Instead, I would be given stories about my mother, and that felt like more of a gift. My mind kept returning to Salvatore, that indignant, angry guard-dog look about him as he accused me. Whoever that girl was, she must have done a number on him. I had a pretty shitty view of the world: it wasn’t fair; there was no meaning or God or fate, and if there was it, was cruel and chaotic. I knew that well enough. But I didn’t accuse random strangers of trying to con me.

  I bought some wine on the way back, for Allegra. She smiled at me and kissed my cheek, before opening the bottle.

  ‘Here, help me cook.’

  ‘Oh, I can’t cook.’

  Allegra rolled her eyes at me, gesturing at the pan. ‘Stir the sauce, Mia, it’s not hard.’

  As I carefully stirred, she laughed. ‘See, you’re cooking! It’s a miracle!’

  She poured us each a glass of wine, and I was relieved when different family members came up to take their food into their rooms, or to the family room in front of the TV.

  ‘No family dinner tonight?’

  ‘We can’t do it every night. That’s what you expect, huh? The old-fashioned values?’

  I didn’t say anything.

  ‘You know, I think time passes differently here.’ My aunt said, pausing to sip her Valpolicella with appreciation. ‘Everyone thinks time stands still in small places, but it doesn’t. The ones who moved, who took our culture abroad to the UK, to America, they’re the ones who hold the traditions close. Here, we have things to get on with. Family dinners are on Sundays, and on special occasions. Otherwise there’s too many of us.’ Allegra trailed off. ‘I’m pleased you’re here, though, that I have company.’

  My mother’s mother sat in the corner, staring at the TV. My nonna. She’d done nothing but look past me since I arrived. I knew she didn’t speak English, and maybe she wasn’t all there, but it was painful to be ignored. I wondered if she hated me, if I was a symbol of her daughter leaving her, moving to England. Maybe she was angry I’d never been to visit. Or maybe she was just sleeping, snoring gently after her glass of wine. I looked away from her, and noticed Allegra’s concern.

  ‘Don’t worry about her.. She’s just…’ She threw up her hands in a ‘Who knows?’ kind of gesture.

  ‘Is she angry
I’m here?’ I whispered. I wasn’t taking any chances that the old girl didn’t know some English, just like Nikki said.

  Allegra reached over and stroked my hair, smiling at me so sweetly that I thought I might cry for a moment. It was such a maternal gesture. I hadn’t had that in a long time. Marjorie had tried to cuddle me once and I’d elbowed her in the ribs. Accidentally (on purpose), obviously. We’d then had an in-depth conversation about personal and sacred space. By which I mean I told her to leave me the hell alone and she started talking about energy distribution and the importance of touch, and then I’d escaped to Savvy’s house. I’d feel sorry for my stepmother if she wasn’t so near my own age and didn’t talk so much nonsense.

  ‘Mama… she and your mother had some issues…’

  I looked over at the little old lady. ‘My mother has been dead for twenty years. You think maybe bygones should be bygones?’

  ‘You know how annoying it is to be angry at a dead person?’ Allegra asked.

  ‘Imagine I will soon.’

  Allegra bit her lip and closed her eyes, wincing. She didn’t say anything, just patted my hand as a sort of apology. I immediately felt bad. Dad would have got that as a joke. Here, no one spoke my language. They might speak excellent English, but communicating was hard.

  I had to be the one to try harder.

  ‘I got invited to dinner tomorrow night,’ I said suddenly, focusing on the flavours of the wine.

  Allegra’s eyes lit up with excitement. ‘Here one night and already got a date! Wonderful!’

  I laughed. ‘No, not like that. Antonio from the antiques shop invited me to dinner. He said… he’s got stories about Mum.’

  Allegra looked over to her mother suddenly, but the old woman didn’t stir.

  ‘Antonio Donati? Well, the old man likes to tell a story. And he’s probably got a lot of photos boxed away in that old house.’