Prosecco and Promises

by Prosecco

  ‘Pictures of Mum?’

  Allegra blinked at me. ‘Did your father never tell you your mother was engaged when he met her? She was meant to marry Antonio’s son. Your very English father came in, stole her heart, and took her away to England. Two weeks – all it took.’

  ‘Woah.’

  ‘Isa was like that. She swayed with the wind. When she knew something, she knew it. And she wanted your father. Poor Niccolo, he was heartbroken. But he was a very simple man, they didn’t have much to talk about. Your mother said talking to your father was like dropping pennies in the ocean, wondering if they would ever hit the seabed.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I have no idea, my darling.’ Allegra laughed. ‘That was your mother. If I guessed, I’d say it meant she could talk to him for ever, and she never knew what he’d say.’

  I smiled at that. ‘That… sounds like Dad. One day I asked what he was thinking about and he said he was wondering if we could genetically engineer bees.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘That’s what I asked,’ I said. ‘He said he didn’t know, but people seemed to think bees were important. And honey is an excellent barrier to infection.’

  ‘So, what did you say to that?’ Allegra asked, leaning forward to rest her chin on her hand.

  ‘I asked him to pass the salt and we carried on eating dinner.’ I laughed. ‘That’s just how he… was… is. That’s how he is.’

  ‘Sounds like a good dad.’ Allegra smiled, and I nodded, pressing my lips together. A very good dad.

  Something was puzzling me though.

  ‘So… Antonio inviting me to dinner… Wasn’t he angry that Mum left his son? Do you think it’s a trick, this invite?’

  God, I was becoming like the grandson. Expecting the worst of people.

  Allegra’s eyebrows shot up. ‘A trick? What, he’s inviting you to dinner as a scheme to get back at you? His son has been happily married for decades, and they have two boys. One stayed here and runs their restaurant, the other is a lawyer who went to train in America.’

  ‘Salvatore.’

  ‘So you met him, huh? Isn’t he handsome?’

  ‘Was hard to tell beyond the scowl.’

  ‘I have never had that problem. A moody man is better than a drunk.’

  ‘And not as good as one who smiles,’ I retorted, exhausted by the conversation.

  ‘If there’s any trick going on, he’s probably trying to set you up with Salvatore. Be careful though, every mother with a single daughter is after that boy.’ Allegra grinned at me, filling up my wine glass.

  ‘Whoever ends up marrying that miserable sod, they have my best wishes.’ I raised my glass to tap it against hers. I didn’t care about Salvatore or his stupid law degree. I wanted to know what made my mother leave her home and her life after two weeks with my father. I hadn’t known she was spontaneous. I didn’t know he was. The most spontaneous I got was an extra few drinks when I knew I shouldn’t on a weeknight. I was suddenly desperate for their stories, and their voices and their pictures. The idea that they would both leave me with no idea of who they really were was heartbreaking. I needed to find out their story before I could continue with mine.

  Chapter Six

  ‘How’s he doing?’ It was easier to talk to Marjorie when I called her, and when it didn’t feel like I was jumping out of my skin with fright every time the phone rang.

  ‘He’s… okay, I guess. He’s eating. Smoking cigars.’

  The distaste was evident in her voice, and I remembered their fights over his cigars, him sneaking out in the evenings, then desperately chewing gum. He’d stopped when he got sick, but now he’d decided he would do whatever the hell he liked. And I agreed.

  ‘It makes him happy.’

  ‘It does.’ We were at an impasse. ‘Is the weather nice?’

  Oh great, talking about the weather of a beautiful Mediterranean island with my stepmonster. Brilliant use of international call rates.

  ‘Yeah, it’s fine. Listen, Marjorie, did he want to talk to me? It would be nice to hear his voice.’

  She paused. ‘Mia, he said he didn’t want to. He wanted his goodbye to be goodbye. You know that.’

  ‘Yeah, but maybe now I’m here… maybe he misses me?’

  She sighed dramatically. ‘Of course he misses you, sweetheart – his energy is crying out for you, and the crystal meditation isn’t really dealing with that—’

  ‘Naha, nope! No mumbo jumbo. Just science and direct quotes from people. Does he want to talk to me?’

  She was quiet for a moment, clearly hurt over my outburst, before saying quietly, ‘He hasn’t changed his mind.’

  I hung up.

  * * *

  The day after my visit to the shop passed quietly. I knew I had dinner with Antonio to look forward to, and I collected up questions to ask him, those things I had forgotten to ask my father about my mother. I spent the morning wandering around the island, trying to keep my mind off my father and to stop myself being angry. I had been marooned in a beautiful paradise, and yet I was haunted. Yet learning about my mother, so many years after her death, felt manageable. I missed her, but I barely remembered her. Just the whisper of scents and sounds and memories, like holding my hand or singing me to sleep. The idea of learning about my father as I was losing him was unbearable. I was just waiting for that phone call, and for a different life to start. And I had no plan for what happened after it did.

  I knew the key was to make sure I stayed busy, and as much as Ischia held my personal history, it also offered a wealth of historical objects for me to fawn over. When I’d looked up where the Archaeological Museum was on the island, it looked to be right over the other side, but when I’d asked Allegra, she’d said it would take about twenty minutes to drive to, and that Nikki would take me.

  My cousin was less than impressed. She’d expected a London troublemaker to drink and share stories with – not a mourning, grouchy history buff.

  ‘You want to spend the day around dusty old things?’ Nikki seemed incredulous.

  I huffed, looking out of the window as we drove down the coast. ‘It’s not about the things. This island has an amazing history – the Greeks, the Romans, the Neopolitans. The effect of the earthquake… a country’s history makes its present.’

  Nikki didn’t look impressed. ‘Yes, okay, but maybe you could learn about our culture by sitting in the thermal spa with a cocktail instead of walking around a museum.’

  I snorted. ‘Well, thank you, I’ll be sure to do that, too. I just… I like to see where things come from, how they’ve grown. I like feeling small in this big… river of history.’

  ‘Ooh, very fancy.’

  ‘Not really.’ I said. Time to change the subject. ‘So, when are we expecting the next proposal?’

  Nikki pressed her lips together. ‘End of the week, probably. I can tell because he’s getting all mysterious again.’

  ‘You are eventually going to say yes, aren’t you? Or just let the poor man keep humiliating himself over and over until he gets tired?’

  ‘Enzo won’t get tired. And, yes, I will probably give in. But only when I’ve finished my studies. I don’t see the point in working this hard to get married and pregnant and that’s it. Done.’

  ‘That doesn’t have to be it.’

  I knew the point she was going to make next, and I wished I hadn’t set myself up for it.

  ‘So… you know so much, where’s your perfectly balanced life?’

  Sometimes, I really wanted to just say, Hey, my dad’s dying and my mum’s gone and my best friend’s left and my stepmum is only a few years older than me. You need to be nice to me!

  But I don’t.

  ‘Fair point,’ I said, and didn’t say anything else until we reached the museum.

  I thanked Nikki for the lift, and she said to call her mum for a ride back, but we both knew I wouldn’t.

  * * *

  Ischia has a rich history, and I enjoyed
losing myself in it for a few hours. I traced how the island changed hands over the years, the different theories about its name, the myths associated with it. Myths, in particular, are one of my favourite things, because they always seem to be a magical way of explaining something straightforward: Hermes riding his chariot across the sky – why we have night and day; Demeter losing her daughter and punishing the earth for half the year whilst she’s away – why we have seasons. Ischia’s story was that of a dangerous fire demon who fought Zeus, king of the gods, and he was imprisoned beneath the island, explaining the occasional earthquakes or rumbles from the mountains as he fights against his dark cell. I liked to imagine that fiery bad guy, banging his fists against rock and shaking the world above. He stayed imprisoned, but he had an effect. You can’t change fate, but you can do something. At least, I hoped so.

  I walked across to the archaeological sites, wandering in circles, imagining finding things in the dust and rubble. Hector’s cup was found here, self-proclaimed (it actually had ‘Hector’s Cup’ inscribed on it, just incase someone else tried to use it, I guessed), dating back to the Greeks. It was one of the first instances of pottery on the island. It was easy to get lost in dates and stories and stone. I felt calm for the first time since my plane landed, like I was just being myself. No angry Mia to cover up her sadness; no best behaviour or polite sharpness. Families had loved and lost people. Fathers became ill and they died. Children became orphans. This had happened throughout history, and would continue to happen. It was comforting, in an odd sort of way.

  After even I had reached my limit, a taxi back dropped me off by Sant’Angelo and I walked down the hill to the harbour, looking into the windows of the souvenir shops, tracing the similarities in those vases and trinkets. We are made of history. We come from what used to be. Sometimes we change and adapt, and sometimes we don’t. All we have are the things we leave behind – not the memories, or the songs. Those things fade with time, with no one left to tell them. Make a man into a myth, leave something irregular hidden in the ground, create a bit of mystery, and he’ll be remembered for ever.

  I should have told my father that, before I left. Told him to make videos and leave voicemails, so I could see his dopey laugh on screen and hear his voice saying my name. It’s too late now. He doesn’t want to be remembered ‘this way’. As if this way is worse than no way at all.

  * * *

  I sensed I was not going to be great company for Antonio that evening, but I picked up a bottle of wine before I headed back to the house to change. If I was miserable, I could at least be polite. I showered and changed into a thin white dress, a light fabric with small embroidered blue flowers across the bottom. I wore my hair long and wavy, not fully drying it. My skin had darkened during the day around the museum, and I put some powder on my nose to dull the slightly red glow.

  At eight, I heard a car beep twice loudly, and even as I stepped out into the street, I knew who was going to be behind the wheel.

  ‘Didn’t you hear the first time?’ Salvatore said with barely withheld irritation, looking straight ahead.

  ‘I heard – just thought the rest of the neighbourhood might have enjoyed the obnoxious sound of a guy not polite enough to get out of his car and knock on the door.’ I slid into the car and slammed the door closed. ‘How far is it to your grandfather’s house?’

  ‘Only ten minutes.’

  ‘Thank God.’

  The winding streets were quiet, and he drove too quickly, aggressively, the way the taxi drivers did. Everyone on the island seemed to drive like it was their back yard, and nothing bad would ever happen. Salvatore took a bend slightly too quickly and I grasped the edge of the seat with my fingernails.

  ‘My driving bother you?’ he asked, with a grin.

  ‘Nope, not at all.’ I stared straight ahead.

  He laughed at that. ‘Stubborn.’

  ‘Me? Never.’

  ‘I bet it’s in the top three words people use to describe you.’ He tucked a wayward piece of hair back, and it flopped forward again. His driving slowed to a less terrifying speed, and I wanted to thank him without admitting my previous fear.

  ‘It’s probably the second most used word.’

  ‘What are the other two?’

  ‘Um… loud and… angry, probably.’

  He laughed again, a light spattering sound, like rain on a tin roof, and it made me smile. A pointless conversation felt better than aggression and arguments. ‘What three words would people use for you?’

  ‘Um, proud, gullible… failure, probably.’

  ‘Well, a proud person would never say that,’ I pointed out.

  He smiled, but it was softer. He began to coast to a stop, then pulled up the hand brake. ‘Well, two out of three ain’t bad. Come on.’

  The house was compact and whitewashed, set back from the street. Cypress trees framed it perfectly, rustling in the evening breeze.

  I slammed the car door and followed Salvatore down the path, but he bypassed the front door, following the wraparound veranda to the back of the building.

  Antonio was placing a bowl of salad on the table, and he looked up and smiled. ‘Mia! Welcome! Salvatore, get the girl a drink!’

  ‘Hi, nice to see you, how are you?’ Salvatore muttered to himself. I handed him the wine and he looked at it, snorting. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘What, is it bad?’ I turned to Antonio. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not really a wine expert.’

  Antonio raised an eyebrow at his grandson, unimpressed. ‘Ignore Salvatore, he has no manners since his girlfriend dumped him. Apparently because he was stupid enough to date a gold-digging American girl, he now treats every woman like she could kill him if she looks at him.’

  Salvatore sighed, not concealing his irritation, before turning to me, staring me square in the eyes. ‘We own a vineyard. This is from the competition.’

  I winced, turning to Antonio. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t…’

  Antonio shrugged. ‘My friend makes it. It’s good. Thank you for the gift.’

  Salvatore curled his lip. ‘I’m opening the Mariana.’ He disappeared into the house.

  Antonio raised a hand to acknowledge his answer, offering me a seat.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Don’t apologize any more.’ Antonio waved it away, sitting next to me. ‘I am ashamed of how that boy is acting right now. He used to be so kind, smiling and always wanting to help people. A few years off the island in America, and suddenly it’s a rat race, and we are all vermin.’

  ‘You said he wants you to sell the shop?’

  Antonio shrugged, ‘Eh, it’s not doing well. I understand. No one wants dusty old antiques. They want new things. Or they want new things that look like old things.’

  I had seen the fake plates and pottery down by the harbour, the shops selling trinkets, bright, colourful, easy to transport. But Antonio’s shop was a treasure trove of real things, the real Ischia. Not fake, easy-to-manufacture copies. The things he had were one of a kind. But no one on Ischia would buy them, and no one leaving Ischia would be bothered to transport them.

  ‘It’s a shame. You’ve got the vineyard, though?’

  Antonio nodded, his grey fluffy eyebrows wriggling as he waved a hand. ‘It’s not the money. We do okay. We don’t need the shop. But my wife, Maria, she loved it. She loved walking through, touching these things, hunting them down. It brought her joy.’

  I paused, wanting to ask but not knowing how. Everyone else seemed to know how to talk about death and mourning and grief in polite conversation. I never had.

  ‘Five years,’ he added, answering my unasked question.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s the way of things. Life is precious, memories fade. You love and you remember that love. You know that,’ Antonio said, sighing. ‘I was not ready to say goodbye to Maria, but I will get used to it. Salvatore says there is no way we can save the shop.’

  His grandson walked back out then, bringing a b
ottle and three glasses. He uncorked it expertly, poured a little, swirled it into a glass and tasted it, inhaling. He didn’t swish or spit or do all those awful things posh people do when they taste wine, like they’re using it as mouthwash, but he hesitated, clearly assessing the flavours. Then he nodded and poured three glasses. I reached for one and he held out a hand. ‘Not yet. Wine needs to breathe.’

  ‘I know.’ I sounded like a petulant child, and Antonio shared a grin with me, until I laughed at myself.

  ‘And no, there’s no way to save the shop.’ Salvatore glared at his grandfather. ‘It’s haemorrhaging money and you shouldn’t be stuck in an old dusty shop all day, Nonno. Live your life, enjoy it.’

  ‘I could say the same to you,’ Antonio countered.

  Salvatore opened his mouth to retaliate, but shook his head, instead handing us each a glass. ‘Salute. To living life.’

  ‘Salute,’ we repeated.

  The wine was rich and smooth, easy to drink, the berry flavour insistent and playful. I surprised myself with how much I could recognize in the flavour. Savvy always said I was useless in that way, never fully tasting things, never slowing down enough to pay attention to flavours. Either I liked it or I didn’t, and that was enough discussion. She’d be proud of me. I almost wanted to send her a postcard describing the wine.

  To living life. A lovely sentiment. But I couldn’t help thinking of my dad, sneaking cigars in his bed, waiting to stop living life, saying goodbye to it, as it had no joy for him any more. I blinked and pushed the thought away.

  ‘So, where do you live in America?’ I asked Salvatore.

  ‘Lived.’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘Fine. Lived… Where?’

  ‘Boston.’

  We paused, and I made an awkward face at Antonio, who made a face back.

  ‘Did you like it?’

  ‘Well, I wasn’t trying to convince a stubborn old man to give up a failing business, which is super fun, but it was fine.’