by Prosecco
So far, it was hard to see a redeeming feature in Salvatore. Sure, he was attractive, if you liked that sort of thing. He was tanned and dark, his eyes were intense. But he was rude, moody and frankly, had acted either like a supercilious arse, or a 14-year-old boy.
I knew I should keep my mouth shut. I should definitely keep my mouth shut.
‘You know, you’re kind of an arsehole.’
He looked up in surprise, ‘Excuse me?’
Well, might as well commit.
‘I said, you’re kind of an arsehole. You are rude and brusque and condescending. All I have done is want stories from your grandfather, stories about my dead mother, who I barely remember. Your grandfather was kind to me as a child, he made me feel noticed when I thought I was alone in the world. And here you are, not only letting the shop be destroyed, but treating him like shit.’
Salvatore’s eyes flashed. ‘Who the hell do you think you are? You think you know any of us, you know this family? You waltz in with this English attitude, like you own the place—’
‘What!’
‘You don’t know me at all—’
‘Well, what I do know I don’t like very much!’
‘It’s mutual, believe me,’ Salvatore yelled, walking off.
Antonio and I sat, shell-shocked in the silence that he left behind him.
‘I am so sorry.’ I bit my lip, embarrassed beyond belief. ‘I can’t believe I, I didn’t mean to… It’s just my Italian grandmother won’t even look at me, and he has you, and he’s so sharp—’
Antonio held up a hand, ‘It’s okay, Mia.’
‘It’s not, it’s not okay at all! You invited me here and I insulted your family.’
Antonio half shrugged. ‘I’ve considered tripping him over a few times this week. Don’t worry. He’s… he’s proud, my grandson. He doesn’t like to be seen as weak, so instead of coming home to lick his wounds, he comes home to help his grandfather with his business. It sounds noble, important, no? Much better than returning home with no money and no fire.’
We sat quietly for a moment, listening to the sound of the wind rustling the trees, the chirrup of crickets.
‘You’re the same. You’re hurting too, aren’t you?’ His eyes were soft, his smile tilted. ‘There is a wildness in you. Like an animal with a hurt paw. At moments soft, in need of sympathy; others, growling and attacking.’
‘My problems are bigger than being taken for a ride by some girl.’ I hated myself even as I said it, but I knew it was right. This was my family. I was going to be alone in the world, surrounded only by snippets of memory, and Salvatore was upset his girlfriend had broken up with him. I didn’t blame her, I would have, too.
Antonio looked a little disappointed at that. ‘Hey, well now, the pain of losing love… have you never been in love?’
I traced my memories for a face or a touch that I had ever thought I loved. Something beyond kissing pop star posters at thirteen.
‘I’m too smart for love.’
Antonio shook his head. ‘Then make sure you hit your head and wake up stupid. Love is the greatest gift we get.’
‘And it always ends in loss. Either they leave and you’re angry, or they die and you’re destroyed.’
The older man simply pressed his lips together, his face grave, as he stood. ‘I’ll bring the food out. And I think I’ve got some photographs of your mother upstairs. Let me go and get them.’
‘Can I help at all?’ I was surprised he still wanted to eat dinner with me, after insulting his grandson and spouting off about love and life and problems.
‘No, you’re a guest. Sit there. Enjoy the wine.’ He moved slowly, carefully, and I watched as he straightened his back, walked with an exaggerated casualness. He was in pain.
Sitting in the quiet of the dark garden, I started to run through the things I had blurted out in anger at Salvatore. Yes, he was arrogant and rude, but he was right – I didn’t know him or his family. Actions are important, and I always think they’re better for judging people than words. Words are cheap, and anyone with a good vocabulary can weave beautiful lies. Salvatore was rude, and overly protective, but he had still been working hard for his grandfather. He had picked me up, doing as his grandfather wished. I also noticed he had walked back to his home, leaving the car, even though he was angry. Maybe he just lived nearby. Or maybe he had left it so I could get home.
Antonio returned, balancing two dishes of lasagne in his hands, and a wallet of photos beneath his chin. I reached up and took them from him as he placed the dishes on the table. ‘After. Let’s eat, then we’ll look at the pictures.’ He gestured for me to sit at the table. ‘You know about your mother and my Niccolo?’
‘Allegra told me yesterday,’ I said hesitantly. I had already insulted his family; I could easily do lots more damage.
He nudged me with an elbow. ‘So serious! Mia, it has been decades! Niccolo met his wife, and she was much better suited to him.’
I nodded, saying nothing.
Antonio smiled. ‘I loved your mother. In fact, she was too good for my son. I wanted her as my daughter-in-law, in my family. She made lunches and dinners fun. She was like this beautiful burning candle, all energy and light. But I also wanted to send her off to have adventures. She was wasted on this island.’
‘What did she want to do? What was she like?’
Antonio shrugged. ‘She was passionate about everything. Politics, art, history. She loved to learn about everything. Long after Niccolo was dozing in the corner, she would sit with me, with a bottle of wine, and debate everything. We would sit into the early hours, talking, and she always spoke with such passion.’
I smiled, and Antonio read my thoughts, arching one grey eyebrow at me.
‘Yes, I am thinking of your little outburst earlier.’ He nodded. ‘Your mother would have put Salvatore in his place, too.’
‘Doesn’t mean it was the right thing to do.’
Antonio shrugged, pausing before sticking a forkful of pasta in his mouth. ‘He’s a big boy. We all have to learn to be told off by a beautiful woman. Builds character.’
I hid a smile and took a bite of lasagne. It was like nothing else I’d tasted. It was classic and creamy, not sweet and stodgy like the ones I used to get to soak up the booze when we’d gone out to the Ferret and Trouserleg on a Sunday night.
‘So, what happened with my mum – she just turned up and said she was leaving?’
‘She was never sure about Niccolo. They were childhood best friends. She loved him in that way you love a puppy, or a favourite toy. She protected him, defended him, encouraged him to be better, but she was never passionate about him. They were quiet and comfortable, like this island.’ He smiled, shaking his head at me. ‘Your mother had decided on a quiet life on this island. She could see her wedding and her marriage and her children with Niccolo. It had been decided when they were teenagers. And then she met your father.’
‘And she left.’
‘And she left.’ Antonio agreed. ‘She came to see me, you know. Before she told Niccolo. They had been… on a break? I suppose. She was nineteen, thinking of studying abroad. They were deciding their path. And my Niccolo, he would always stay here, take over the vineyard. He loves the island. He never was a dreamer like Isa.’
‘What did she say when she came to you?’
Antonio smiled widely, beaming at me suddenly. He placed his fork down on his plate. ‘She asked me to forgive her. Forgive her!’
‘For leaving your son?’
‘She thought she was rejecting my family. She wanted to know I wouldn’t hate her. She had become like a daughter to me over the years, and she valued what I thought. She wanted me to tell her what she should do. Stay loyal to her family and her obligations, or follow her heart.’
I paused. ‘And you told her to go?’
‘I told her to go. She had spent the evening trying to talk herself into staying, into being loyal to Niccolo, her obligations – she didn’t want the fuss, the anger. Sh
e didn’t want to upset anyone.’
‘Why did you tell her to go?’
‘Because she was suddenly alive. She said she had met someone who made her think the world was large and exciting. Someone who made her stomach hurt and her heart beat and her brain think more widely than it ever had. She needed a husband she could sit at the dinner table with, drinking a glass of wine, and talking about the world, not a father-in-law. She found someone who made her feel alive. That cannot be ignored. So she went.’
‘Was your son angry?’
‘In the way young men are when they think they have caged something beautiful and called it theirs,’ Antonio said wryly. ‘We put Elena in his way a few months later, dinners and things, and it worked out.’
‘You’re a bit of a puppet master, aren’t you?’ I held out my glass, and he clinked it against mine.
‘Sometimes, Mia, people need a little help to figure out how to be happy.’ He gave me a look, smirking over the rim of his glass as he drank.
‘Not me, Antonio, I don’t need help.’
He said nothing, just gave me another look.
‘I’m not kidding.’
‘Neither am I.’
After that we finished our food quietly, Antonio occasionally offering titbits about the island, or his winery. After that, he cleared the table, and we looked at the photos, placing them on the wooden table. I traced her features for my own, desperate to find something in common beyond long, curly dark hair. I looked at her dark eyes for a wink of curiosity or arrogance.
I found nothing but a beautiful stranger. Thankfully, Antonio provided a narration, offering the story that went with each photograph. The time she jumped off the end of the pier to rescue a dog, emerging wet and laughing. Niccolo had taken that photograph. There were pictures of her at the Trevi Fountain, posing awkwardly at about seventeen, not sure how to hold herself. In the later pictures she was tanned, golden, confident. Her head was held high in each photo, like she was adopting a power stance, like she knew who she was. I wondered if I’d ever looked that way.
Antonio gave me the photos at the end of the night, keeping only one, of her and Niccolo at sixteen, grinning at the camera before a party, all dressed up and looking awkward. I looked at them, these two teenagers, and wondered how different everyone’s lives would have been if she’d stayed. If she still would have died.
The only difference was, my dad would have found someone else, and I wouldn’t have been born. But maybe everyone would have been happy.
Antonio drove me back to Allegra’s, those photographs grasped tight in my lap.
‘Thank you for this,’ I said, as he pulled up outside. ‘For the stories, for dinner, for everything.’
‘I’ll tell you one more thing about your mother.’ Antonio shifted in his chair to meet my eyes. ‘She knew when people were hurting, and when to make amends. She was stubborn, and passionate, but she was fair. You see what I’m saying?’
I took a deep breath and exhaled, unhappy with his message. ‘I understand.’
Tomorrow, I would make amends with Salvatore. However much I didn’t want to.
Chapter Seven
Allegra wanted to talk the next morning, I could tell. She knocked on my door, bringing me a cup of coffee, and stroking my hair as I sat up in bed. Then she saw the photos, splayed out across the bottom of the bed. I had fallen asleep looking at them. She picked up one from where it had fallen on the floor, tracing my mother’s face with her fingertips.
‘Morning,’ I whispered.
Her face curved into a smile, but she didn’t look up from the photo. ‘Morning, Mia. You had a nice time?’
I sighed. ‘Well, I had a lovely dinner, I heard stories about my mum… I told Salvatore he was a selfish, rude arsehole.’
‘Oh, Mia!’
‘I know.’ I sighed. ‘I’m going to fix it. Today.’
‘Good!’ She patted my leg. ‘It’s good to have you here, even if you are making enemies.’
‘No, no enemies. Call it… Italian passion.’
‘I call it stupid pigheadedness.’ Allegra chuckled, getting up. ‘Come and have some breakfast.’
I pulled on some clothes and tied my hair back, not forgetting my sun cream. When I entered the kitchen, Allegra held up an empty mug, accompanied by a raised eyebrow. I shook my head.
‘I think I might buy breakfast – a peace offering for Salvatore?’
‘Way to a man’s heart,’ Allegra nodded, smug grin on her face.
‘I don’t care about his heart, I care about…’ I wasn’t really sure what I cared about, apart from not disgracing the memory of my mother. I wanted people to say those lovely things about me, that I was passionate and kind and full of life. ‘I care about doing what’s right.’
I thrust out my chin and looked across the room at my grandmother, so small in her high-backed chair, eyes narrowed at some needlework.
‘Buongiorno, Nonna,’ I tried, waiting for a response. She looked up incredibly slowly, those watery brown eyes meeting mine, before she looked back to her needlework without saying a word.
‘Fine,’ I said, picking up my bag with more aggression than necessary, speaking more loudly. ‘Absolutely fine.’
I tried not to slam the door as I left.
I did not succeed.
* * *
I stopped at the bakery in town. There were a number of them, but Nikki had informed me that only one did takeaway coffee. She seemed to think this was terribly important, but I guess it was something I took for granted. My stomach was pulsing with nerves. I hated apologizing. If there was any way to get out of it, I would. Somehow admitting I’d been wrong brought up this intense feeling of shame, like I had no self-control when it came to my temper. It wasn’t an attractive trait. Didn’t seem to stop me from continuing to piss people off, though.
I walked slowly up the hill, rehearsing how I would balance contrition with a clear message that I would not take any further bullshit. He was wrong, I was wrong – let’s leave it there.
God, I was bad at apologies, even in my head.
I carried a bag with two fresh orange juices, two coffees and two croissants. And I almost dropped it all when I saw the front of Antonio’s shop. Salvatore, up a ladder in front of the window, was wiping it with a sponge. The whole of the front window was soaked, and he was scrubbing away, one leg curved around the edge of the ladder, his brow furrowed in concentration. The shop name was starting to shine again.
I stood at the bottom of the ladder, holding it steady. ‘Buongiorno.’
He looked down at me, huffing. ‘Buongiorno.’ He returned to scrubbing the window.
I held up the bag. ‘I brought breakfast.’
‘I don’t eat breakfast.’
‘Well, you should, it’s a very important meal. Some say it’s the most important.’ I held up the bag again. ‘And I bought coffee. As you can only have cappuccinos at breakfast in Italy, you don’t want to miss your chance.’
He said nothing, but he paused at the top of the ladder, still not looking at me.
‘Please, Salvatore. I’m trying to apologize. I’m as proud as you are, so you’ve got to know this is killing me.’
He laughed at that, half a smile hovering at his lips. ‘Fine, a coffee.’
‘And a croissant.’
‘Twist my arm.’ He stepped down the ladder as I held it steady.
We sat side by side on the shop’s front step. I handed the coffee over.
‘Thanks.’
‘So… what’s with the front window. Spring clean?’
He pushed back his dark hair, looking at the street in front of us. ‘Someone pointed out that I was disrespecting my grandfather. I still think we need to sell the place, but we shouldn’t let it look like it does. You’re right, it’s a matter of respect.’
The silence settled, and I took a deep breath.
‘I’m sorry about what I said. I don’t know you, or your family. I just think your grandfather’s great. In
fact, I’m a little jealous.’
Salvatore grinned at that, shaking his head. ‘You know, he loved your mother. I knew when it was a proper argument between my parents, because she’d say, “Well, Niccolo, your father would have much rather had Isa as a daughter-in-law than me.”’
‘Oh.’
‘I’m sorry, too. I haven’t… I have been in a bad mood since I came back to this island. It, well, I went off to create a different life. I didn’t think I’d be back here, in exactly the same situation I was before I left.’
‘Everyone here seems to think you’re a big shot,’ I said. ‘It’s all “Did you meet the fancy lawyer, he’s back from America!” I think you’re doing okay.’
‘Yeah, they never stop talking.’
I handed him the bag with the pastries in, and he took one, biting into it and waving it at me, as if to prove his compliance.
‘I guess it must have been weird to grow up in a place like this.’
He pressed his lips together, chewing thoughtfully, waiting until he’d swallowed to answer. ‘It was. It was small, and everyone knew everything about you. Your life was mapped out and you had no say in your destiny. And when you leave, even when they say they’re impressed, really they think you’re spitting in their faces, rejecting their way of life, trampling on your heritage.’
‘You wish you hadn’t come back?’
‘I wish I’d never left. My life would have been simple. I would have been sheltered from the world. I wouldn’t have seen how awful people can be.’
I didn’t ask what he meant. Lawyers see the worst of people, the manipulation, fear, treachery. Divorces and settlements, business disagreements. Stolen ideas and the threat of bankruptcy. Lawyers play witness to this.
I wondered how my life would have been if I’d grown up on the island. Would I be out drinking with Nikki every weekend? Would I have had some boy I’d been expected to marry since we were kids, both quietly planned for each other? Would I still have studied archaeology, and done nothing with it? Perhaps, instead, I would have become a curator at the museum, or a tour guide at the archaeological site. Perhaps, without those books of myths my mother read to me at night, surrounded instead by living history, I would never have cared about any of this at all. I would never have met Savvy at primary school. I would speak Italian, and look Italian, and live a life that was expected. It felt like a heavy burden, and, at the same time, a comforting blanket. It was heavy with expectation, but it would keep you warm.