by Prosecco
‘So, today you’re cleaning up the shop?’
Salvatore nodded. ‘It seemed like the right thing to do. Make it the way it used to be.’
‘Can I help you?’ I asked.
He paused, tilting his head. ‘What is it with you and this place?’
I wondered whether to answer with a joke, a snarky comment, but we had reached a space of quiet understanding. I would trust him with my memory.
‘I came back to the island when my mother died. I was only a little kid, my dad was… well, heartbroken, empty. I was surrounded by this loud, clucking, sad family who all spoke Italian and just kept trying to feed me.’ I looked up at the shop’s sign, gleaming and dripping water in the sunshine. ‘Then, one day, I found this place, and Antonio spoke to me like I was a real person. He showed me the shop, talking about the history of different items. When I said I was lost, he tried to give me a compass. It was beautiful, brass and heavy and ancient, and it was the simplest thing, but someone being kind to me, talking to me, made me feel safe.’
Salvatore smiled, and I could see that handsomeness everyone kept talking about. ‘That sounds like him. Do you still have the compass?’
I shook my head. ‘No, I never got to keep it. My dad refused and dragged me out of the shop. To him, it was charity and pity. I think I somehow thought that compass was magical, would show me where to go and who to be.’
Salvatore nodded slowly, in understanding. ‘I used to love this place when I was a kid. Hiding amongst the shelves, picking up weird and wonderful items. My nonna, she was the heart of it. She loved everything ancient and mysterious. They all knew her at the museums, the dig sites. She used to go to the mainland to meet with antiques merchants. They worked well together. My grandmother had the passion and the historical knowledge, the eye for a find; and Antonio could tell a story, make you want to possess this object so you could tell everyone this wonderful tale about it.’ He paused. ‘Without her… it’s just one half of a whole. Antonio has the stories, but he doesn’t have the heart to tell them any more. And he never had the eye for it the way my grandmother did. She was the centre of all this.’
‘What about you?’ I asked.
‘What about me?’
‘Does it still hold that magic for you, the way it did when you were a child?’
‘I’m hoping that after today, it might do.’
* * *
We worked solidly, for hours. The front was the easy work: washing the windows, dusting the surfaces, sweeping and mopping and polishing. But it was the cataloguing that was important, and that would make a difference to what was sold. Each item had clear descriptions and notes on its origin and material. Salvatore read these out, translating to English, and I matched the description to the item on the shelves, adding recommended cleaning instructions to each. Each object was then cleaned carefully, and I took pride in knowing how to handle these delicate, beautiful things, revealing their details without diminishing their look.
Salvatore was watching me as I did this, offering to help, but I was enjoying myself. Instead, he focused on the larger, simpler elements of our work – replacing the wiring of a lamp, checking which items were listed correctly.
By the time evening fell, we were exhausted, but happy. Salvatore brought out a bottle of wine from the back room, and two glasses. ‘We have earned this.’
‘I agree,’ I said, pulling off the gloves I had worn to protect each item from fingerprints and grease.
He poured two glasses, handing one to me, before clinking his glass against mine.
‘Cheers.’
‘Salute.’
I didn’t drink, and Salvatore paused mid-sip, before laughing. ‘I opened this yesterday – it doesn’t need to breathe.’
‘I’m never going to win.’ I sipped, sighing with appreciation as I collapsed into a chair.
Salvatore sat on the edge of the desk. ‘It’s nice to have company. These last couple of weeks I’ve been sitting here alone with my glass of wine, banging my head on the desk to figure out these books.’
‘Does it really have to close?’
He put his wine glass down, his hands explaining as he talked. ‘It’s a practicality thing. My father runs the vineyard now, my brother helps. Antonio loves the shop, but he’s not bringing in new items, and he’s not selling the old ones. Who’s going to run it?’
I said nothing, but tilted my head.
‘Me? I’m a lawyer. What do I know about antiques?’
‘I’m an archaeologist who works as a make-up girl – we all change our paths.’
Salvatore paused, before leaning forward. ‘Yes, but which one makes you happy, makes you feel like you’re fulfilling your purpose, igniting your passion?’
I sighed. ‘Fair point. Is that how you feel about law?’
‘I did. Now, I don’t know. I think I need your magic compass.’ He smiled over his glass of wine, winking at me, and I jolted a little as my stomach flipped. A few hours of being kind and working well together, and the wine had gone straight to my head. I preferred talking to him when I didn’t notice how painfully attractive he was, or how he could be fun and teasing and cheeky.
‘I… I’d better go. Long day.’
He nodded, suddenly serious, as if he’d overstepped. ‘Right, yes. Thank you for your help today. Tomorrow I just have to figure out where everything goes, how to organize it. Do you think it should be by room, type, or location of origin?’ He seemed overwhelmed again, as if he’d gotten used to having a partner in crime.
I smiled at him. ‘I don’t know, Salvatore, why don’t we chat about it tomorrow? I’ll come at the same time.’
His smile was wide and beaming. ‘I’ll bring breakfast.’
Chapter Eight
Allegra blinked at me as I ran down the stairs. ‘Where are you off to so early?’
‘Helping at the shop,’ I said. ‘I’m actually useful.’
‘Mia, this is supposed to be your holiday,’ she said, clucking, a concerned frown on her face. ‘Don’t feel obligated. Antonio has run that shop for many years without help.’
‘It’s not Antonio, it’s—’
I stopped myself. Too late. Allegra raised an eyebrow and waited. ‘Yes?’
‘Salvatore, I’m helping Salvatore. For Antonio.’
‘Well, well, I thought you hated the boy.’ She was clearly enjoying this, and way too much, leaning back, her arms crossed like she had the winning hand in a poker game.
I pressed my lips together. ‘Perhaps I judged him unfairly.’
‘Perhaps you saw him smile, eh?’ Allegra nudged me, then clasped her hands. ‘Oh! To have you on the island, to have you stay here, raise a family—’
She had already disappeared into a different future, one where I lived in the bosom of my Italian family, creating a new version of myself. The jump was ridiculous, but I did wonder – could I live on the island? Could I do without the noise of town and the inherent Englishness of a fry-up on Sunday morning after a night out? I would miss the pub, and Thai food and shitty TV. I would miss grey skies. But what else was left in England for me, after Dad was gone?
But that wasn’t what Allegra was thinking. She was thinking about love.
‘Allegra!’ I pulled myself from my wanderings, sounding scandalized. ‘I stop being rude to someone, and you think I’m going to marry him?’
‘Well, you are your mother’s daughter,’ she snorted, pouring herself some juice. Then, increasing the volume of her voice, she called over to my nonna in the corner: ‘Wouldn’t that be wonderful, Mama, if Mia stayed here?’
The old woman looked over, appraising me, and my aunt repeated herself in Italian, that same upbeat tone almost like a warning. My nonna said nothing and looked away again.
Allegra’s good mood seemed to deflate. She turned to me and pasted a jolly smile on her face. ‘Well, if you’re not busy being so friendly tomorrow, I thought we could do something together?’ There was a quiet desperation in her voice, as if
she needed to make up for her mother’s coldness.
‘I’d really love to spend some time getting to know you – maybe take you to some of the places Isa and I used to go as teenagers?’
I paused, and I wasn’t sure why. The fear of jumping into memories, getting tearful and forlorn? Her eyes were expectant, and my response wasn’t what she wanted.
‘Or we could spend the day at the thermal gardens? Relaxing, getting pampered? It’s not too busy yet, and the views are spectacular.’ My aunt spoke quickly, like she was afraid to leave a silence.
I couldn’t stand the idea that this offer was given out of pity but, as I scanned Allegra’s face, so similar to my own in its angles and anxiety, I could find none. Only concern and a need to please.
I patted her hand. ‘Either sounds wonderful.’
She seemed to visibly exhale, and her gaze returned again to her mother, who didn’t look over, apparently intent on her book. But she hadn’t turned a page in quite a while, I realized.
‘You know what I would love?’ I said, suddenly. ‘Mum always said the women in her family made the best cannoli anywhere – I would love to learn, if you could teach me?’
Allegra’s face lit up. ‘Yes! Of course! That is a good plan, Mia. I would be happy to teach you.’ She turned to her mother, suddenly triumphant. ‘You hear that, Mama?’ She relayed my words in Italian, mellifluous and beautiful through her smiles.
The old woman’s steely gaze turned to me, as if she expected this was some sort of trick. Her response to Allegra was croaky, sharp and accompanied by aggressive hand gestures. She shook her head and got up slowly, walking out of the room muttering to herself. It seemed to take an age before she left.
‘What did she say?’
Allegra shook her head, looking at the table top, scratching away a mark with her thumbnail. ‘Nothing, just being a stubborn old lady.’
‘Allegra. Tell me.’
My aunt lifted her gaze. ‘She said I can’t make you into Isa, and it’s shameful of me to try. Isa isn’t coming back and I’m making a fool of myself.’
‘That’s horrible! You’re just being kind.’
Allegra’s face softened, as if she was trying to melt the hurt from those words away. ‘She’s not wrong, Mia. I see my sister in you, and I want to talk about her, share stories, bring her back to life. We haven’t talked about Isa in a long time, though I know Mama thinks about her a lot.’
‘Is it because I don’t speak Italian? Because I didn’t come sooner? Is that why she can’t look at me?’
Allegra shook her head, patting my hand. ‘There is a reason my mother doesn’t want my sister’s ghost raised – and it’s nothing to do with you. Mama hadn’t spoken to Isa since the day she left the island. Guilt and regret make you bitter. The older you get, the more time you have to consider past mistakes… you understand?’
‘I remind her to be guilty?’
‘That would be my guess.’ Allegra smiled softly. ‘But that is her problem, not yours. So tomorrow, we will cook.’
I imagined them as teenagers, Isa and Allegra, arms around each other, their dark curls merging together as they smiled for the camera. I wondered if my grandmother had always been strong and wiry, her brow heavy with frowns. I tried to imagine her smiling, hugging, kissing, and it was nearly impossible.
‘I… I guess I’d better go. I’ve got a busy day ahead…’
‘Well, go on then!’ She winked at me. ‘Shouldn’t leave a man who looks like that waiting!’
I rolled my eyes as I walked out of the door, and yet, as ridiculous as it was, I imagined it was something my mother would have said, an interaction I would have had with her. I had often had those pretend conversations with myself over the years, when I got ready for a date, or went to a school dance. When I went on nights out with Savvy, or when a boy I’d liked had turned out to be an arsehole. I’d had these imaginary conversations with my mother throughout my teen years, but I hadn’t done it in a long time; after a while, I had stopped being able to imagine what she might say. She was just an imaginary friend, the idea of a perfect mum based on a handful of memories.
Hearing Allegra tease me made me feel like a teenager again.
I kissed Allegra’s cheek as I left the house. ‘Thank you for telling me, about Nonna.’
‘Families have enough secrets,’ she said, her face stubborn and intent. ‘And I want to get to know my niece.’
So that was what it felt like, to have someone fight for you, want you, no matter who you were. I was starting to understand Italian families.
* * *
Salvatore’s breakfast far exceeded my own. When I walked into Antonio’s, he had spread a selection of food across the desk: breakfast meats, cheeses, breads and fruit.
‘Wow, I thought you didn’t do breakfast?’
‘Well, you said it’s an important meal, so…’ He offered a one-shouldered shrug, looking at the floor, then back to me. ‘It’s okay?’
‘It’s… a lot of food!’ I said, taking a seat. He brought me a coffee. ‘Thank you! So, today we categorize?’
‘Yes, all of this stuff just looks old to me, I was hoping… seeing as you’re an archaeologist, some of it might mean something to you?’ He swept back that one curl of hair again, and I wondered if it truly annoyed him, or if he didn’t even notice he was doing it any more.
‘Some of it does. How did your grandmother organize it?’
Salvatore grinned widely. ‘However she felt like.’
‘Well, that is helpful!’ I laughed, sipping my coffee. ‘So, let’s get to work!’
It was fun, and I felt my enthusiasm and knowledge reigniting. I could identify an approximate era for each item, and we turned it into a game, me guessing and Salvatore confirming from the index card assigned to each item. I tried to guess the origin, but Ischia’s past was so mixed, it could have been Greek, Italian or any number or different things. I was definitely schooled a few times, and made a note to return to the museum, now I knew what I was looking for.
‘I think we should just organize them the way your grandmother always did, and make this place into a treasure trove again.’
We worked well together. I had seen Salvatore smile more in one day than I had since I had been on the island. It was almost impossible to imagine how he had been before, so coarse and abrupt, expecting the worst of strangers. I tried not to let myself get taken in, the way all the women on the island seemed to be, swooning over the man with the dark hair and the bright eyes. It was easier when I didn’t look directly at him. It was hard, though, now that his smile was like sunshine, regular and bright. He laughed often, loudly, and took pleasure in work, in change.
Together, at the end of the day, we looked around the shop and smiled at our accomplishment. It looked like somewhere interesting, clean and intriguing. It was full of magical, wonderful items, shining with opportunity. A few tourists stopped in and talked to us, wondering if the shop had always been there. Salvatore chatted to them about the history of the shop, the family legacy. I showed them some of my favourite pieces, the items we had discovered and fallen in love with in the last two days. I told them about the roots of the pottery of the island, the paintings on different items depicting Zeus’s imprisonment of the demon beneath Ischia. Salvatore even chimed in with a few details, the story told to children of Ischia as they fell asleep, to keep them safe in their beds, unafraid of earthquakes. We sold three things, which didn’t seem like much, but Salvatore said that was more than they’d sold in months.
‘It’s a good start,’ I said, clapping my hands together as the customers left and he switched the sign in the window to ‘Closed’.
‘Start? It’s meant to be an ending.’
I paused. ‘Okay, you might not like this, but hear me out. Some of these pieces are wonderful. They’re tokens of a beautiful holiday, they’re memories of a wonderful island, deep in mystery and stories. But most people aren’t going to travel back with them in their luggage. They
can’t trust they’ll get home safely. Antonio’s needs to go online.’
‘You’re joking.’
‘I’m not. You need to offer reasonable international shipping, and that way you can start selling bigger, more expensive pieces. Turn it into a feature of the town. This island has spas and gardens and harbours. Capri and the Amalfi coast are nearby. There must be visitors who have the money. Now it looks like the sort of place they would spend their money – you just have to make it easier for them.’
‘International shipping.’ He nodded slowly. He wasn’t convinced, but he hadn’t shot me down.
‘And online sales. Ebay.’
‘Ebay!’
‘What’s the population of this island? What’s the tourist turnover per year?’
Salvatore shook his head. ‘How would I know?’
‘I can tell you it’s not a lot compared to everyone who’s online, happily bidding away for a unique Italian ornament to decorate their living room.’
Salvatore closed his eyes, sighing. ‘You’re gonna make me stay here my whole life, aren’t you? You’re going to make this place a success and I’ll never practise law again.’
I grinned at him. ‘Come on, is law as fun as this?’
He laughed, gesturing. ‘Mia, this isn’t what I’m good at. This is what you’re good at. You stay here and run the shop. I’ll go and be a lawyer.’
I grinned at what Allegra would say to that – practically a marriage proposal! She’d be overjoyed and tell me running that shop was my destiny. It was nice that she wanted me to stay.
I looked back to Salvatore, suddenly deflated as he traced the edges of a vase, leaving fingerprints.
He was serious. I leaned against a shelf. ‘Would you be a lawyer on the mainland?’