‘You’ve got me all wrong.’
Rocco jabbed his finger in the air. ‘I look out for this family. You make one wrong move towards Dante and you’ll regret it. Just be aware, I know your game.’ He leant close. ‘Never forget, I have my eye on you. So make your little cookies and your stupid pizza dessert. Your days here are numbered. I’ll make sure you’re gone before the Lombardi List is even published.’
Chapter Eight
Perspiration ran down the middle of Mary’s shoulder blades, underneath her blouse, as she carried two pizzas outside. She wasn’t just hot or suffering from rushing around during the lunch-hour trade. Even though it was midweek, every day was busy now. No. It was one week on from Rocco’s threat and his resentment had got worse. His stare followed her every move, from the bar where he sipped a glass of water – that was the only break he took during any shift, and he sneered at her for wanting to grab a bite to eat.
Rocco’s accusations made her back right away from Dante. Every time she’d spoken to him, she could feel the waiter’s suspicious eyes boring into her. After struggling to answer tourists’ questions about the capital, Dante had begrudgingly suggested he and Mary spend a day out together, seeing the sights and only speaking Italian. But because of Rocco she’d cried off under the pretence of needing to try out a new biscuit recipe. And anyway, perhaps he’d be relieved, she thought.
Mary fixed a smile on her face and set the food down on a table, at the front of the canopy. The two women smiled at her and picked up their knives and forks. Mary stood for a moment and admired the elderly tap dancer, stepping around on the pavement, a couple of metres away. The previous street performer had been an opera singer – before that, a young lad who juggled. Mary wished she could record the soundtrack of the piazza and play it on her iPod. It produced such happy feelings, with music, laughter, and chat. Plus the trickling of fountain water and whoosh of passing skateboards … for people who ever felt lonely, it would provide the perfect comfort blanket.
‘The next order is ready,’ snapped Rocco and Mary jumped, to find him by her side. As they walked back into the restaurant, a man wearing a Hawaiian T-shirt stopped her and asked for two coffees with a biscuit on the side. Mary smiled. Today’s batch was zingy clementine shortbread, with dark chocolate chips, and had proved to be the most popular flavour yet. Whilst trade for the biscuits and mini pizzas had been very slow for the first few days, interest had picked up after they’d put a chalkboard out the front, advertising them. The one euros coming in were soon adding up.
‘Pah!’ muttered Rocco, under his breath. ‘Biscuits? Without that option they might have asked for a proper dessert.’
Mary bit her lip. ‘I … don’t think so. They had starters. Most people don’t want three courses at lunchtime, so the biscuit is an extra item they would probably never have ordered.’
Rocco let his glasses slip down his nose and stared. ‘You’ve been here a matter of weeks, and suddenly you are the expert?’
‘No, I didn’t mean …’
‘Service!’ called Dante.
Finally, hours later, she collapsed into a chair, out the back of the restaurant, among the shadows, with a slice of pizza. Her legs ached and stiffness set into her back. She should have had a short break at two but Rocco had insisted she work through until four.
Things couldn’t continue like this. The Rossi family were lovely but she spent much of her time with the waiter, tiptoeing, like that tap dancer, around his moods. Today he’d blamed her for offering the house wine instead of trying to push expensive brands, and she’d overheard him tell Alfonso that she spent too much time chatting to English customers.
‘Okay,’ she whispered to herself. ‘Don’t give up.’ Think of ways you can improve. Firstly, she’d taken so long chatting to that family from Kent because she didn’t really know enough about Rome. If she started to become more familiar with the city then she’d quickly be able to answer questions like what was cheaper, the bus or the underground. Dante was right. She needed to venture out further than Piazza Navona. Sure, she’d already visited the Spanish Steps and walked past the Vatican. But a couple of trips didn’t constitute a working knowledge of the Italian capital.
Plus, a fledgling idea had been growing within her mind of how to deal with Rocco. She’d been observing Natale and her dad – how he bossed her around and sometimes, unwittingly, dismissed her ideas. It was clear he still saw her as his little girl. Yet Natale played clever and flattered him into seeing her point of view.
Take yesterday, when she’d suggested having a copy of the menu in Arabic, behind the till. Syrian refugees were settling, finding jobs … perhaps they would become customers.
‘But most can speak English at least,’ Alfonso had declared and waved his hands. ‘And muddle by with the French they learnt back in their Syrian schools. So they can read our tourist menus. Not that they will waste hard-earned cash on restaurants.’
‘But words well known to Europeans mean nothing to them – like tiramisu. We could translate that as, I don’t know … coffee and chocolate sponge dessert.’
Alfonso folded his arms. ‘The majority of Syrians are Muslims so won’t eat that because of the alcohol.’
‘It was just an example!’ she said and rolled her eyes. But then she gave him the warmest smile. ‘Thousands are settling here, Papà. This small gesture would show a willingness to acknowledge and welcome them. Lucia has made a lovely little friend at school called Amira and I’ve spoken several times to her mum. She was almost in tears, with appreciation, when the local café in her suburb handed her a sheet, explaining all their different snacks.’ She gave Alfonso a hug. ‘You have always been so broad-minded – so forward-thinking, Papà … I know you’ll think it a great idea. You will lead the way for other restaurants.’
Alfonso had puffed out his chest before gruffly grunting something about one copy behind the bar not mattering too much. Mary hadn’t understood every word of Natale’s Italian, but Dante had filled her in afterwards, rolling his eyes over his sister’s deviousness.
Except for Mary this wasn’t funny. Asserting herself with Rocco – winning him over – could mean she’d really get a chance at a new life. Plus she also, somehow, needed to win the respect of Dante, although he had thawed a little since she and Natale had shared their plans for making the pizzeria more competitive. Her ears felt hot as a cheeky voice inside her head suggested it wasn’t only his respect she was after. It hadn’t been as easy as she’d thought, to keep her distance from Dante. If he came into a room, her eyes immediately sought him out. Sure, he was film-star fetching but it was more than that – it was a kindness, a vulnerability combined with a strength of character she’d rarely come across.
Oh for goodness’ sake, she told that voice, it was probably just a case of contrariness inside her wanting what she couldn’t have. Human nature could be like that – although Mary had never been one out for just the fun of the chase …
She stared at the moist, aromatic pizza slice and took a big bite, strips of gooey, melted cheese dangling as she pulled the triangle away from her mouth. Basil and piquant tomato sauce danced on her tongue and complemented the creamy, smooth mozzarella. The woody flavour of mushroom followed this and her stomach glowed with expectant satisfaction as she swallowed.
Come on, Mary. You could do this. Concentrate on Rocco. From now on, take a different tack with the waiter from hell. Flattery instead of submission might just work.
She exhaled and analysed her progress with her other resolutions. Health … well, she had found a ballroom class, even though that form of dance wasn’t as popular here as in England. It started … Mary looked at her watch. In precisely one hour and thirty minutes. She’d been lucky enough to find an early evening session that ran in between the lunchtime and evening shifts.
Or rather Natale had suggested it. Her friend, Cheyenne, ran the dance school – an American who had married an Italian. Her son used to be in Lucia’s toddlers’ group an
d now they were in the same class at school. Natale would have gone with Mary, were it not for helping her daughter revise for a spelling test – and her two left feet.
And then Love … Well, that one had been easy. Most of the men she met were on holiday with their families. One of the kitchen staff had made a teasing remark about her and Dante. Heat swamped her neck and she was glad to be sitting in the shadows. Although now and then she felt an urge to hug those Atlas shoulders that implied he could carry the weight of the world. And yes, he talked – really talked about things, on the rare occasion they had a lengthy conversation, unlike Jake who rarely spoke about the important stuff.
Jake. Mary sighed and bit once more into the pizza slice. She and Jake had known each other, through mutual friends, for several months before they’d gone out but even that hadn’t created a strong enough foundation for a permanent relationship.
She knocked back her lemonade, stood up, and brushed off crumbs. No matter. Princes on white horses didn’t exist. The only person who could make Mary’s life better was herself.
She left her plate on the kitchen hatch. Rocco scowled at her, as he carried a tray of espressos outside, with the clementine biscuits on the side. His shift was finishing too. In between the busy periods Alfonso used a skeleton staff but liked the main players around for the busiest times. It meant everything that he now considered her to be one of those indispensable members of staff.
Mary headed over to the coffee machine and minutes later, placed her cappuccino on the green gingham cover on a small table nearby. As she sat down, Mary banged into the table and froth spilt into the saucer. She placed a napkin under the cup, to mop up the spill. Her phone buzzed and she took it out of her apron’s front pocket. A text from Cheyenne. Mary’s brow knitted.
‘Enjoying your break, Mary?’ said Dante, and he sat down in front of her, wiping his head with a tea towel. She still couldn’t believe how pretty his lilting tones made her name sound.
‘How did you know it was me?’
‘You are one of the most maldestro people I know.’
It hadn’t taken him long, then, to work out her clumsiness.
‘I heard you bang into the table. No one else does that – not even Papà with his generous belly. And then there is your countryside smell.’
Rocco headed their way, carrying a pizza. ‘Signora Bianchi is not happy,’ he spat.
Dante pulled a face. ‘She never is. Last week she complained her wine was too warm. I don’t know why she comes back. What is it now?’
‘It would seem she is justified this time. It is a good thing she had a carafe of water on her table. She took a large bite of this pizza. It has hot peppers on it instead of porcini mushrooms. She said next time she’ll eat with her glasses on.’ He raised an eyebrow in Mary’s direction. ‘You took this order, Maria, and shouldn’t be making mistakes like this after so long.’
‘But …’ Flustered, her mind raced to find an explanation. ‘But the mushroom bowl is right next to the hot pepper bowl in the kitchen, isn’t it? Perhaps, Dante, you just accidentally picked up the wrong topping and—’
As soon as she said those words, Mary knew she was wrong. Dante was super efficient and without a doubt, could spot the different texture of those ingredients, between his fingers. She opened her mouth to take it back, but Dante got to his feet.
‘What, it must be my fault because I am blind?’
She hadn’t even though of that. ‘Of course not! I didn’t mean …’ But he’d left and, along with Rocco, she followed. Dante spoke rapidly to his young cousin in Italian and the kitchen assistant found the order ticket. Dante handed it to Rocco.
‘What does it say?’ he asked, in a stiff. ‘I remember this order. We hurried it through as the customer hadn’t got long.’
Mary read it.
Rocco looked smug. ‘Maria has written one peperoncini pizza.’
She swallowed. Her mistake. But peperoncini, the word for hot pepper, did sound a bit like porcini, meaning mushroom. Still, no excuses – for messing up the order or suggesting Dante was to blame.
‘Tell Signora Bianchi I will make a new one immediately,’ said Dante.
‘Too late,’ said Rocco, clearly revelling in Mary’s discomfort. ‘She couldn’t wait.’ He headed off, his whole demeanour shouting that his work was done: that is, to burst Mary’s little bubble of hope that the Rossi family would offer her a permanent job.
Dante turned to head back to the kitchen but Mary held his arm. He shook it off.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I never meant …’
A muscle in his cheek flinched. ‘Don’t worry. I’m the blind guy, right? Bound to be my mistake. It doesn’t bother me any more. It’s others’ prejudice and not my failing.’
‘Dante! I would never—’
He held up his hand. Just at that moment, Natale appeared, having collected Lucia from school club.
‘Maria! Cheyenne just texted me – you haven’t replied to her message.’
‘Oh. Um …’
‘Don’t you think it’s a great idea?’ she said and beamed.
‘What?’ Mary said, heart and mind still racing as she studied Dante’s expressionless face.
‘Her class performing, here at Piazza Navona?’
Mary forced her gaze away from him. ‘Yes … it’s great … I didn’t realise celebrations were going to take place, in the middle of August, for some bank holiday …’
‘Si. We have a street festival on the fifteenth. To celebrate Ferragosto, as we call it – Assumption Day. A religious holiday. Nearly everyone takes the day off work. Although Pizzeria Dolce Vita stays open – we can’t afford to miss the business.’
Something niggled Mary. The fifteenth. Of course. It was the same day as the Lombardi List was published.
‘So, for the next three weeks Cheyenne wants every student to take a partner to class. She says there will be extra practice timetabled and she wants you to all perform and show the public how easy some dances are for beginners.’
‘Three weeks is never long enough,’ Mary muttered.
‘It is, cara Maria – because she doesn’t want her couples to look perfect. The idea is to entice members of the public to join in – for them not to feel intimidated. Some might then sign up for classes if they see that there are already people at their level.’
‘I haven’t got a partner,’ mumbled Maria.
Bored now, Lucia pulled at Natale’s arm, wanting to know what was going on. Her mother explained.
‘Me! Me!’ squealed Lucia and did the cutest jig.
Natale grinned. ‘My little treasure wants you to take her.’
Mary winked at Lucia who gave a cheeky grin before disappearing upstairs.
‘I’ve got to get back to work,’ said Dante in a measured voice.
‘No you don’t. You are in between shifts,’ said Natale brightly. ‘I told Cheyenne you’d be partnering Maria.’
‘Impossibile!’ said Dante.
Mary’s stomach tightened.
‘She was thrilled. So, no arguments,’ said Natale innocently and walked away as her phone rang.
‘Look, just forget it,’ Mary said, palms perspiring. ‘It’s probably best if I find someone else.’
‘Oh, of course – I mean, a blind person couldn’t possibly dance, could they?’ he said.
Mary stared at him. Tried to stop the words coming, but couldn’t. All the weeks of his unfriendliness and cold remarks formed a bubble of indignation in her chest. ‘Enough of that rubbish.’ Mary snapped. ‘I’m sick of all the comments. Dig, dig, dig, at me, making out I look down on you.’ She shook her head. ‘You are one of the most capable chefs … sons … brothers … uncles I know. The way you cope with your condition … I think it’s amazing, just ask Natale, she’ll tell you. So I’m not going to let you make me feel bad. I said to forget it because …’ her voice wavered ‘… it’s obvious you don’t want me here.’
Dante’s jaw dropped open. He rubbed the
back of his neck. ‘That’s not true,’ he said, eventually.
‘Look, I know you didn’t want an English waitress here again.’ She threw her arms in the air. ‘Apparently something put you off me right from my Skype interview. I don’t get it. I see how well you get on with life – yet with me there are all these self-piteous little comments about how I only see you as blind.’
His jaw tightened. ‘Self-piteous? Me?’
She shouldn’t have said that. Mary knew he wasn’t. But why did he constantly accuse her of doubting his abilities?
Dante bit his top lip. ‘Whatever you’ve heard about me not wanting you here – it was never personal.’
‘How can it not be?’ she retorted. ‘I don’t know what I’ve done wrong but I won’t let you accuse me of being prejudiced when I’m not. When we were chatting about the pizza toppings I just meant that—’
‘But I’ve noticed how you’ve backed away this last week. After I made that comment about the new heart pizza, saying that Cupid might shoot his bow right here. It’s obvious you thought I was implying something between you and me.’ His nose wrinkled. ‘Believe me, a relationship is the last thing I want with anyone, so you don’t need to worry.’
Mary stood still. Of course. He would think that’s why she’d kept her distance, him not knowing about Rocco’s threat.
‘I haven’t backed away, Dante. Life’s just … I am still settling in. I just need some headspace. This is all new to me, living with a family.’ Which was true. Sometimes she did need a bit of quiet time. Although in her heart, Mary knew the real reason she was keeping out of his way, but how could she bad-mouth family treasure Rocco?
He shrugged. ‘But why lie? Remember I invited you for a day out? You said you needed to practise a new biscuit recipe. When I got back you were talking with Natale and said that particular recipe always worked out well. You’d followed it many times before. You weren’t truthful with me.’
‘I … didn’t want to hurt your feelings.’
One Summer in Rome Page 8