by G. R. Gemin
“Sure. Take it easy, Nonno.”
When they got back to the cafe Joe decided to stay out and take a passeggiata on his own. He wandered across to the other side of the High Street. He gazed at the cafe in the dark and became overcome with sadness at the thought of it being closed and sold. He looked at the faded shopfront – Cafe Merelli est.1929.
He realised it wasn’t far off a hundred years old. He imagined it lit up and full of customers and the sounds of merry-making on a cold winter’s night. His imagination was interrupted by a text from Mam.
Come back, Joe. She’s here!
The back-door window was steamed up.
As Joe entered he smelled lovely herbs and spices. Someone was standing at the cooker, stirring the contents of a large frying pan. That can’t be Mimi, he thought.
“Hello,” he said.
She turned, and Joe sharply drew in his breath.
She was a young woman with long black hair and a straight fringe, framing her face. Her eyes were big and as dark as black olives, but there was a hint of sadness in them. Her lips were full and as red as chillies.
Joe’s heart was thumping – she was prettier than anyone he’d ever seen before, and certainly not recognisable as the annoying girl he’d met when he was eight.
Mimi smiled and her eyes lost their sadness. Joe could hear beautiful music with a voice singing like an angel.
“Ciao, Joe,” she said in a strong Italian accent, and she kissed him on both cheeks.
“Thanks,” said Joe as he realised the music was coming from the CD player.
“I cook nice pasta,” said Mimi. “I love to cook.”
“Oh, OK… Where’s my mam and dad?” asked Joe, wondering if he’d been left alone in the house. Mimi pointed upstairs.
“I … go upstairs … to see them,” Joe said slowly.
“I understand English,” said Mimi.
“Yeah, sorry.”
“Hey, Joe,” she said. “You still like the gelato?”
“Not so much,” he replied, lying through his teeth.
Mimi laughed, and Joe went up to the lounge where he found Mam and Dad in conference.
“You met our guest, I take it?” said Mam.
Joe pointed down the stairs. “She’s … she’s a woman!”
“Ten out of ten, Joe.”
“Pretty, isn’t she?” said Dad.
“Didn’t notice,” said Joe. He could still feel his heart beating, but convinced himself he’d rushed up the stairs too quickly.
“She’s been getting on my nerves since she arrived,” said Mam. “Taken over the place – ‘I want to ’elp’…‘I lav to cook’. And we hardly know her, really.”
“Well, she’s definitely Italian,” said Joe.
Mam groaned. “Oh, well, there we are then. I’m ’appy now.”
Mimi was totally engrossed in the job of cooking as Joe laid the table. The lovely smell of the food made him ravenous.
Mimi brought a large saucepan to the table, and they sat down to dinner.
Joe sensed a strained atmosphere.
“Good of you to cook for us,” said Dad.
“Oh, please, I want to cook,” said Mimi.
Joe watched her dishing out the pasta. She grated Parmesan cheese on each plate, like he’d seen waiters do in restaurants.
“Pasta Bolognese,” she said, as if someone had asked. “Buon Appetito.”
When Joe tasted a mouthful he was amazed how delicious it was – a dense taste, better than any pasta he’d eaten before. Food was suddenly different – he felt as if his taste buds were doing the cha-cha-cha on Strictly.
“Oh, that’s lovely,” said Dad.
“You like, Joe?” asked Mimi.
“Yeah. It’s… It’s like restaurant food.”
She laughed. “You go to restaurant very much?”
“Yes,” he said, just as Mam said, “No.”
“Joe, you’re not confusing ‘restaurants’ with the Chicken Box?” Mam asked.
“No!” said Joe.
“What is Chicken Box?” asked Mimi.
“It’s a takeaway – bottom-of-the-range chicken and chips,” said Dad.
“Aye. You see leftovers on the pavement everywhere,” said Mam. “Even pigeons give it a miss. Joe loves it.”
“I do NOT!” said Joe.
Mam looked puzzled. “You and Combi eat it by the box-load.”
“Who is Combi?” asked Mimi.
“He’s a friend,” said Joe. “Has a very poor diet.” He continued to eat the pasta, which seemed to get better with every mouthful.
“Nonno was telling us that your great-grandma came ’ere in the war,” said Joe, in an effort to keep the conversation going.
“Yes,” said Mimi. “She die a long time before I was born. But I remember my grandmother tell me she came here.”
“Forgive me for asking,” said Mam, “but how is it you’ve come to see my dad after so long?”
Joe couldn’t believe Mam’s nerve. Mimi appeared quite surprised. “I was worried about Nonno. I want to ’elp – I can cook…”
“Well, if you keep making food like this you can stay as long as you like,” said Dad with a chuckle. Then he looked at Mam and his laughter fizzled out.
As they carried on eating Joe sneaked a glance at Mimi, now and again, as he didn’t want to stare. She ate with great intensity, like nothing else mattered. He thought she was so beautiful – beautiful like he’d seen in magazines and films.
After dinner Joe took Mimi into the cafe and switched on the lights. Mam stood at the doorway. “This is Cafe Merelli,” Joe said with pride.
Mimi gazed around the cafe and her brow immediately crinkled, as if she was seeing something she’d never seen before. She ran her finger across the glass cabinet and examined it. “Is dirty,” she said. “You need ’elp with cleaning too, no?”
Joe saw Mam’s cheeks flush. “I’ll sack the cleaner.”
“We haven’t got a cleaner,” he said.
Mam stared at him. “Oh, yeah, that’s right.”
Mimi was now prodding at a taped repair on one of the booth seats. She looked around and Joe noticed a slight shake of her head.
“We get good breakfast trade in the mornings,” he said. “Nonno usually cooks it.”
“I can cook it,” said Mimi.
Joe glanced at Mam. “Sausage, egg, bacon, beans and fried tomato,” she said.
“For breakfast?” said Mimi.
“Yes,” said Joe.
Mimi blew out her cheeks.
Mam switched out the lights. “Right. Show’s over.”
Joe took the last of his clothes up to Nonno’s room and put them away. He gazed at the selection of opera CDs and decided to play one of them. It was called Madam Butterfly. The music was lovely.
There was a knock at the door.
“Yeah.”
Dad popped his head in. “Got yourself all sorted, Joe?”
“Yeah. Tidy.”
“What you listening to?” Dad asked.
“Madam Butterfly.”
“Didn’t know you liked opera, Joe.”
“All Italians like opera, Dad.”
“Oh, OK. Night night.”
There was a puzzled expression on his dad’s face as he shut the door.
Joe started to read the story of the opera as the music washed over him.
Joe didn’t like the way his shirt buttons pulled, as if they’d pop at any moment. He stood in front of the mirror and turned sideways. His belly overhung his trousers.
“Growing too fast,” he said to himself.
As he made his way downstairs he heard an argument coming from the kitchen. He found Mimi facing Mam, who was looking flustered.
“You cook the bacon again in the microwave?” Mimi said. “After you fry?”
“Yes,” said Mam.
“Why?”
“Saves money. No waste.”
Mimi pulled a face. “’Orrible.”
“Well, t
he customers don’t seem to mind!”
“Is too much frying,” said Mimi. “And eggs I like to cook in butter, not oil, or I can poach them.”
“Poached?” said Mam.
“Is like boiled,” said Mimi.
“I know what poached is!” said Mam as she turned and went back into the cafe.
Mimi looked at Joe. “I only try to ’elp.”
“I know,” he said. “She’s stressed.”
Joe noticed the difference in the food straight away as he took the orders out to their regulars – the breakfasts were clean and simple, and there was no sign of oil or grease.
“What’s this?” asked Mr Kempski, one of a group of Polish workmen.
“Our new breakfast,” said Joe. “Cooked by a proper…” He glanced at Mam. “All fresh, it is. Any extra tea or coffee, just ask. No extra.”
Mimi watched from the doorway as the customers tucked in. Joe could see the surprised expressions on their faces as they ate the food.
Joe had his breakfast in the cafe as usual. The scrambled eggs that Mimi had cooked were much tastier, and they even looked more yellow.
Vaughan entered. “I heard the news about Mr Merelli,” he said. “Gutted, I was. I wish him a speedy recovery.”
“Thank you,” said Mam.
Mimi came out of the kitchen and Vaughan’s eyes opened like saucers. Joe introduced him to her.
“Oh, now,” he said. “You’re b’utiful. Welcome to Wales.”
“Thank you,” said Mimi.
The Polish workmen went up to the counter to pay. “Same price, less food,” Mr Kempski said to Mam.
“Trying out a new cook,” she said.
“Well, I’m still hungry,” he said as he left.
Mimi came over to Joe. “You like it?”
Joe could see Mam was listening. “It was very tasty,” he said with a smile, just as Combi walked into the cafe holding a can of Coke and a half-eaten sausage roll.
“You coming, Joe?”
“Hello,” said Mimi.
Combi’s mouth dropped open, displaying his mashed-up sausage roll. Joe stood up and stepped between him and Mimi. “I’ll catch you later, Combi. I’m busy.”
Combi peered around Joe. “Hello. You must be Joe’s cousin,” he said.
“Yes.”
“I’m Joe’s mate.” He held out his can to Mimi. “Want some Coke?”
“That’s not a suitable breakfast drink!” Joe said as he ushered him towards the door.
“Funny, innit?” he heard Vaughan say. “If you mashed all the food together on the plate you wouldn’t want it, would you? But once it’s in your stomach…”
Joe was about to apologise to Mimi when he saw she was laughing.
“See you later,” he called, dragging Combi outside.
“She’s stonking, isn’t she?” said Combi.
Joe didn’t like the way he was staring at Mimi. “Didn’t notice,” he said.
“Didn’t notice!” said Combi in surprise. “Has she got a boyfriend?”
“No idea,” said Joe, hurrying him along.
After school Joe went to see Nonno at the hospital and found Mam and Mimi at his bedside. Joe thought Nonno was looking much better.
“I don’t see the point,” said Mam.
“What’s going on?” Joe asked.
“I want to make food for the cafe,” said Mimi.
“We do make food.”
“No,” she said. “Proper Italian food.”
“Charming,” said Mam.
“It’s a good idea,” said Joe.
“There’s no point,” Mam replied. “There’ll be no takers. It’s a High Street that’s dying.”
Nonno raised his hand. “Lucia,” he said softly. “Let her try, please. Just for a while.”
They sat in uncomfortable silence, until Mam said, “Joe. Can you go back to the cafe with Mimi – I want to talk to Nonno, and your dad’s holding the fort on his own.”
He knew Mam meant business so he didn’t argue, even though he wanted to talk to Nonno himself.
It was raining by the time they got back, and Gwen was the only one left in the cafe, waiting for her bus home. Joe tried to look authoritative behind the counter as Mimi wandered around the cafe. He smiled at Gwen. “I’ll give you a shout if the bus comes.”
“Thanks Joe,” she said. “I’ve heard that in Cardiff there’s displays at bus stops that tell you when the next bus is coming. I’ll be long gone before that luxury gets to the Mawr.”
Mimi fiddled with the old espresso coffee machine behind the counter.
“Doesn’t work,” said Joe.
“How long is it broken?”
“Years.”
“What if a customer want coffee?” she asked.
“We give ’em instant,” said Joe, and he saw her grimace.
She wandered over to the old photographs of the cafe on the wall.
“You’re very pretty,” Gwen said to her.
“Thank you,” she replied with a smile.
Joe went and stood beside her. “That’s Nonno in nineteen fifty-three,” he said, pointing at the photo.
Mimi nodded.
“There’s the bus,” said Gwen. “Oh, stop it for me, Joe. Please.”
“Sure!”
Joe ran outside and dramatically waved at the bus. He hoped Mimi was watching. The bus pulled up and Joe checked back to see Mimi emerge from the cafe holding an umbrella over Gwen. “She’s just coming,” he said to the driver.
“Big taxi, am I?” the driver replied.
“What kept you?” Gwen said as she got on.
“I was having a nap round the corner.”
“I bet you were, an’ all!”
They started arguing with each other, until Joe said to the driver, “Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?”
“What?”
“I’ll get you a tea, from the cafe.”
“This a joke?”
Joe was amazed at himself – it was almost as if someone else had spoken. “No joke – if you text the cafe when you’re near we’ll give you a free cuppa. Then people can wait inside, see?”
The passengers were watching as the rain was noisily peppering the roof of the bus. “Is this straight up?” the driver asked.
“It’s brilliant,” said Gwen. “We can wait in the cafe, out of the cold and rain, and we won’t be complaining to you, will we?”
The driver looked from Gwen to Joe. “A free cuppa?”
“And you can tell the other drivers the same thing,” said Joe.
The bus doors closed with a hiss. “You’re on.”
Joe picked out one of Nonno’s CDs. It was called La Bohème by Puccini. The opera was lovely, especially as one of the main characters was called Mimi, and the tenor, Rodolfo, falls in love with her. By the time he got to the end of the second act he could smell cooking from downstairs.
Mimi was busy in the kitchen as he entered.
“You listen to La Bohème?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Joe.
She threw back her head and sang a piece that Joe had just heard. It made him laugh, and she had a lovely voice.
“You like to cook, Joe?”
He realised it was something he’d like to do even if he didn’t know how. “Yes,” he said as he watched Mimi at the cooker. She was confidently chopping ingredients – it was noisy and exciting. She seemed in complete control.
“You’re like Jamie Oliver,” he said.
Mimi’s eyebrow shot up. “I look like Jamie Oliver?”
“No!” said Joe. “Not at all. Just the way…” He pointed at her chopping.
She laughed.
“Can you cook pizza?” Joe asked.
Mimi pulled a face. “Yes, is simple, but pizza is not a proper meal.”
“Why not?”
“The people from Napoli invent pizza many, many years ago – was just a snack.”
“It’s still lovely,” said Joe licking his lips.
&nbs
p; “Does the cafe open in the evening?” Mimi asked.
“No.”
“Why?”
Joe tried to pull the corners of his mouth down, but only succeeded in raising his eyebrows. Mimi was looking at him with a puzzled expression, so Joe said, “I don’t know.”
* * *
At dinner Mam and Dad were quiet. The food was risotto with courgettes and Dolcelatte cheese.
“Delicious,” Joe said in an effort to lift the atmosphere.
“Yummy,” said Dad. “I heard about your idea for the bus drivers, Joe. Very enterprising.”
“Bravo,” said Mimi. “Is fantastic – no, Lucia?”
“A bus stop with chairs, we’ll be,” said Mam.
The silence continued until Mimi said, “I would like to fix the espresso machine.”
“Why?” asked Mam.
“So we can have fresh coffee,” she said. “No instant.”
“’Orrible, I suppose?” said Mam.
Mimi pulled a face. “Yes.”
“Joe,” said Mam. “Have you heard anyone complain about our coffee?”
He glanced at Mimi waiting on his word. “No.”
“I would like to fix anyway,” said Mimi.
“You tried to give our customers a different breakfast and they weren’t bothered,” said Mam. “The same will happen if you offer them proper coffee, but if you want to fix it go ahead.”
After dinner Joe helped Mimi begin on the espresso machine. She tied up her hair, which he thought made her look even prettier. Mimi used some of Dad’s tools, and grappled to take the outer casing off. When it came away she said, “Mamma mia! È messo malissimo!”
“What does malissimo mean?” Joe asked.
“Male is bad. Malissimo is very bad. In Italian you put issimo to make more. Like … bello – bellissimo, mean beautiful, very beautiful, or brutto – bruttissimo, mean ugly, very ugly.”
“I get it.”
Joe could see that a lot of the inner parts of the coffee machine had calcified. He marvelled at Mimi’s intensity when she was focused on the job at hand, like when she was cooking. She stared at the machine and muttered in Italian.
“Can you fix it?” Joe asked.
She turned to him and said, “Yes. I fix.”