by Leslie Karst
Oh, no. Since they hadn’t been here last night or at all during the day today, I’d allowed myself to hope that the protesters had given up their mission. Clearly, they’d just been saving themselves for the big night.
When they saw me emerge from the restaurant, the crowd began to chant: “No to Columbus Day!” Closing the door behind me, I approached the man I’d talked to before.
“I see you’re back,” I said, forcing a smile. “And you’ve brought reinforcements.”
“You didn’t think we’d miss the main event, did you?”
“Of course not. But I do hope you’ll continue to be respectful of our guests and not block access to the restaurant. As it is now, it’s kind of hard to get past you all.”
Right as I said this, the first guests arrived—a couple of city council members I knew and behind them my nonna, who was being escorted by a much younger woman from church. Threading her way through the crowd with a scowl, Nonna batted with her cane at a young, scrawny guy with stringy blond hair. “Vai via!” she snapped, which is probably best translated in this context as “Get lost, punk!”
That did the trick. In the face of my formidable eighty-seven-year-old grandmother, the bunch melted back like a stick of butter sliced in two with a hot knife. They watched until Nonna disappeared into the restaurant and only then took up their chant once again. But at least, I was glad to see, they remained where they were, leaving a wide corridor between what was now two separate groups.
“Thanks,” I said to my guy, then went to stand next to the front door, hoping my welcoming smile would alleviate any nervousness our guests might feel on having to pass through a gauntlet of shouting agitators.
By five thirty, almost a hundred people had arrived and were milling about the Solari’s dining room, whose tables had all been pushed up against the walls to make room for the crowd. But we were still waiting on the Italian contingency. My dad had been out to check three times already, and even I was starting to glance at my watch every couple of minutes. No way could they have forgotten, right? The dinner was in their honor, after all.
I peeked through the door into the dining room, where folks were standing in groups, sipping from glasses of Prosecco and nibbling olives and rolls of thinly sliced dry Genovese salami.
As I watched, Stefano, Bobby’s father, helped himself to three slices of cheese and four chunks of Mortadella from the tray offered by Cathy. I half expected him to wrap them up in a cocktail napkin and stuff the booty into his jacket pocket, but instead he ate the pieces one by one and then washed it all down with a healthy slug of sparkling wine.
And then I noticed the threesome behind Stefano, back by the picture window: Angelo and Anastasia were chatting with Frank. The sight of them made me flinch, even though it made total sense that they’d be here tonight. I tried to envision their figures superimposed over the backlit shape of the person who’d attacked me, but it was no good. Any of the three—as well as any number of others in the dining room right now—could have been the one looking down at me from the wharf last night.
Shaking off this image and the feeling of dread it instilled in me, I turned back to the crowd of protestors. Compared to whoever had bashed me on the head and shoved me into the icy water, these people now seemed loving and warm, and I smiled at a woman near the front of the group. My friendliness must have taken her by surprise, because she broke off her rendition of a rude song about Christopher Columbus to flash a shy smile back at me.
Just then, a group of about a six people came striding through the corridor between the protesters, laughing and jabbering loudly in Italian. Finally. The guest of honor had arrived.
“Buona sera, signora,” I said to the woman I recognized from the photo in today’s newspaper as being the mayor of Sestri Levante. “Benvenuto al ristorante Solari. Io sono Sally Solari.”
“Ah, molto piacere!” She leaned over to plant a pair of baci on my cheeks and I did the same to hers.
“Okay, that’s pretty much the extent of my Italian,” I said with a laugh, “so I sure hope you speak a little English.”
“Indeed I do. And it has been improving these past days that I have been spending in your beautiful town. Here, please won’t you meet my compatriots?” She turned to the other dignitaries by her side, but before any introductions could be made, one of the protesters shoved his way between us. It was the guy with stringy hair that Nonna had whacked with her cane.
Leaning down so his angry face was just inches from the mayor’s, he started shouting: “You’re so proud of your countryman, but don’t you realize he’s just a symbol of imperialism and the subjugation of the Third World?”
Without thinking, I took hold of the man from behind to pull him back, which immediately triggered a throbbing in both hands as well as a searing pain in my left shoulder. “You need to cool down,” I said, quickly letting go. “You’re getting way too close.”
The mayor—who seemed not to have noticed either my bandages or the spasm that had passed across my face as I’d grabbed hold of her aggressor—waved a hand and laughed. “It’s okay,” she said. “I am used to things like this. We have plenty of the protests and the strikes in Italy as well.” Turning to the man, her face became serious. “And I just want you to know that, as an active socialist from many years, I am very aware of the issue of imperialismo and of the part my country has played in this problem over the course of history. And I, for one, do not consider Cristoforo Colombo to be a great hero or a symbol of Italy. So you can save your lectures for somebody else, yes?”
I would have loved a photo of the protester’s dumbfounded expression. Mumbling an incoherent apology, he shrank back into the crowd. “Let us go inside, shall we?” the mayor said, gracing him with one last withering smile.
As soon as we stepped into the dining room, our group was surrounded by members of the Santa Cruz sister-cities committee, who promptly whisked the mayor and her fellow Ligurians off to meet the various Santa Cruz dignitaries in attendance at the event.
I left them to it and went in search of my father. Should I tell him what the mayor said about Christopher Columbus? Nah, I decided. I was pretty sure he’d already come to the conclusion that I’d been right about the whole thing. No need to twist the knife.
Dad was in the far corner of the dining room, surrounded by a gaggle of people. He’d changed from his chef’s clothes into dark brown slacks, a beige jacket, a pale blue dress shirt, and a red tie. No one would ever accuse him of being a style maven. The group listening to him talk consisted of several city council members and a couple of guys I recognized from the DA’s office. Which reminded me: Where the heck was Eric? It was now a quarter to six and the meal was supposed to start in fifteen minutes. Even though punctuality was not his strong suit, he was rarely late for the food portion of events. Was he still upset with me about this morning?
As I scanned the crowd in search of his blond head, I spotted Bobby with his father. Stefano was still scarfing down antipasto and was chewing and nodding as his son spoke animatedly, waving his hands for emphasis. The dad had a physique similar to his son’s, but if this was the way he always ate, how the heck did Stefano maintain his slender build?
I wondered about Bobby’s presence. He’d told me his parents were coming tonight, but I hadn’t seen his mother anywhere. She must have bagged out and he’d come in her place. At a hundred dollars a pop, you wouldn’t want to waste a ticket.
Spying Eric finally wandering into the room, I left off musing about Bobby and his father and made my way toward him.
“You look spiffy,” I said. “Like you’re dressed for a trial.”
“Yeah, well, I figured suit and tie was kinda de rigueur for meeting a bunch of foreign mucky-mucks. Not that I’ve actually met any of them yet.”
“Well, hey, I can arrange that if you want. So how was class this afternoon?”
“Good. We went up to Wilder Ranch and painted the old buildings and the goats and horses and stuff.”
“Did you take notes for me like I asked?” The sudden slump of his shoulders answered my question. “You forgot.”
“Yeah. Sorry. But I can tell you Omar’s message of the day: ‘Forget what you know.’ He kept going on and on about how our preconceived ideas limit our ability to see as an artist. Like, even though we all knew that the big barn there at the ranch is painted white, it didn’t look white in the bright afternoon sun. It had a lot of yellow and blue in it, too.”
“I like that. Forget what you know. Easier said than done for us lawyer types, though. Oh, hey, there are the Italians,” I said. “C’mon and I’ll introduce you.”
Before we could make our way through the packed crowd over to them, however, my dad clapped his hands and quieted everyone down. “If everybody would please make their way outside to the back of the restaurant where the tent is and then find your seats, we’re going to get started with the dinner in a little bit.”
“Good,” Eric said. “I’m starved.”
“Well, you might want to snag some of the antipasto then, if there’s any left, because I happen to know the speeches are going to take a while.”
“Oh, great,” Eric said. “Any chance I could just hang out in here until they’re over?”
“No way, José.” I punctuated my response with a jab to his ribs with my elbow. “Why don’t you go sit with your DA friends, ’cause I have to go direct the dinner service and make sure everyone gets their food on time and that we don’t run out of stuffed cabbage for the vegetarians.”
“Like there’ll be any vegetarians here tonight,” Eric said with a snort.
“Hey, you never know. This is Santa Cruz.”
I made my way through the crowd toward the kitchen like a salmon swimming upstream against all the hungry people making their way outside, then down the hall and out the back door to the big tent. Several dozen guests were already inside, wandering around trying to decide at which of the round tables to sit.
The sun was now low enough that the decorative lights we’d strung inside the tent were making a difference, and the draped pattern my dad had decided on imparted a festive atmosphere to the place—kind of like the twinkling fairy lights you’d see in one of those summer gardens in Italy. Which I guess was the whole idea.
Entering the tent, I turned the corner and almost ran smack into Detective Vargas. He held out his arms to keep us from colliding.
“Oh. Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t expect anyone to be standing there.”
“Obviously.” You couldn’t tell it from his set mouth, but his eyes were definitely laughing.
“Are you here to eat or are you working?”
“Both,” he said. “The chief had two extra tickets, which he kindly gave to me.” Vargas nodded toward a petite woman with short blonde hair—his wife? girlfriend?—who was talking with the SCPD chief of police and a woman I figured must be the chief’s wife.
“And I have to say,” the detective went on, “I am looking forward to a good Italian meal. Though I’ll have to forgo the wine that accompanies it. Gotta be on my toes tonight.”
“What? You worried there might be another murder committed here during the dinner?” I asked with a chuckle.
But he didn’t join in my laughter.
“Yeah,” I conceded. “I guess it’s not all that funny.”
Chapter 27
Eric’s desire to avoid the speeches proved to be well founded.
My dad and I had wanted to spread them out over the night, having a couple before dinner, a few more while everyone ate, and then finishing off with the final presentation of the official “Proclamation” over the dessert course. But this idea had been nixed by the sister-cities committee, who were afraid that once the meal commenced it would be difficult to get folks to quiet down enough to hear what was being said. Their one concession had been to hold off the presentation of the Proclamation until right before dessert.
They were probably right, but the end result was thirty minutes of bureaucrats droning on and on about “what an honor it is” to either host or be hosted during the Italians’ visit to our fair city, depending on who was giving the speech. And since I’d instructed the wait staff to hold off serving and clearing during the speeches, empty wine carafes were not being replenished, something that would have at least helped alleviate the boredom.
Standing at the back of the tent waiting for the last speech to end, I scanned the tables, looking for the people I suspected might have shoved me—and Gino—off the wharf into the ocean. Angelo and Anastasia were sitting next to each other at a table not too far from where I was standing, and it was obvious neither was the least bit interested in the city council member’s gushing declaration of her love for Italian culture. Angelo had eyes only for his young escort, but she seemed far more focused on the cuticle of her nail than on the older fisherman by her side.
So what is she doing here with him, then? How much material does she need for her newspaper article?
With a shake of the head, I turned to search the other side of the tent and spotted Detective Vargas sitting with his date, the chief and his wife, and the district attorney contingency, Eric included. With the exception of Vargas, whose eyes were darting rapidly about the tent, the rest of the table seemed focused on the speaker—though a couple of the DAs looked as if they might be about to nod off. The detective glanced my way, and when he caught me watching him, inclined his head toward the table in front of his.
Frank was there, sitting with several folks I recognized as other bocce players. Though most of them were smiling at the city council member’s remarks, Frank was staring across the room, a scowl accenting the furrows of his craggy face. From what I knew of the man, this wasn’t especially surprising, but I did wonder what had piqued his ire at this particular time. I followed his gaze to try to ascertain what held his attention.
Could it be Angelo or Anastasia? It sure seemed as if that was where he was looking. But why would he be angry at either of them? They’d seemed perfectly jovial together when I’d seen the three of them during the antipasto course.
And then I noticed the table behind Angelo and Anastasia, at least from Frank’s perspective. Bobby sat there with his dad, Stefano. Could Frank be watching one of them? I studied the father and son. Bobby was helping himself to the last of the red wine in the table’s carafe and Stefano was facing the podium, listening as the speaker began to wrap up her comments.
“And so, in conclusion, I’d like to thank the sister-cities committee, Solari’s restaurant, and most especially, all of you who made the long journey here to Santa Cruz from Sestri Levante.”
Finally. I was about to turn and head outside to alert the wait staff that dinner service could commence when I noticed a commotion at Bobby and Stefano’s table. Several people had jumped up and were now blotting at a spill with their red cloth napkins. Damn. Someone must have knocked over a glass. Grabbing several bar towels from the bus station we’d set up near the exit, I darted over to the table and assisted with the cleanup—though with my bandaged hands I wasn’t a whole lot of help.
It was red wine, but luckily the liquid seemed to have stayed on the table. “How can you be so clumsy?” Stefano shouted at Bobby, who was staring at the spill with a slack mouth and unfocused eyes.
“It’s okay,” I said. “No one got any wine on their clothes, and we’ll get this cleaned up in a jiffy.” Giulia and one of the temp servers had already arrived with a clean tablecloth, and the two of them had the table reset in a matter of seconds. While everyone got reseated, Giulia fetched more wine to replace the empty carafes at their table.
“See? Just like new,” I said in a sprightly voice.
But Bobby just continued to stand there, making no move to sit back down. After a moment he shook his head and wandered off, mumbling something about using the restroom.
Stefano saw me watching his son and shrugged. “I guess maybe he’s had a bit too much wine on an empty stomach. I told him he needed t
o eat some of the antipasto, but he said he wasn’t hungry.” Well, that’s one difference between father and son.
Other than that mishap, the dinner service went without hiccup. Bobby returned to his table a few minutes later, and I was happy to observe he did not refill his wine glass. The noise level rose as folks ate and drank their way through the salad, pasta, and main courses, and before long it sounded like a raucous party in the big tent.
Halfway through the entrée, I was heading for the back door of the restaurant to call for another tray of cabbage rolls when I spied two people slip out of the tent and cross the courtyard. I peered at the familiar figures: it was Angelo and Anastasia. Following behind as the pair made their way around the side of the building, I watched them cross the street and climb down the stairs on the Boardwalk side of the wharf to the lower-level boat launch area.
Now what could they be up to? And then I heard the harsh barking of the sea lions and realized he must be taking her down to where you could see the marine mammals up close as they lazed on the wooden crossbeam supports below. But what if he had something else in mind? Like getting back at Anastasia for her rebuff the previous night?
The cabbage rolls could wait.
I had just started after them when someone called out my name. It was Emilio, standing at the back door to the restaurant.
“You got a sec?” the cook asked.
“Uh, what is it?” I asked with a glance toward the boat launch stairs. “I’m kind of in the middle of something.”
“I just need to know where everyone’s at out there. You gonna need any more of the mains, or can we start putting stuff away?”
I crossed to the door and poked my head into the dish room. Sean and Joe were taking a break, leaning against the counter and sipping from tall glasses of Coke. It had been a hectic two hours, but now that the main course was being served, their work for the night was basically done.