An awful wheezing sound from behind us, along with rapid footsteps made us both stop and turn round. It was the old lady with the headscarf running to catch us up.
‘Maria?’ she gasped, pressing a hand to her hip as she caught her breath. ‘Sei tu?’
I moved instinctively closer as Nonna stiffened. ‘Sì?’
‘Alba.’ The woman tapped her chest. ‘Sono Alba Benedetto.’
Nonna began to nod slowly, her eyes raking the woman’s face, taking in the lined cheeks, the hooded eyes and pointed chin.
‘Santo cielo!’ she murmured.
Alba tentatively reached out to grip Nonna’s hands. Nonna looked at me amazed.
‘Rosanna, this is Marco’s sister. Alba, mia nipote, Rosanna.’
Both women began to speak as quickly as gunfire. I didn’t have a clue what they were saying, but it seemed friendly enough so I stepped away and sent Mum and Dad a text message while I waited. By the time I’d finished my update, Nonna was kissing Alba’s cheeks and exchanging numbers. Both women had tears running down their cheeks.
Nonna sighed as we watched Alba make her way back to the cemetery.
‘OK?’ I said, scrutinizing my grandmother’s face for clues.
‘They guessed,’ she said, shaking her head softly. ‘Marco’s family guessed that I run away to safety. He had always been violent. You see. Zebras.’
‘He’d never have changed,’ I agreed.
‘And they feel guilty. Alba said they wish they help me after the babies are born but she and her mother were scared of Marco too. Alba’s mother was very sad not to be a nonna, but she understand. But the best bit,’ Nonna gulped back a sob, ‘is that nobody blame me for leaving. Alba say they glad I escape.’
There was something heartbreaking about watching an old lady cry. I hugged her close while she worked her way through her sorrow and we stood like that with seagulls circling overhead for several minutes before she dabbed her face with a tissue and gave me a watery smile.
‘Let’s go,’ she said, looping her arm through mine. ‘I feel like a door has closed finally. Like now I have the opportunities to do what I want, to love who I want.’
‘You mean a door has opened,’ I said with a grin. ‘When one door closes another one opens.’
‘No. I mean closed. Because when I run away from Marco, I leave a door open. I should have been brave and faced up to him, tell him I want to end our marriage, to close the door on it. Instead, the door has been open all this time. And now it is closed. See?’
I thought about that for a moment.
‘So you’re saying that you can’t go through the new door until the old one is closed.’
‘Exactly. You gotta go back and shut the door.’
I stared at her as a light bulb pinged on in my brain. A big neon light bulb, pouring light on to the thoughts that had been skulking around in there for a decade.
‘YOU are a genius,’ I spluttered with laughter. ‘When you put it like that it’s obvious.’
‘Grazie,’ she said, sucking her cheeks in and patting her hair. ‘Come, we deserve espresso after all this excitement. And maybe cake. I take you somewhere special. I not sure it is still there, of course, after all these years but …’
She described a bar she had always gone to to drink coffee with friends, away from her family’s prying eyes. She told me she had always associated that coffee with Sorrento and home and how difficult it had been to find rich smoky coffee in England. I tuned out for a moment and I drifted off inside my head.
What Callum had done to me had made me feel so violated, so powerless, that I’d refused to let myself love or be loved ever since. I’d put my heart on ice. But hearing Nonna’s story had given me the key to unlock mine.
And I had closed a door, just like her.
Gabe’s words came back to me: being loved by someone is one of the greatest privileges of life.
I deserved that privilege and next time love came knocking, I would do my best not to close the door in its face.
We turned into a narrow street and Nonna pushed open a shabby door. The aroma of freshly roasted coffee sent my senses heavenwards.
‘Wakey wakey,’ Nonna tutted, waving a hand in front of my face from the doorstep. ‘I seen more life in that cemetery. Choose a cake and then we off to library to look at old newspaper.’
‘How exciting.’ I laughed, closing the door behind me. ‘First the cemetery, next the library. Some tour guide you are.’
Chapter 27
Later that evening, Nonna and I shared our hotel bedroom’s little dressing table while we got ready to go out. I was trying to disguise my sunburned face with make-up and she was redoing her bun. Fifteen minutes ago she had been fast asleep after our busy day. But then the little gold alarm clock she’d brought with her from home had rung out and she’d woken up immediately and changed into a smart yellow dress.
‘My hair as black as coal when I was a girl, and even longer than this,’ said Nonna, setting her grips aside and brushing out her hair. ‘Always I left it down until I married Marco. He liked to pull it hard, so after that I keep it in a bun.’
I paused from patting concealer on to my nose and looked at the thick white hair tumbling over her shoulders. Her face was pink from the sunshine too and there was a sparkle in her eyes that had been missing for the last week. She might be an old lady now, but that girl was still there.
‘You should leave it down; it suits you, you look very youthful.’
She tilted her face from side to side and studied her reflection in the mirror. ‘Why not? Come on, let’s go.’
We stepped out of the hotel into the dusk. The evening air was warm and fragrant and the snowstorms of Derbyshire felt like a million miles away. We’d only been here twenty-four hours and already Sorrento felt like home.
We’d had a packed day. Our trip to the library revealed that Bar Salvatore had never been sold, and therefore had either gone out of business or was still in the family so we decided to try to go there for dinner tonight. Then at lunchtime, while we’d munched our way through slices of the most delicious pizza I’d ever tasted, Alba had called and invited Nonna for coffee before our flight home tomorrow. After that we spent the afternoon exploring. Nonna showed me around Piazza Tasso, Sorrento’s main square, and we’d done some shopping in the narrow cobbled streets which led from the magnificent cathedral. Nonna picked out a mug for Stanley with lemons on it and I bought some lemon-scented candles for Mum and a cookery book of traditional Sorrentine recipes for Lia. From there we’d peered into the lovely church of San Francesco with its tranquil Moorish-style cloisters and emerged into some pretty sculptured gardens edged with ornate railings.
‘The sea!’ I’d cried excitedly, pointing beyond the railings to the wide expanse of blue.
I’d taken my phone out and snapped away with the camera while Nonna pointed out the landmarks. To our far left was the little island of Capri, and to the right, around the bay, Vesuvius smouldered away in the distance, rising green and blue above the horizon with the sprawling city of Naples around its base. Directly below us was a bustling harbour teeming with life: bars, hotels and tavernas hugged the water’s edge, all with tables lined up facing the water. Passengers queued for a ferry which every so often tooted its horn and sent up a plume of smoke, and a collection of smaller boats bobbed up and down in the sea. There were people splashing about in the waves on the edge of a small strip of beach. It was like looking down on a movie set.
I’d filled my lungs with salty air as my eyes took in the long sweep of coastline with its pink and orange houses perched on the cliff tops. This was a truly magical place and it hit me exactly how much Nonna had had to sacrifice to escape her unhappy marriage.
She was gazing far out to sea, her eyes cloudy and seeing things and people I couldn’t even begin to imagine.
‘Take me somewhere else,’ I said gently, to bring her out of her reverie. ‘Show me somewhere happy.’
She’d thoug
ht for a moment and her face dissolved into a smile. ‘The lemon groves, where I meet Lorenzo.’
I’d held my arm out and the two of us had meandered contentedly back through the streets until we’d found the Giardini di Cataldo, and beneath the dappled shade of the ancient lemon trees, Nonna had sat and reminisced about the man she had loved and lost.
Bar Salvatore was at the opposite end of Sorrento to our hotel and after a long day on her feet, Nonna was soon tiring. As soon as we reached the main road, I flagged down a taxi and Nonna gave the driver directions to Via Vittorio.
Less than five minutes later we were standing on a narrow cobbled street outside the De Rosa family home.
I read the sign above the doorway set into a high wall. ‘Bar Bufalo. Are we definitely in the right place?’
‘Of course. This is Bar Salvatore,’ Nonna frowned. ‘Or was.’
Lush greenery cascaded over the top of the wall, and I could hear the gentle strains of harp music. The aroma of garlic and something deliciously meaty filled the air and my stomach rumbled with appreciation.
I opened the door and gestured for Nonna to go in front of me, but she shook her head.
‘After you.’
‘No one will recognize you,’ I said, sensing her nerves as I went ahead. ‘Just let me do the talking and if you want to turn around and leave, that’s what we’ll do.’
‘Okey cokey.’
A flight of stone steps led to a large terrace set out with simple wooden tables, mostly occupied with diners. Trees formed a natural canopy over the dining area and small glass jars lit with candles hung from their branches. Modern square terracotta pots of varying sizes were arranged in clusters and brimmed with myriad different plants, from herbs to cacti, and in a clearing in the centre, a young woman with pale blonde hair and a long floaty dress was playing a harp. Huge patio heaters, one at each corner, threw out enough heat to keep the evening chill at bay and the atmosphere was incredible.
‘Mamma mia.’ Nonna turned on the spot to take it all in. ‘It is so different.’
‘It’s gorgeous,’ I said, putting an arm around her shoulders and pointing her towards the door to the bar. ‘I can’t believe this is where you grew up. How does it feel to be home?’
‘I can’t believe it.’ She gave a small hiccup. ‘I need a drink.’
Inside, a long bar lined with bottles took up most of the space. Two men were drinking beer at the bar and several couples sat at small wooden tables, sipping wine and perusing menus. Waiting staff dashed backwards and forwards to an open hatch in the back wall, ferrying plates of food at head height out to waiting diners. Close up the smell was even more tantalizing.
Behind the bar, a slim man in a black shirt open almost to his navel dropped his cloth to the countertop and flung his arms out wide.
‘Hey, beautiful ladies, I am Paolo, welcome to Bar Bufalo!’ He grinned, showing a set of very white teeth. His face was tanned and he had a pattern shaved into the side of his light brown hair. He winked a brown eye at me. ‘English, yes?’
I heard Nonna harrumph at my side, but she said nothing as we approached the bar; she was too busy taking everything in.
‘I am half Italian,’ I said proudly.
‘Ah,’ he dipped his head and pointed, ‘parla italiano?’
‘Er, just the odd word,’ I said, making a mental note to sign up for Italian conversation classes as soon as I got back to England. ‘And they’re mostly rude ones, learned from my grandmother.’
I nudged Nonna but she appeared to be transfixed by some old black-and-white photographs on the wall at the end of the bar.
‘You come for dinner, yes?’ He handed us menus, not pausing for a reply. ‘You have a drink first. Don’t tell me, don’t tell me, let me guess.’
He stroked his chin and looked at us in turn.
‘White wine for the signorina,’ he winked at me, ‘and red for your sister.’
‘Dicky head,’ Nonna muttered, trying to flutter her eyelashes and look cross at the same time.
‘Good guess!’ I pulled a bar stool out for Nonna but she ignored it, she was still squinting at the photographs, trying to see the details.
‘What can I say?’ He grinned again, raising both hands up. ‘I am an expert.’
‘This was Bar Salvatore once, wasn’t it?’
Paolo, who I thought was about my age, paused from pulling a cork out of a wine bottle and cocked an eyebrow. ‘You been here before?’
‘Santo cielo!’ Nonna muttered with a sharp intake of breath. She pushed the stool out of her path and made a beeline for the photographs.
‘Not me.’ I looked at my grandmother and then back to him. ‘But my grandmother, Maria De Rosa, grew up here.’
‘De Rosa?’ Paolo’s jaw dropped. ‘Maria De Rosa?’
Nonna nodded and smiled sheepishly.
He whooped with delight and everyone looked at us.
‘I am Paolo De Rosa!’ he cried, tapping his chest. ‘You are my family?’
Nonna was trembling.
‘Tua famiglia, sì.’ She pointed to one of the photographs. ‘Rosanna, come and see your great-grandfather.’
And then Paolo was round the bar in a flash, kissing Nonna’s cheeks, holding her hands and crying, actually crying. Nonna and I shed a tear too as she pointed out members of her family in the pictures taken in Bar Salvatore as it was then, even including one of herself as a little girl. Paolo announced to the room that his zia Maria had returned and everyone whistled and clapped and raised their glasses.
‘Rosie, like the rose, full of perfume and promise,’ said Paolo, holding me at arm’s length and kissing my fingertips.
‘Are you always this flowery?’ I asked with a grin.
He laughed. ‘The tourists love it. I can’t help myself.’
‘Well, I’m not a tourist,’ I said, feeling all tingly and proud. ‘I am family.’
Nonna and Paolo chatted away in Italian far too quickly for me to follow and I was happy to sit and sip my wine while they sorted out how they were related (Nonna was Paolo’s great-aunt, Paolo was her brother Salvatore’s youngest grandson).
In no time we had established that Paolo had taken over two years ago from his mother. He had changed the name and changed the menu and given the bar a new lease of life and now it was winning awards and busy every night. His mother had retired with her new toy-boy husband and was now spending her days sailing around Sardinia in their yacht. Paolo was astounded when Nonna filled him in on her whereabouts for the last fifty years and whistled in disbelief as I flicked through photos on my phone to show him the rest of the family.
As soon as the harpist stopped for a break, Paolo dragged her over to meet us. Her name was Alice, and she was Paolo’s American girlfriend. She looked tiny without her harp and was painfully shy and such a stark contrast to her exuberant and boisterous boyfriend that I wondered what drew them together. Alice blushed when Nonna complimented her on her playing and she escaped back to her harp as soon as she could.
Next Paolo took us on a tour of the apartment upstairs where Nonna used to live with her family, including a peek into Nonna’s old bedroom where Paolo’s eight-year-old daughter Adriana was fast asleep in bed.
‘Here is the real boss,’ Paolo whispered, the pride on his face shining through the darkness. ‘That one wraps me round her finger.’
Nonna patted his back. ‘And that is how it should be, she a very lucky girl to have you.’
‘So,’ Paolo clapped his hands when we arrived back at the bar, ‘ready to find out what makes Bar Bufalo so special?’
It had been hours since lunch so we followed him eagerly out into the garden where he found us a table near a heater and kept fussing round Nonna to check she was warm enough.
‘What’s good to eat, then?’ I asked as we finally got a chance to peruse the menu after all the excitement. ‘Let me guess, pizza?’
Paolo wagged a finger.
‘No pizza at Bar Bufalo. To stay in busines
s in Sorrento, you must do something different. That is why we change the name. Everyone boast that they serve the best pizza in town. So we don’t serve it at all. It is not called Bar Bufalo for nothing. Our house specialities are buffalo mozzarella salad to start followed by our award-winning buffalo steaks. No one can do it like us; we are unique in Sorrento.’
He puffed out his chest and looked at us, waiting for our order.
‘Then I guess I’ll have that.’ I grinned.
‘Me too,’ said Nonna.
‘Fantastico,’ he beamed, taking the menus from us.
‘Eh, Paolo?’ Nonna shook her empty glass at him.
He collected it from her and laughed. ‘Just like your brother.’
We watched him walk away, stopping at nearly every table to talk to his customers, and Nonna’s eyes shone with pleasure.
‘I have my family back again, cara,’ she said, lifting up her glasses to dab at her eyes. ‘I feel like luckiest woman alive.’
‘Me too,’ I said, smiling broadly.
Dinner, as promised, was incredible: the setting, the food, Alice’s harp music and Nonna talking non-stop about her childhood and growing up in such a beautiful place combined to make it one of my most memorable meals ever. After sharing a melt-in-the-mouth rum baba, the chef, a tall man with a streak of silver in his black hair, came to offer Nonna a tour of the kitchen and while she quizzed him on the rum baba recipe, I caught up with Paolo at the bar.
‘Hey, cousin!’ He grinned, wiping the bar top and flipping the cloth over his shoulder. ‘You like your buffalo?’
‘Best steak I’ve ever had,’ I confirmed. ‘You’ve got me wondering what we can do differently for the Lemon Tree Café.’
Paolo nodded proudly and poured me a tiny glass of dessert wine. ‘I will have to come and visit and see this place.’
‘Definitely!’ I took a sip; it was sweet and very cold and made my mouth tingle. ‘I just need to work out what people will eat every day that will set us apart.’
‘I spent a summer working in a pizza restaurant when I was a student. I make the lightest dough in Sorrento and I know the best meats, the best sauces and herbs and which combination of cheeses to use. But when I took over here, I knew that I’d never beat the competition by doing exactly the same as them, even if mine was the best. I stopped doing the food that the De Rosa family had been serving for years. Mamma thought I was mad. And for the first month I thought she might be right; customers took their time deciding they like the new menu. Very risky.’
The Lemon Tree Café Page 26