by Paige Toon
It was strange: she couldn’t bear to listen to Grandad’s old rock records, but she liked hearing the piano.
My mother used to tinkle the ivories as well. I was never sure if Nan was referring to Mum or me when she’d tell visitors, ‘Angie will play for us!’
Nan often spoke about Grandad and Mum as if they were still alive. It was not only confusing but devastating for her to be reminded that they were gone, so I learned to let her mistakes slide. It seemed kinder to both of us.
Giulio exits the kitchen.
‘Giulio, try one of these.’ Alessandro beckons him over.
‘What is these?’ Giulio asks.
‘Kolaczki cookies,’ Alessandro replies with perfect pronunciation. Kolach-ki. ‘Angel made them.’
Giulio glances at me and peers into the tin. He pulls out a cookie and takes a bite, his eyes widening. ‘Who made you these?’ he asks me.
I’m not sure if he means who taught me or is wanting to know how they’re made, so I give him both answers. ‘They’re made with lots of butter, cream cheese and flour. My friends, Jakub and Jan, two brothers from Poland, gave me the recipe.’
‘Come!’ he exclaims. ‘I teach you how to toss pizza!’
I shoot Alessandro a look and he laughs under his breath as I follow Giulio into the kitchen.
Antonio and Maria have already made the dough and are currently shaping it into balls.
‘Perfetto!’ Giulio declares at their timing. He takes one of the dough balls and presses it flat against a floury surface. Maria and Antonio beam and chatter away when they realise a lesson is taking place.
Giulio places the flattened dough on his knuckles and starts to spin it around in a circle. The dough stretches and stretches and then he tosses it in the air and it turns as it comes down again. I watch, hypnotised, as the small disc grows bigger and bigger. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Alessandro leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest.
‘We toss the dough for three reasons,’ Giulio tells me. ‘First, to get the right size. Second, to build a crust – as you’re throwing the dough in the air, you’re making it thicker at the ends and thinner in the middle. And, most importantly, we need to dry out the crust so it’s crunchy on the outside and light and airy in the middle.’
He places the flattened pizza dough on the countertop. ‘Now, you try.’
After washing my hands at the sink, I press one of the balls into a disc shape on the counter. I’m nervous as I lift up the dough and balance it on my knuckles.
‘No jewellery!’ Giulio cries, realising I’m wearing a ring. It’s an opal and sterling silver one that my grandparents gave to my mother on her sixteenth birthday, and later to me on mine. ‘Wait,’ he says, stepping closer as I take it off. ‘This was Angie’s ring.’
I glance at him with surprise. ‘You remember it?’
‘I do.’
I hand it to him and, when it becomes clear he’s not going to say any more about it, I begin to spin the dough on my knuckles. It flies straight off and hits Maria on her ample bosom, making her eyebrows jump up with surprise. They hit her hairline when her husband makes a grab for the dough and manages to get himself a handful of breast while he’s at it. We all fall about laughing, including Alessandro.
‘I show you again!’ Giulio cries, and then he pats Alessandro on the back and points at the sink. ‘We all do this.’
I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so much in such a short space of time, and it’s uplifting to see Alessandro and Giulio working together after the drama of yesterday.
I’m grateful to Bonnie for making the suggestion.
Chapter 27
On Friday, the temperature soars. I’ve been helping out in the kitchen on and off throughout the week, but it’s too hot for me now. It’s still mild when we finish work close to midnight.
Stefano is trying to persuade Cristina to go clubbing, but she’s not in the mood for dancing. I think she had an argument with Rebecca yesterday.
He turns to Alessandro and me, but Alessandro puts his palms up to ward him off. ‘I don’t do clubs, as you well know.’
‘Angie?’ Stefano turns to me beseechingly. ‘Angel?’
I laugh. I would have gone if Cristina was up for it, but I’m not sure about Stefano and me going out on our own.
He makes a noise of disgust and takes his phone out of his pocket, presumably to line up someone else.
‘Unless we all go to Cristina’s instead?’ I suggest, glancing at my flatmate.
She nods. ‘It’s warm enough to sit outside.’
Stefano claps, satisfied with the back-up plan.
‘Will you come?’ I ask Alessandro hopefully.
He hesitates, then shrugs. ‘Sure, why not?’
We don’t have much booze in so Alessandro pilfers some alcohol from behind the bar before we head outside to his van. Stefano persuaded Alessandro to drive so we wouldn’t have to walk. Honestly, that guy has more energy for dancing than anyone I know, but walking? No.
*
It’s been an up and down week – emotionally draining, but also rewarding. I’ve helped out in the kitchen when the restaurant hasn’t been busy, and Giulio has been teaching me how to cook some of the basic dishes. In turn, I’ve been bringing in baked goods.
Today it was Oskar’s Estonian Suussulavad Kaerakupsised oat cookies, yesterday it was Pasha’s Russian Pryaniki spiced biscuits, and the day before it was Magnus and Astrid’s Norwegian cardamom-flavoured Krumkake.
I’ve found all the ingredients I need in the supermarket down the road from Serafina’s and luckily Cristina has a well-stocked kitchen, including an electric whisk and baking trays, so I haven’t had to buy anything new.
I had to improvise a little with the Krumkake, having found an Italian pizzelle buried in a kitchen cupboard. The decorative two-sided iron griddle is not dissimilar to the waffle irons they use in Norway – Cristina said that her grandmother gave it to her a few years ago for Christmas, but she’d never used it.
She seemed riveted watching me wrap the thin, flat still-hot cookies around a piece of plastic I’d formed into a cone shape. I had to work quickly or I would have risked burning my fingers.
Every day, Giulio has erupted with excitement and demanded to know the recipes.
Bonnie was right: we seem to be bonding over something we’re both passionate about.
*
‘Two more postcards!’ Alessandro notes with surprise when we open the front door to find them on the floor.
‘She also had one yesterday,’ Cristina points out as I swoop down to pick them up. ‘Popular girl.’
I laugh when I see that they’re both from Trudy. She can talk the hind legs off a donkey. I read them while the others sort out drinks.
Darling Angie, Bake Club celebrated its 7-year anniversary yesterday – you were missed! We’ve got two new members: Mustafa and Oya from Turkey! They’re gonna show us how to make Stained Glass Coconut Cookies – how cool do they sound? I’ll share the recipe with you on Facebook! Running out of room, so starting another postcard…
Angie! I’ve sent you another postcard too – hope they arrive together! Wanted to add that I hope you know how much we all miss you. Saying that, none of us want you to come home anytime soon. But when you do, bring some recipes! Love ya! Trudes xxx
And then in tiny writing at the bottom:
Whose stupid idea was it to write you postcards? There’s never enough room!
‘What’s Bake Club?’ Stefano asks, picking up the first postcard from the counter where I’ve put it down.
I don’t mind him being nosy. That’s the thing about postcards: the news is out there for anyone to see.
‘It sort of began as an attempt to matchmake,’ I tell him with a smile.
Alessandro passes me a glass of prosecco. ‘That sounds intriguing.’
He presses me to explain as we settle ourselves outside.
‘My single friends, Trudy and Rita, were at
my place a few years ago when these two brothers, who had not long arrived from Poland, brought over some Kolaczki cookies.’
Jakub and Jan, both in their thirties, had moved into the dugout next to Bonnie and Mick, who’d told them that Nan had once loved to bake.
Trudy and Rita had recently come through terrible divorces, one of which involved domestic violence and the other adultery.
Sensing chemistry between the two couples, I asked if the men would teach us how to make the cookies sometime. They agreed. Not wanting to be a spare part, I invited a couple of other friends. Even Nan joined in, although we had to be very careful with her and the oven at that point.
It was so much fun that we decided to do it again and Bake Club was formed. We held it at mine because it was hard for Nan and me to leave the house, but somehow we always managed to fit into the space, even as our membership grew.
There were times, of course, when I couldn’t host or participate. If Nan was having a bad day, someone else would host at theirs. Everyone understood if I had to cancel at the last minute – they’d wait on standby until I could give the go-ahead.
‘It’s like “Fight Club”!’ Stefano exclaims.
This makes me laugh. ‘About the complete opposite,’ I say, thinking with fondness of some of the old-age pensioners in the group.
A couple of years ago, I decided to collate all of the recipes and get them printed as books to give to Jakub, Trudy, Rita and Jan as wedding presents. They got married in a joint ceremony the Christmas before last and everyone from Bake Club provided pastries and cookies for dessert.
I couldn’t go – Nan wasn’t up for leaving the house at all by that point – but everyone told me about it and I saw the photos.
The cookbooks were so popular that the local bookshop asked to stock them. We put the proceeds towards a hip replacement operation for one of our members, Astrid. She and her miner husband Magnus moved to Australia from Norway twenty-five years ago and were two of my grandparents’ closest friends. They were some of the first people I asked, If you could go anywhere, where would you go?
I still remember their answer. It was Preikestolen – also known as Pulpit Rock – back home in Norway. They sent me a postcard of it while visiting their son, Erik, in nearby Stavanger: a steep cliff soaring over six hundred metres above the Lysefjord. At the top is a square plateau of about twenty-five by twenty-five metres. The postcard showed a girl standing on the edge of a large flat rock platform with a sheer drop beside her.
I felt dizzy even looking at it, but Astrid told me that tens of thousands of people take similar photos every year. It’s one of the many places I’d love to see for myself one day.
Someone shouts over the wall. Cristina and Stefano’s faces light up, the latter leaping excitedly to his feet and shouting back. Cristina hurries inside and Alessandro groans and covers his face with one hand.
‘Rebecca is here,’ he tells me when I ask what’s going on.
I sit up straighter. About time I met her properly!
‘This could be my cue to leave,’ he mutters.
‘No, don’t! Please stay,’ I implore him.
He sighs as Rebecca’s voice carries through from the hallway.
‘Why do you dislike her?’ I whisper.
‘It’s the way she treats Cristina.’
He cares about her more than she realises.
Rebecca is in a much merrier mood than the one she was in when I first encountered her. She’s seemingly pleased to meet me, and even though the greeting she and Alessandro exchange is cool, it’s not laden with animosity.
Stefano pours his friend a prosecco and we raise our glasses.
‘Salute!’
Rebecca launches into a string of Italian and Cristina puts her hand on her knee to stop her.
‘English,’ she says, nodding at me.
‘Sorry!’ Rebecca exclaims, taking a moment to light herself a cigarette.
I remember the ashtray on the terrace when I first arrived. To my knowledge – and relief – Cristina doesn’t smoke.
‘I’ve come from the bar,’ she adds.
‘Bar drinking or bar in a lawyer sense?’ I ask, remembering that she and Stefano studied law together.
‘Drinking!’ She laughs. She really is a stunner, with those feline green eyes and tumbling dark locks.
The sound of the buzzer reverberating around the apartment makes Stefano leap to his feet once more. ‘The cavalry has arrived!’ he declares.
I glance at Cristina.
‘Stefano brings the party with him wherever he goes,’ she tells me with a wry smile. ‘He was texting people on the way here.’
A stream of people steps out onto the terrace, including Cristina’s former flatmate and her boyfriend. There are seven in total, four girls and three boys in their late twenties, early thirties.
‘Can I use your bathroom?’ Alessandro asks me after everyone has been introduced. I’ve gone inside to help Cristina carry glasses – her friends came armed with booze.
‘Of course, as long as you promise to return.’
He wavers.
‘Alessandro!’ I berate him. ‘Live a little! I’ve been stuck in a cave for twenty-seven years, the least you can do is hang out with me while I make some new friends.’
‘Emotional blackmail!’
‘Is it working?’
He rolls his eyes, but nods. ‘I’ll be back in a bit.’
When I go outside, all the seats crammed around the coffee table are taken, but Stefano pats his knee. ‘Come here, Angie.’
I eye the girl sitting in Alessandro’s vacated chair and imagine her sitting on his knee. It’s not a welcome thought. But I go ahead and perch on Stefano’s knee anyway.
When Alessandro reappears, the girl in his seat apologetically hops up and squeezes onto the chair next to him with her friend – they’re both so tiny, they fit side by side.
‘You okay there?’ Alessandro asks me.
‘She’s fine!’ Stefano cries on my behalf, hooking his arm around my waist.
Alessandro takes a swig of his beer, exposing the back of his hand. His burn looks a lot better, but he still has patches of dry skin. At least the injury is no longer red-raw.
‘Have you taken a look at the accommodation I sent you?’ one of the girls, Lindsey, asks Cristina. She’s Canadian, but has been living in Italy for three years. I’m glad I’m not the only one who speaks English as their first language.
‘Yeah, but I think it’s still going to be out of my budget,’ Cristina replies. ‘Might have to be hostels again.’
‘What’s this?’ I ask.
‘Snowboarding. We go every year,’ Lindsey replies. ‘It’s where half of us met,’ she adds, indicating the others.
I look over my shoulder at Stefano. ‘Do you go too?’
He shakes his head and shudders. ‘No, I’d break my neck. You snowboard, though, don’t you?’ he asks Alessandro.
‘Sometimes.’
‘Not that anyone has ever seen him,’ Cristina chips in. ‘He never wants to come with us.’
‘I’ve seen him,’ one of the guys, I think his name is Fabio, interjects.
‘Where?’ Cristina demands to know.
‘Chamonix,’ Alessandro enlightens her.
‘You went to Chamonix and never told me?’ she asks him, and I remember that she has vintage ski posters of the town hanging on the walls in the living room.
‘Where are you going?’ I ask Cristina to deflect the attention away from Alessandro, who’s looking a bit uncomfortable.
‘The plan is St Anton am Arlberg in Austria in February,’ Cristina replies. ‘But I’m still trying to save enough money. You should come!’
‘I’ll be in Australia by then,’ I tell her regretfully. ‘I’d love to see the snow one day.’
‘Angie has never been out of Australia before now,’ Stefano tells his friends.
They want to know what I’ve done since I arrived in Italy. ‘I’ve only been h
ere about ten days, but I’ve checked out the city, obviously. And I went to Tivoli.’ I smile at Alessandro. ‘I’m hoping to do a few trips over the next couple of months. I really want to see Venice. And Florence. And I’m desperate to go to Pompeii!’
‘You could do Pompeii on a day trip,’ Lindsey says. ‘There are bus tours.’
‘That’s a great idea!’
The night wears on. A couple of people leave, but Stefano, Rebecca and Cristina are still going strong.
Whenever I try to slip off Stefano’s knee onto a free chair, he grabs me and pulls me back. He’s being increasingly flirtatious, but I can’t say I mind. He’s so ridiculously attractive and it’s been years since anyone my own age has paid me attention.
Anyway, I’m drunk again and don’t mind admitting it. ‘About time you let your hair down!’ my inner Louise keeps shouting at me. I haven’t yet got over the rush at realising that I’m now allowed to have nights like this.
‘How did your audition go?’ I think to ask Stefano. It was so busy tonight at Serafina’s that I completely forgot earlier.
He went for a small part on an Italian soap opera.
‘It was so-so. It’s hard to tell with these things. Have you ever thought about acting?’
‘Me?’ I scoff.
‘Or modelling?’
I bend over and howl with laughter.
‘Why not?’ he demands to know, hitting me on my back and pulling me into an upright position, his arms still looped around my waist. ‘You’re beautiful.’
I look over my shoulder at him. ‘You’re drunk.’
Yeah, I know, I can talk.
‘Yes, I am very drunk, but I’m not lying. She’s beautiful, isn’t she, Sandro?’
Sandro?
Alessandro meets my eyes momentarily. ‘Yes, she’s beautiful, inside and out,’ he replies as my cheeks flame.
Stefano guffaws. ‘Such a Romeo!’ he cries. ‘This is how he woos the ladies.’
Alessandro reaches for his beer, a smile playing about his lips.
‘You are beautiful, with your big hair and golden eyes,’ Stefano insists. ‘You remind me of a lion!’
‘Big hair, maybe, but golden eyes? You’re hilarious.’