CHAPTER SIX
Curtain Up!
AS THE CROWD STARTS TRICKLING IN,I take coats and serve drinks while Luigi mingles with the guests. Once they’ve settled in with appetisers and wine, he taps a glass with a knife and the lively chatter dies down, a sea of expectant faces turning to meet his.
‘Benvenuti, miei amici!’ Pointing to the sepia photograph of the windmill behind thebar, he recounts in halting English, how as a small boy, he had a fascination formulini a vento; he would spend his summer holidays at his grandparents’ in Sicily, and play in the disused windmill next door. He believed its spinning blades were wings. He’d sit inside the tower and fly to far-off lands, encountering giants and mystical creatures along the way.
But as soon as the church clockstruck six, he would race home in time to wash his hands, comb his hair, and lay the table for Nonna, for he knew if he were late, there would be no supper, and a day without Nonna’s cooking was like a day without play.
‘Allora, basta! Enough!’ he says, wiping his moist brow. A warm smile and a look of unmistakable pride spread across his face as he announces, ‘Now I go back to the kitchen,and I leave you with my beautiful daughter, Rosalba, and my future son-in-law, Lucio Pavarotti!’
Spontaneous laughter and applause break out, swiftly followed by a series of oohs and aahs as Rosalba, in a sizzling red, floor-length, off-the-shoulder gown slinks down the stairs, through the tightly packed tables, followed by Luke, in a crisp, white, wing-collared shirt sans tie and dark waistcoat,his thick, golden hair (more beach boy than dentist) sleek and shiny.
The clapping dies down as he takes his place at the piano, opens the lid, straightens his back, and flexes his fingers. (Blimey, he can perform root canal on me any day of the week.) Rosalba’s diamante earrings sway gently back and forth, catching the light. He nods his head towards her, and with a toss of her tumbling ebonytresses, the words ‘“O Mio Babbino Caro…”’ spill from her sumptuous, painted mouth.
I haven’t a clue what the lyrics mean, but I assume it’s about yet another tragic, heartbroken heroine about to die either through murder or suicide. (Rosalba tells me later it’s about a spoiled brat of a daughter who wants a ring, and is threatening to throw her toys into the River Arno because her dad won’tgive in to her.)
Throughout the night I zigzag in between the tables, topping up red and white wine, sneaking a little sip for myself when no one’s looking.
I know it’s mean of me, considering Sergio’s lying in hospital minus a finger, but with Francesco in charge, the kitchen is a different place. The interaction between us is easy and humorous, flirtatious even, and the food’s just asgood – no,better. And the positive vibe flows out into the dining room.
You never know what mood Sergio is going to be in, and if you don’t understand him right away, he either mumbles something you just know is derogatory, or raises his voice and waves his arms about. (I have him to thank for my extensive knowledge of Italian expletives.) Next minute he’s teasing you, calling you hiscucciolo.
Then I remember the look of fear in his eyes less than twenty-four hours ago, and despite everything, I can’t help feeling sorry for him. Beneath that fierce Italian bravado, he can be just as vulnerable and scared as the rest of us.
* * *
The kitchen now closed, I pour myself another glass of Valpolicella and pop a stuffed zucchini flower into my mouth – whole.
‘I am serious aboutwhat I say before,’ shouts Francesco, straining to be heard above the enthusiastic clapping and singing ofFuniculì, Funiculà.‘About teaching you Italian.’ His warm breath tickles my ear.
‘Great!’ I say, hand covering my mouth to avoid showering him with bits of batter.
‘Allora, tomorrow at … Costa Coffee? Two o’clock,sì?’
I give a cool nod, keeping my eyes on the stage, but bitingback a hamster-like grin as I sway in time to the music.
‘Sogni d’oro,’ he says, swinging his jacket over his shoulder.
‘Scusi?’ I say, turning to face him.
‘This means, “golden dreams.”Ciao!’
‘Ciao!’
From the corner of my eye I watch his tall, broad-shouldered frame weaving swiftly through the revelling crowd and out of the door.
It’s gone two before the last few customersare persuaded to leave and past four by the time the tables are cleared and re-set, chairs stacked, floor swept, dishwasher loaded, and tips divvied up.
I whizz down a deserted Richmond Hill, the wind at my back, my heart beating in time to the mambo from too much wine, caffeine, and too little sleep.
Sogni d’oro, sogni d’oro… hmm. I like it.
* * *
When I arrive at Costa’s thenext afternoon Francesco is already there, perched on a high stool, sipping espresso and reading the Italian newspaper,Corriere della Sera.
The chef’s garb of white jacket and checked trousers has been replaced by faded Armani jeans and a pale blue, collarless shirt, with a navy cashmere jumper casually draped around his shoulders.
