Lucy made Giancarlo a silent promise, that she would be there for his wife and son and support them in any small way she could, be it babysitting, baking them some of her delicious pies and cakes, or just by lending a listening ear.
She was brought back down to earth by the clanging of the church clock. Retracing her steps, she left the secret garden, her mind and senses now focused on the best pizza in Naples.
‘Papà!’ Elena playfully pinged the striped braces of the silver-haired, rotund man at the serving hatch. He spun around, opened his arms wide, and clasped his beloved daughter tightly to him, rocking her from side to side.
Turning to Lucy with a crinkly, kind smile, he wheezed, ‘And you must bela professoressa di inglese, sì?’
‘Lucy,’ she replied, taking his hand. ‘Nice to meet you. I mean…piacere.’
‘Piacere,Lucia.’ He kissed her on both cheeks. ‘This way,per favore.’
He guided them through the packed restaurant to a table near the open kitchen. Lucy’s eyes grew wide as she watched an army of chefs deftly chopping and slicing brightly coloured ingredients, spinning dough through the air, and sliding the freshly made pizzas into wood-fired ovens with a kind of giant, metal shovel.
All at once the door burst open, sending the little brass bell into spasm.
‘We won! We won!’ cried Stefano excitedly, trailing his Napoli football scarf behind him.
Franco fondly pinched Stefano’s cheek. ‘Bravo!’
‘Buonasera.’Dario warmly shook Franco’s hand, then kissed Elena and Lucy, his stubble grazing their cheeks.
Franco took a bottle of red wine from the rack, uncorked it and poured each of them a glass. ‘And for Stefano, a special wine,’ he said, opening a bottle of red juice. ‘Salute!Forza Napoli!Go Naples!’
‘Forza Napoli!’
Lucy’s attention was drawn to a framed, sepia photograph of waiters in long aprons and young men in uniform, smoking in the stone-walled doorway of Lorenzo’s. They were all grinning, despite the devastation that surrounded them.
‘Did the pizzeria remain open during the war?’
‘Sì.’ Franco slung a checked tea towel over his shoulder, then lit a candle. ‘My father tell me the bombs were falling, but still there was music, dancing – and pizza.’
Lucy gasped. ‘Weren’t they afraid? Why didn’t they take refuge in an air-raid shelter?’
He gave a careless shrug. ‘Eh, we Italians live in the moment.’ He turned to Stefano. ‘Allora,Stefano. We will show our British friend how to make Pizza Lorenzo,sì?’
‘Sì,Nonno!’ lisped Stefano, leaping down fromhis stool. Stefano took Lucy by the hand to the other side of the counter. It was like walking into a furnace. The chefs looked up fleetingly, nodded, smiled, some fist-bumping Stefano as he strode past.
After they had donned aprons, skull caps and washed their hands, Franco gave each of them a mound of dough. Lightly sprinkling the marble surface and their hands with flour he said, ‘Is very important to press the dough for five minutes, like this – press, turn and fold, press, turn and fold, press, turn and fold. Now, you try.’
Lucy placed the heel of her hands on the cool dough and began to press it, pushing it away from her, as Franco had demonstrated. She soon got into her stride, pressing, turning and folding in time to the accordion music filtering through the speakers. Stefano climbed onto a crate next to her and joined in. Before long they were in perfect symmetry, doing a kind of pizza dough boogie, accompanied by cheers and rhythmic clapping from the diners. Even Elena was keeping time, looking like she didn’t have a care in the world.
Franco was overjoyed and relieved to hear her much-missed tinkle of laughter. It was music to his ears. For the first time since the tragedy, he dared to believe that his daughter would be okay.
Watching Stefano’s small hands at work, Franco was reminded of being taught how to make pizza by his NonnoLorenzo when he was around the same age. The image of his grandfather firing up the oven and the thrill of watching the dough rise still warmed his heart as if it were yesterday.
Tradition, family, friends, courage and pride were the foundations on which his family business had been built, and what hadmade it so successful. Not even a war, or the recent fire believed to have been started deliberately by the local Mafia, had succeeded in closing the doors of Pizzeria Lorenzo.
Slices of mozzarella, fresh tomatoes from Vesuvius and basil from the local market, sprinkled with Franco’s own extra virgin olive oil completed the pizza preparation.
Guided by the master, Lucy wrapped her hands around the long handle of thepala– shovel – and placed it in the red-hot oven. Just two minutes later, it emerged, bubbling, succulent and smoky.
She flicked aside a damp strand of hair with the back of her hand. As she did so, she caught Dario’s eye. He fired her a cheeky wink. She lowered her eyelashes, heat rising in her floury cheeks.
Franco tore off a small slice to taste. Lucy hovered nervously, like aBake Offcontestant waiting for Paul and Prue to deliver their verdict.
‘Mwah!’ Franco kissed his fingertips. Overcome with relief and pride, Lucy had to restrain herself from flinging her arms around him. ‘But, the award for bestpizzaiologoes to… Stefano Moretti!’ He lifted the boy so his head touched the ceiling. Stefano punched the air as Franco took him on his victory lap around the restaurant to warm applause.
Lucy felt she would always associate pizza with this evening. Its delicious taste was only half the story; she had once read in one of her mum’s Mediterranean cookbooks that food to Italians is a means of communication, an expression of love and care. She’d dismissed this as romantic codswallop to woo budding chefs to buy the book. What had all that to do with eating? Now she understood. She had kneaded that dough with apprehension then laughter, sliced the mozzarella with hope and compassion for the Moretti family, and had felt the lure of mighty Vesuvius as she chopped the tomatoes, a product of its mineral-rich soil.
