‘As you know, the production company manager is the frontman of the band too. Well, I sent him the link to the newspaper article about the mozzarella factory, the teashop and the farm, and he’s keen to have a Zoom call with the family to discuss the possibility of working together to bring their story to the big screen. I told him I’d ask you to put it to Elena, Valentina and Alfonso, and if they’re interested, you could give me their email to pass on.’
Lucy shrugged. ‘Sure.’ Glancing at her watch, she said, ‘Sorry, Jamie. I’ve gotta go. I’m going to a gig tonight and I need to finish here and then go home and get cleaned up.’
‘A gig? You? Haud yer wheesht!’
‘Don’t sound so surprised. The band is called Turno di Notte, which means Night Shift, I think. Anyhoo, speak soon. But in the meantime, I’ll send you some videos of the buffalo chillaxing. Cheery-bye.’
Lucy wound her way carefully down the dark and narrow flight of stone steps to the basement, bone-jarring music and the stale smell of beer rising up to meet her.
Matteo’s invitation to the gig had taken her completely by surprise. Even though she knew she would feel out of place and the music would doubtless give her a migraine, the little voice which had in the past always prevented her from trying new things, was now becoming fainter by the day, and easier to ignore.
She fought her way through the noisy crowd to the bar, surprised and relieved to notice that she wasn’t the only grown-up there.
‘Lucy!’ Matteo emerged from the shadow of the raised stage, hugging his saxophone. ‘Over here!’
Lucy stood on tiptoes and gave a small wave. Holding her wine aloft, she squeezed through the excited throng to her reserved front-row seat.
Matteo crouched down at the edge of the stage, his silky, damply tangled hair flopping over his eyes. ‘You made it. I am happy you came.’
A young man with an electric guitar swung across his back approached and patted Matteo’s shoulder. ‘Hey, mate, we need to start tuning up now.’
Lucy gave them both the thumbs-up, surprised and delighted that she was beginning to understand what was being said without translating in her head first. ‘Buona fortuna.’
Matteo smiled and shook his head. ‘In Italy we say, “in bocca al lupo”.’
‘“In bocca al lupo,”,’Lucy repeated. ‘“Into the… wolf’s mouth?’”
‘Essato.See you later.’ Matteo straightened up and made his way over to his band mates.
A jumble of discordant notes began to rise above the hubbub, while the sound engineer ran last-minute amplifier checks.
‘I love this band,’ said Lucy’s neighbour, flicking a strand of her green hair. ‘Are you his mum?’
Lucy took a huge gulp of wine. ‘Err… no. I’m his teacher.’
‘Cool,’ said the tattooed child, high-fiving her.
His mum? Pah! How could she possibly have thought Matteo was her son? She wasn’t old enough… was she? Or had the magic of Italy skewed Lucy’s vision of reality?
The lights dimmed and a hush descended. A young guy sporting a man-bun, grungy jeans and sneakers walked centre stage, flashing double peace signs. He tapped the microphone a few times. ‘Hi, music lovers! What a show we have lined up for you tonight. This band launched its career busking on street corners. They posted some footage online, the clip went viral, and I think you’ll be hearing a lot more about them in the future. Let’s make some noise for Napoli’s very own Turno di Notte!’
Lucy whistled and cheered, then drew a deep breath, bracing herself for the inevitable assault on her ears.
A single spotlight bathed Matteo in white light.
Anticipation hung heavy in the air. Lucy’s tummy flipped over.
Matteo closed his eyes, put the instrument to his lips and arrayed his fingers on the keys. A delicate and haunting melody was released into the crowd. It was as if the notes were telling a personal story. Chills ran up and down Lucy’s spine. Where had he learned to play like that?
The notes then became more vibrant, more freestyle, as the cheeky twang of a guitar filtered through the darkness. Another spotlight flicked on, revealing a drummer who was beating out jazz rhythms while sliding a brush across a crash cymbal, accompanied by boogie-woogie notes from the piano in the corner.
With each layer, the music grew louder and the crowd more enthusiastic.
The applause was tumultuous and long. After it had died down, Matteo introduced individual band members, each taking their turn in the spotlight.
The programme was a mix of original compositions, American, British and Italian romantic classics, and some political songs about empowerment and social change. Matteo owned the stage, his natural, sunny persona connecting the players with the audience. He recounted humorous stories in between sets, encouraging them to clap and sing along.
Under strobing lights, Lucy surrendered to the pulsating, adrenaline-filled vibe, dancing in the aisle with her hands in the air, chanting and fist-pumping along with the rest of them.
