‘Me too! Cool!
‘Meraviglioso!’
Nick ran a shaky hand through his hair and grinned. ‘Thank you. Well, it is thanks to Jamie, my band member, that the Moretti family’s mozzarella factory came to my attention. I knew rightaway that we were onto something special. It’s rare to find a family business, dating back generations, that lives by its guiding principles, yet moves with the times. Now, you may well ask what do an Italian mozzarella factory and a Scottish teashop have in common? The answer is nothing, but the meeting of these two businesses and cultures, and the mutual sharing of their values and homegrown traditions have created a kind of magic, which I hope we have managed to capture in our documentary. So without further ado, please sit back, relax and enjoyTea with the Buffalo.’
The lights dimmed, the applause faded and the curtains parted to reveal a black and white shot of the Bay of Naples, accompanied by Pino Daniele’s ‘Napule è’, a well-known song which sums up the city’s contradictions; its grandeur, its history, its shabbiness, its problems and its alluring beauty.
Elena reached out and grabbed Lucy’s hand. She squeezed it reassuringly.
The camera then zoomed in on Vesuvius, followed by a montage of split-screen sequences of washing hanging between crumbling buildings, old men playing cards, a priest on a wonky bicycle, gap-toothed fishermen hauling in their nets, street kids playing football, a chic couple zipping through the city on a Vespa, her side-saddle, a policeman downing an espresso, market traders, the buffalo, the factory, and finally burst into full colour with a single shot of the teashop door opening to reveal a teapot and a cake stand spilling over with slices of Victoria sponge, lemon layer cake and scones filled with jam and cream.
The auditorium drew a collective gasp. Nick and the production team heaved a tentative sigh of relief. Their decision to blend the colour with black and white had been a well-kept secret until now, and judging by the initial reaction, it had met with the family’s approval.
Why black and white? Having played around with the footage, Nick, his cinematographer, art director and editor had all agreed that the lack of colour brought clarity, atmosphere and a certain romantic nostalgia to the historical pieces of the documentary.
The shaky handheld camera technique was chosen to capture the busyness of the factory and to make the audience feel a part of the action, while the close-up shots of the cheesemakers exposed their facial expressions and reactions to being filmed, adding an element of comedy in many cases!
The camera zoomed in first on Matteo, kneading the cheese with a wooden paddle in a vat of steamy water. ‘You do this many times,’ he said, stretching the cheese by lifting the paddle higher and higher. ‘When it is ready, you make it into the shape you want.’ The camera then cut to Matteo holding a creamy white orb sitting on a plate, decorated with basil and drizzled with oil. ‘Buon appetito!’ he said, giving a little bow to resounding applause from the cinema audience.
Not everyone was as confident and natural in front of the camera: Elena, playing the factory tour guide, got a fit of the giggles when, walking backwards as she talked to camera, narrowly avoided falling into a vat of milk, and Lucy’s swear word had to be bleeped out when the slice of creamy gateau she was lifting oh so daintily crash-landed on the floor.
The audience let out a loud guffaw. Elena pinched Lucy, who slid down in her seat, hands covering her face.
As the end credits rolled Matteo appeared at the piano, playing a heartfelt, soul-rending piece he had composed specially for the occasion.
The audience was captivated. You’d have to have had an ice cube wedged in your heart not to be moved by his homage to his surrogate father.
A wave of tears began to rise inside Lucy as the image of Giancarlo, astride his beloved Vespa, was projected onto the screen.
In Loving Memory of Giancarlo Moretti.
After the music ended and the screen faded to black, there was a deathly hush, punctuated with stifled sobs and sniffs. Then all at once thunderous applause cracked the air, giving rise to cheers and a standing ovation.
Stefano covered his ears, but when Nonno Alfonso lifted him onto his shoulders, he joined in with the enthusiastic whooping and cheering.
The house lights went up as Nick jumped onto the stage, hugged Matteo, then invited the family to join him. Elena offered her hand to Mr Conti, escorting him onto the stage as well. Lucy’s heart swelled. That tiny gesture spoke a thousand words.
‘When you’re telling a story about real people there’s a tremendous responsibility to get it right, yet deliver something cinematic at the same time,’ Nick began, his eyes scanning the faces of his captive audience. ‘Judging by your amazing reception, I hope –think– we got it right. But of course without the Moretti family, their employees and students, whom we grew to know and be very connected to, none of this would have been possible.’ There was a tremor in his voice as he turned to them. ‘I thank you all from the bottom of my heart. I never met Giancarlo, but through your recollections, I feel I do know him, and tonight I’m honoured to celebrate with you the mark he left on the world.’
The church bell chimed eight-thirty. ‘Now, I’m sure, like me, you can’t wait to sample the best pizza Naples has to offer – thank you, Franco. See you all at Pizzeria Lorenzo!’
‘Mamma! Look!’ cried Stefano as the limo drew up onto the pavement.
Not only was there another red carpet to welcome them, but the servers were lined up, holding torches, while one of the waitresses sang ‘Bella Ciao!’ accompanied by an accordionist.
Franco grabbed Elena’s hand and they launched into an impromptu polka. Soon everyone was joining in, until Marco, the chef, banged the gong. ‘Buona sera a voi tutti!Please come inside and take your seats.Siediti, per favore!Please take your seats!’
Laughter, live music and the clinking of glasses filled the air.
Would Lucy have her usual Pizza Bufalina – or maybe tonight she’d try Pizza Capricciosa.
By her own admission, she was becoming more Italian by the day; the language tripped off her tongue now (including a fewparolacce/swear words), she’d learned to cook from scratch and embraced mindfulness without thinking about it.
Yet every now and then, an uneasy feeling gripped her insides. On evenings like this it was so easy to forget the obvious mystery surrounding Giancarlo’s car crash and the mobster she’d encountered at Christmas.
Who was that man outside the cinema earlier, in the dark glasses, observing everyone through a long lens?
Why had Dario dashed away so suddenly and where to?
