Moonlight lit the Moor Fountain as a busker strummed his guitar. Mary never tired of admiring Piazza Navona, especially at night. The scene looked like a much-loved sepia photo, carefully kept safe in an album. She breathed in the cool evening air, now less defined by the aroma of fried meat and oregano.
It was almost half past midnight and the last customer had just left – a late finish, for midweek. She and Natale had returned from their day out at around teatime – Lucia had gone swimming with a friend. The two women spent the evening upstairs, gorging on cold meats, cheese, and olives whilst they planned out how they could keep Pizzeria Dolce Vita on the Lombardi List.
Now they sat under the outside canopy with Alfonso. Chef Enzo tapped into his phone, humming a Frank Sinatra track. Dante looked contemplative. Rocco ate a slice of seafood pizza. She thought the waiter might complain at staying a few minutes later, to hear their plans. Yet for some reason he seemed reluctant to grab his bicycle and head home. They’d all collected around the same table, faces lit by the light flickering from candles, as penny-saving Alfonso had turned off the canopy’s lamps.
‘What is all this about?’ he said and nursed a double espresso. As usual Mary was drinking her nightly mochaccino. As usual. Weren’t those the best words ever? Slowly, day by day, she was becoming accustomed to life in this quaint restaurant: the gorgeous smells and flavours of Italian food, the bustling piazza, the excitement of tourists and sweet affection of the Rossi family – apart from Dante. Mary could ask for no more, although her stomach lurched as Rocco glared in her direction. Surely he had to have some positive qualities.
A love of dogs, perhaps. Clearly Rocco had a soft spot for them and always snuck out a sliver of meat to a stray one in the piazza, after hours. In fact he’d just taken over a bowl of clean water and tickled its head. And whenever Oro saw Rocco, her tail wagged like a metronome set to “fast”.
Mary turned her attention to Dante, who sat by her side. He ran a hand through his tousled hair and yawned. He leant back and folded those broad arms behind his head. Her eyes ran across the taut torso. A casual smile rested on his lips.
‘Mary?’ he said. ‘Have I got a moustache of milk foam? Is that why you stare?’
‘I … I’m not,’ she said and her ears felt hot.
‘I can feel it. Your body moved. It made the chair creak. And you aren’t talking to anyone else. Honestly, Mary, you shouldn’t lie to a blind man. It isn’t fair.’
Her cheeks reddened now as everyone around the table, apart from Rocco, shook their heads at Dante and grinned. ‘I could have been looking in the other direction,’ she muttered.
He held his palms out. ‘Why would you do that, when I am the most bello sight here?’
Natale rolled her eyes. ‘Right. Enough of my brother’s nonsense. Thanks to you all for staying up.’
‘What is so important to keep me up when my bed calls?’ Alfonso revealed a gold filling as he yawned.
‘Maria and I visited Margherita Margherita today, for lunch.’
Any hint of humour fell from Dante’s lips and Alfonso crossed his arms. Enzo looked up from his phone and knocked back his shot of grappa. Rocco put down his slice of pizza.
‘Tonight was Maria’s idea,’ she said. ‘Their food was so good, with crayoning for children and artificial flowers to take home as a little reminder to come back … Maria thought we should put our heads together and come up with a plan.’
‘We don’t have to change one little bit to compete with that … that plastic pizza place,’ snorted Enzo. ‘Artificial flowers? Clearly, it has no heart.’
‘No, Maria is right,’ continued Natale, in a firm voice. ‘We need to fight to make sure we stay in the Lombardi top ten, otherwise we will drift out of it like a lilo, on the ocean, heading helplessly for the distant horizon and obscurity.’ She glanced at Enzo. ‘Artificial or not, the tourists loved those daisies.’
‘Beh!’ said Alfonso and he raised his hands in the air. ‘So we introduce gimmicks too? Never!’
‘We agree – totalmente. This isn’t about copying their ideas.’ Mary studied the notes in front of her. ‘We reckoned our strength is just that – Pizzeria Dolce Vita provides solid, traditional food. Just like in the old days. We need to focus on that.’ Using words like our and we felt good.
‘Non capisco,’ Enzo said and shrugged. ‘If what we already do is our strength, then how can we improve?’
‘Papà,’ said Natale. ‘Was there a special recipe Nonna made, when you were little?’
‘Not really. My mamma just made really good, basic Italian food. Money was tight. We often just ate the Marinara.’
‘What’s that?’ Mary asked. ‘I haven’t seen it on our menu.’
‘A pizza topped just with tomato, oregano, garlic, and extra virgin oil,’ said Enzo and scratched his beard. ‘Still a favourite among many Italians but we’ve always considered it too plain for the tourists coming from countries where they use pineapple as a topping …’ He wrinkled his nose.
Rocco grimaced. ‘One customer even told me their favourite pizza back in England had hot-dog stuffed into the crust.’
The Rossi family and Enzo pulled disgusted faces.
‘I think the Marinara could work,’ said Mary, thinking for a moment. ‘It’s how you sell it, as my old boss used to say.’ Mary had little admiration for hot-tempered landlady Brenda, but she did have the knack of getting customers to buy almost anything. Turkey leftovers were made into a poshly presented low-fat January curry and promoted as Nouveau Resolution Cuisine.
‘What do you mean?’ said Dante and heremoved his arms from behind his head. His shirt parted at the top. Mary had begun to notice things like this; had even thought what a sensuous lover he’d make with sensitive hands for eyes. A lover with someone else, that was. She’d sworn off men and he was clearly only tolerating Mary, having made it quite clear to his family and Rocco, from the start, that he didn’t want her here. She took a swig of her mochaccino.‘How about you call it – Mamma’s Marinara, for a start?’ Mary suggested. ‘And without cheese on top, you could flag it up on the menu as being low-calorie.’
Enzo groaned.
‘That’s not gimmicky,’ she continued, quickly. She’d never been given the chance to take initiative at work before and it was a little scary. ‘It’s nothing unusual to see dishes on menus displaying calorie contents. These days, people worry about their weight.’
‘Present company excepted,’ said Natale and she shot her dad a stern stare.
‘Only yesterday an American woman asked if we had anything low in fat,’ said Mary. ‘She suffered from high cholesterol.’
Dante drained his cup. ‘As chief pizza-maker, I think we should give it a trial. What is there to lose? And we had yet another customer in, today, who can’t eat wheat. Perhaps it is time we offered gluten-free options.’
Enzo pulled a resigned face.
‘To stay on the Lombardi List, we need to embrace modern trends. We can’t hide from that fact any longer,’ Dante continued.
‘Also …’ Mary looked at Natale who nodded. ‘You know how mid-morning and mid-afternoon customers often just want a drink?’
Everyone nodded.
‘How about we make mini pizzas – just canapé-sized, that would go with a beer or glass of wine? And as well as that …’ she continued hurriedly, as Enzo and Rocco exchanged doubtful glances ‘… what about charging, say, just one euro, to have a biscuit with a hot drink? People often prefer to graze these days, and not just have huge meals.’ She took the lid off a Tupperware box that sat in the middle of the table. ‘I made these dark chocolate and coffee cookies when we got in today. They are small and fit perfectly well next to a cup, on the saucer.’ She handed them around.
‘Aren’t they magnifico?’ said Natale and she brushed crumbs from her mouth. ‘The perfect accompaniment to an Americano or latte.’
‘I could easily do a gluten-free version as well.’ Mary smiled hopefully.
Rocco ran his shirtsleeve across his thin lips. ‘But at one euro a time, we won’t make much money.’
Alfonso rocked his head from side to side as he chewed. ‘I for one have enjoyed Maria’s biscuits, since she arrived. And I think children especially would love them. If a whole family ordered drinks and a biscuit or two each, then the profits would add up.’
Mary’s heart thumped a little more slowly. ‘Yes. They are cheap to make. We’d soon cover costs.’
‘I have every confidence in that,’ said Alfonso softly, ‘because Maria knows that the most important ingredient is love.’
Mary felt ten feet taller. This was new. Contributing – being allowed to contribute – something valuable at work. Putting forward her argument. Being listened to.
‘But mini pizzas?’ Alfonso shook his head. ‘Not so sure. I’ve never seen any.’
‘Agreed,’ muttered Rocco and glared again in Mary’s direction.
‘So that can be our standout item. What people remember us for,’ said Dante. ‘They’d also be cheap to make and don’t need to be hot, so could be baked in advance. We’ve all, at some point, eaten cold pizza the next day and it’s just as delicious. It’s different – but not too gimmicky. We’d stick to traditional recipes. I like the idea.’
Wow. Was distant Dante really supporting her suggestions? Dared she hope that he felt she was beginning to earn her keep?
Rocco took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. ‘Mini pizzas? With a drink? Won’t that deter uncertain customers who might consider ordering something bigger?’
Don’t kowtow, Mary. Stand your ground. He may be your superior at work, but your opinion is worth just as much as his. ‘How often do we see tourists pop by, eating a cheap sandwich, and then coming in just to treat themselves to a sit-down drink?’
Everyone nodded. You could easily spot many sightseers doing Rome on a budget.
‘We just need a placard out the front saying Mini Pizzas with the price. Tourists won’t feel the pressure to spend loads then and the idea of a simple relaxing snack should draw them in. They can sit down instead of eating in the street. And they wouldn’t be spending money on lunch with us anyway, so mini pizza earnings would be a bonus.’
‘We could prepare our three most popular varieties in advance,’ said Dante. ‘And decide on a cut-off time for selling them. Say, midday, so that it won’t impinge on the lunchtime trade.’ He turned to Mary with an unfathomable look on his face. ‘Great idea, Mary – Natale.’
Rocco scowled. ‘But these cheap customers will be taking up tables. That might be a problem in a week or two when the really high season arrives.’
Alfonso interjected. ‘We give it a go, okay? I am not one hundred per cent convinced but as Dante says, we have nothing to lose.’
‘Mini pizzas and biscuits,’ Enzo said and shook his head, nevertheless scoffing another chocolate and coffee cookie.
Mary looked at Natale and they both started to chuckle.
‘We are anticipating Enzo’s reaction to the final idea that Maria thought of. It is a little modern, but we haven’t seen anywhere else offer it.’ Natale’s eyes shone. ‘Maria has seen them in England.’
‘Now I’m worried,’ said Dante and he gave a small smile.
Mary straightened up. ‘Dessert pizzas. We could start with chocolate. Put sugar in the dough. Top that with nuts, raisins, cake, and cookie pieces, grated chocolate and—’
‘I leave if we do that!’ said Enzo and he banged his fist on the table. ‘Cookies? On top of dough? That has American junk food written all over it!’ He rubbed his hand. ‘Scusa, signorinas. But really? Have things got that desperate?’
Okay. Forget chocolate. She had to come up with something more Italian …
‘How about … a plum or cherry and mascarpone pizza with, say … pistachio. You could even shape it into a heart. That would look cute!’
‘Cute?’ Enzo groaned. ‘Mamma Mia. It gets worse. It was hard enough last year, when Dante decided to work with me, in the kitchen, instead of accepting the desk job the police offered. I thought that was tough. But this?’
Everyone smiled.
‘So, caro Dante,’ he continued, in a resigned voice, ‘what do you think? I suppose we were both saying, last week, that the dessert menu could do with a new dish. How about you and I get together? I am open to trying something different that is sweet. I’m thinking fruit, cream, nuts … like Maria suggested.’
Dante drained his mochaccino. ‘Eccellente,’ he said. ‘And in the shape of a heart. I like it. We get a lot of couples in who might try that.’
Mary and Dante were still talking about the dessert as they cleared away the coffee cups. This was new. They were actually spending time alone together and getting on. Natale and Alfonso had gone to bed and Enzo had left to walk the twenty minutes to his apartment.
‘We could cut it in two, to share,’ said Dante, ‘but still keep it in the shape of a cuore.’
Cuore. The Italian word for heart. So much softer than the English version.
‘Perhaps we could call it … I don’t know … the Broken Heart Pizza. Tourists would love that.’ Her throat hurt. Broken just like hers. Except that hers wasn’t in two pieces – try a thousand more.
A brief flash of hurt crossed his face as he stopped stacking clean cups.
Had she also stoked a painful memory for Dante?
‘Or perhaps calling it, um, say, Cupid’s Cuore Pizza might be better,’ she said, brightly.
‘Why – is your heart broken?’
She smarted – as he often made her do. Why had she bothered showing concern? ‘Let’s just say Italy is a fresh start for me. On my own. Without complications.’
He shifted from foot to foot. ‘Sure,’ he said quietly and started clearing crockery again. ‘Who knows, perhaps it will encourage Cupid to shoot his arrows right here at Pizzeria Dolce Vita,’ he said in a flat voice.
She didn’t reply, keen to move the conversation on. How could she have been so thoughtless? Natale said that the night of his accident – or whatever had happened – had destroyed his heart as well as his sight. Perhaps his cuore had been broken and still wasn’t right.
Mary escaped outside to bring in the candles. Just as she was about to bend down, to blow one out, a figure appeared at her side … wearing a cycling helmet. She jumped and turned to face Rocco.
‘Don’t think I don’t know what you are up to,’ he sneered, ‘with your stupid little biscuits and ridiculous ideas.’
Even though he spoke in her language, she had no idea what he meant.
‘What is it with you people-pleasing English signorinas? Why can’t you just get on with the job? But oh no – high-achieving Sarah had to go to night school and now you try to reinvent our menu …’ His nose wrinkled. ‘As if you really care about the Lombardi List.’
‘I do care and am only trying to help,’ she stuttered, hating her voice for going squeaky – hating herself for losing her cool and going on the defensive. Mary clenched her fists, trying to force out the words what’s your problem? Get out of my personal space. But she couldn’t. He held all the power. The Rossi family loved him and if it came down to a choice, they would not pick her over him.
It was just like every time she moved in with a foster family, when she was desperate to have a permanent home. She’d not answer back if wrongly accused of something, like breaking a plate when it had been another child’s fault. She’d try so hard to please, without standing up for herself. Mary stepped back, hands trembling.
‘Help?’ He snorted. ‘More like you are after my job – at all costs.’
Mary gasped. ‘Rocco! You’ve much more experience than me. I could never match your efficiency. Everyone can see you’re one of the best waiters around.’
He folded his arms. ‘I see how you make eyes at Dante. That man has been through enough. He doesn’t need a scheming woman taking advantage of him in order to get a promotion.’
‘Making eyes? Are you crazy? And what would be the point? As you delighted in explaining, he’s never even wanted me here. If anything, all I’ve been trying to do since arriving is work hard and make him – everyone – see that I can become a useful part of the team.’
He snorted. ‘Well if you can’t see it, everyone else does. I see you flirting and trying to impress him with your idiotic menu ideas.’
‘You’ve got me all wrong.’
Rocco jabbed his finger in the air. ‘I look out for this family. You make one wrong move towards Dante and you’ll regret it. Just be aware, I know your game.’ He leant close. ‘Never forget, I have my eye on you. So make your little cookies and your stupid pizza dessert. Your days here are numbered. I’ll make sure you’re gone before the Lombardi List is even published.’