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 the bar, he recounts in halting English, how as a small boy, he had a fascination for mulini 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 clock struck 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 ebony tresses, 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’t give 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 as good – 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 his cucciolo.
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 about what I say before,’ shouts Francesco, straining to be heard above the enthusiastic clapping and singing of Funiculì, 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 biting back 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 customers are 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 the next 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.
‘Buongiorno, principessa!’ he says rising and pulling out a seat. ‘Cappuccino?’
‘Mmm, please,’ I say launching myself up onto the stool. I peer at the book lying on the table and rummage in my bag for my glasses – Italian for Beginners.
I shoot him a specky-four-eyes grin. He winks at me and disappears to the counter.
Page 1
Verbs
avere – to have
ho – I have
hai – you have
ha – he, she, it has
abbiamo – we have
avete – you (pl.) have
hanno – they have
ho una bicicletta – I have a bicycle
Francesco sets down my coffee.
‘Grazie.’
As we talk, I dare to study his face close-up: aquiline nose, square jaw, deep-set eyes, teeth slightly out of kilter, dark, wavy hair, tinged with grey; not handsome, in a smooth, Johnny-Depp way, but more of a Tom-Hardy type – rugged, raw yet charming; the type of man who’d protect you in a street brawl …
‘Allora …’
‘What? Oh …’ I flip the book open again. ‘Ho una bicicletta.’
He shakes his head and fighting back a smirk, says, ‘No, no, no. The “h” is silent – like “o”. O una bicicletta.’
I slurp my cappuccino and repeat, ‘O una bicicletta.’
He fires me a bemused look over the rim of his coffee cup.
‘What?’ I say awkwardly.
He indicates my mouth. Is he making fun of me?
‘O - UNA - BICICLETTA,’ I repeat, louder this time.
He smiles, leans across the table, and gently wipes cappuccino froth from my top lip. His gaze is unflinching. My heart speeds up.
‘O una bicicletta,’ I say hurriedly, blushing madly.
‘Bravissimo!’ he exclaims, high-fiving me.
* * *
And so two afternoons a week I buy Francesco coffee and he teaches me Italian.
If I get stuck and break into English, he puts on his serious face and says, ‘Non è permesso.’
I’m discovering that often, by adding the letter ‘o’ or ‘a’ to the end of an English word, you can create the Italian: e.g. ‘sense’ = senso, ‘minute’ = minuto, ‘romance’ = romanza.
I don’t ever remember language learning being so much fun. But back when I was a gawky, pigtailed schoolgirl, my Modern Language teacher was a short, dour-faced Glaswegian, sporting shabby clothes and halitosis. And now? Now my heart flips over at the sight of my teacher’s smile, the tilt of his head as he listens patiently to my attempts at grammar, sentence construction, and pronunciation, the way he says ‘E-milee’ and calls me his ‘piccola studentessa’ in that make-your-knees-go-weak accent of his.
* * *
Isn’t life strange? It seems to me the moment you stop wanting something so badly, it comes and bites you on the derrière …
‘I hope you’re sitting down, darling,’ gushes Lionel in a rare phone call some three weeks later, ‘because I have got you a casting for an eight-week run with The Jeremy Hart Rep Company in Branworth by the sea!’
‘What? Where’s Branworth?’
‘Oh, somewhere up North. Anyway, I’ve got some bits of script that I’ll e-mail to you, darling, and Jeremy will see you tomorrow at The Spotlight Studios at three. Okay?’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Got to dash. I’ve got three pantomime dames to find before Friday. Byeee!’
CASTING BREAKDOWN
To play a mermaid, secretary, bride, and maid.
ASM duties: to assist stage management as required.
Good team player, flexible, versatile.
Turns out the original actress was offered a last-minute contract to play Maria on a six-month tour of The Sound of Music, so has dropped out. Aargh. Am I destined to be used only in emergency situations?
In any case, I’m far too old to play a mermaid and a bride, but Lionel is having none of it and reminds me that my reward at the end of the season would be the much-coveted Equity union card – a little plastic card that is my proof that I am a proper professional, and which gives actors discounts on everything from theatre tickets to hair removal.
I don’t know why I’m getting in such a tizzy. They’ll be seeing loads of people, so I probably won’t get it anyway. Nevertheless it will be good audition experience, and I can’t risk being dumped by my one and only agent.
* * *
Only hours after the audition, am in the newsagent’s deciding which lottery numbers to choose this week, when my mobile springs into life. As usual, it’s worked its way to the bottom of my cavernous bag, and not until my purse, a half-eaten tube of extra strong mints, my mini Italian dictionary, a Tampax, a bottle of water, keys, my Oyster card, a scrunched-up tissue, lip gloss, and satsuma are spewed all over the floor, am I able to answer it.
‘Emily, darling, it’s Lionel,’ he says in a singsong voice I’ve never heard before. ‘Terrific news – you got the job!’
As he rattles off the terms of the offer my mind goes into overdrive. Monday? I can’t start on Monday! What about the restaurant? I can’t leave them in the lurch. And Beryl? I’ve paid next month’s rent in advance. What about my yoga class, my Italian lessons?
‘So pleased for you, darling. Firing that e-mail off to you right now. Toodle pip!’ and he hangs up.
Where has my ambition, my drive, my self-belief gone? Over ninety per cent of actors are out of work. I should be swinging from the lampposts and here am I agonising over missing yoga and Italian lessons. It’s pathetic.
I’ll call the girls. I can always rely on them for sound advice and reassurance.
Beeeeep, beeeeep. Abroad. Every one of them. I hang up, disappointed.
As I’m about to leave the shop, I notice a yellow Post-it Note on the floor.
“Our doubts are traitors, and make us lose the good we oft might win by fearing to attempt.” Remember! Love & luck, Portia xx
* * *
CHIUSO/CLOSED. As I turn over the door sign for the last time, a feeling of melancholy swells my heart.
‘A cena!’ calls Luigi. Francesco slips into the empty space beside me on the banquette. There are a couple of bottles of Prosecco chilling in an ice bucket by the side, and a little pile of gifts by my place: a box of my favourite Baci Perugina chocolates, a bottle of Montepulciano, a copy of the Zucchero CD we play in the restaurant, and a notebook in which Nonna Maria has written several of her recipes.
‘Mille grazie, a voi tutti,’ I say, swallowing hard, looking at them all through a sudden mist.
These people have become like family to me. Il Mulino has given me a sense of belonging, and they have taught me so much in just a few short months: the importance and enjoyment of the simple things life has to offer; good food, wine, conversation, music, friendship, and family.
Luigi leans across the table and pinches my cheek.
‘It is not goodbye, cara, just arrivederci. There is always a job here for our piccola inglese.’
‘Grazie, Luigi,’ I say, swallowing the lump in my throat.
‘And if you need anything, anything at all, you just call your Zio Luigi. D’accordo?’
‘D’accordo,’ I say, giving each of them a hug in turn. ‘Now I really should be going. My train leaves in six hours.’
Francesco picks up my bag of goodies and opens the door.
‘Prego.’
When I try to take the bag from him, he says matter of matter-of-factly, ‘I walk with you.’
Our footsteps reverberate along the deserted pavement. He stops suddenly, gazing up at the low-hanging, milk-bottle-top moon.
‘Look! Orione and here, l’Orso, the Bear.’
‘Where?’
He takes my hand and guides it towards the diamond-filled sky. I can feel his eyes on me. My heart quickens.
He keeps hold of my hand until we reach the bicycle rack. He places my bag in the basket while I put on my helmet and flick on my lights.
‘Buona fortuna. Good luck,’ he says holding my gaze with his dark, soulful eyes.
‘Grazie. Arrivederci,’ I reply, smiling up at him, doing my best to sound Italian and cool.
I go to shake his hand, he takes it and kisses it gently, then leans towards my face. I close my eyes, waiting to feel his lips on mine.
‘Eii!’ he cries as his nose bashes against the peak of my bike helmet.
We both collapse into uncontrollable fits of giggles and my dolce vita moment is lost.
He waves me off and calls out ‘Sogni d’oro!’, his voice echoing as I freewheel down the hill.
After that near-kiss, the cold night air wakes me abruptly from golden dreams of constellations, moonlight, and a certain dishy, cheeky Italian teacher who has taught me to laugh at myself again.