“The street we’re in is called Via Marina,” explained Fabiano, who was rolling up the sleeves of his denim shirt. We walked slowly through the gardens dotted with lampposts, and even so, despite the brightness of the surroundings, we could see something beyond the sea. Another coast. Fabiano pointed toward it. “Sicily.”
I caught my breath, my problems dissolving into the salty air as I stared at the horizon. I couldn’t help but smile, not believing that I was seeing the coast of one of the most iconic places in all Italy.
“Another day, with more time, we can take a boat and go there. What do you think, Daisy?”
I felt excitement wash over me. “Oh, please! I'd love to!”
Fabiano laughed and walked in front of me, blocking my view of the sea. Although he was also a beautiful sight, I would have preferred to continue enjoying the idyllic landscape.
"Allora... There are some very important choices to be made. We can go to my cousin Carlo's restaurant. He is Uncle Gennaro's son, by the way. We can have dinner there liketradition demands. Or we can eat an extra large serving of gelato and make the local children jealous."
I let out a theatrical exclamation, clutching my chest. “You can't ask a person to make that choice, Fabiano. It's cruel!”
Fabiano laughed. “È vero.” He then winked at me. “So, let's do this. We'll have dinner at my cousin's restaurant and then eat gelato! What do you think?”
I grinned like an idiot. “Sounds perfect!”
Minutes later, there I was receiving two kisses on the cheeks from a bunch of strangers and marveling at how much Carlo, the restaurant owner, looked like Gennaro. The son was a carbon copy of his father! They even had the same moustache! Even if Fabiano hadn't told me that this was his cousin, their resemblance would have given it away.
The restaurant was a modest, traditional-looking place, where the tables were all covered with white linen tablecloths and wicker baskets filled with sliced bread. Of course, Fabiano was quick to point out that the restaurant's olive oil and wine came from the Vicari cellars. We ate bread with olive oil and olives while we waited for our food, and Fabiano told me bits and pieces about the region.
“We are quite old school around here. Northern Italy is more modern, open minded. But in the south, we like to keep things traditional.” I noticed that, there, in such a public space, he avoided talking about Castello dell'Fiero, except to praise the Vicari products. “Tell me a little bit about your country, Daisy. How’s Mississippi?”
I sighed, leaning back on the chair. “Well, it’s definitely different from Italy, that’s for sure. But I think at the same time we have a lot in common, you know?” I pointed out, realizing what I was actually saying. How many similarities there were between the southern culture of the United States and Italy. “We value family a lot, we follow God and we also value food.”
Fabiano smirked, chewing on an olive. “I have to confess, American food scares me.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Oh, come on! You can’t believe all we eat is donuts and bacon!”
“Isn’t it?”
I paused, twisting my mouth as I realized he had a point. “Ok. We do eat donuts and bacon a lot, BUT… That’s not all of it. For example, in my town, our specialty is fried catfish. And you should try my aunt Lizzie’s burnt sugar cake recipe. Argh, it’s to die for.”
Fabiano nodded, taking a sip of his glass of water. “How old is your aunt?”
“She turned forty-six this January.”
“You like her a lot, don’t you? I can see it on your face.” He pointed out, making me smile.
“Yeah, she’s… She’s the only family that’s left.” I admitted, fixing the napkin on my lap. “I mean, I’ve a mother and a half-sister, but I cut ties with them.”
That instant, a waiter who didn’t look older than eighteen, appeared with a silver tray of grilled octopus and a bowl of tomato salad. And to my delight, although Fabiano seemed tobe a good wine connoisseur, he appeared to love a good beer as much as I did, and that's what he asked the boy to bring us next.
When we were alone once again at the table, he gave me a knowing look.
“I know how it feels to not get along with our parents.” He admitted, and I listened closely. He then shrugged, “My dad used to beat the shit out of me with a belt. He never liked me or my mamma. He beat her too, until I was old enough to teach him a lesson.”
“I’m so sorry, Fabiano.”
He shook his head, a peaceful smile on his lips. “Don’t be. That was a matter I took good care of.”
My eyes widen. “That means…?”
He nodded. “With the late Don Patrizio’s blessing, the last time my father raised his hand to hit my mamma, he met Dio.”
Something twisted in my stomach. I should condemn that. Fabiano was saying he murdered his own father. Yet, I couldn’t bring myself to judge him. If the asshole hit him and his mom, he deserved what he got.
“You know what? Good for you!” I blurted, and he chuckled, stretching his arms to serve me a generous piece of grilled octopus.
