AllFreeNovel
Share Us
‘Buongiorno,’ says the friendly man at the till. He looks to be in his late forties or early fifties, and he’s dressed in a black T-shirt and apron.
‘Buongiorno,’ I say, and then I stop short because this place is a shrine to Achille. The wall behind the counter is plastered in photographs and blown-up newspaper headlines, and in the middle of it all is a colossal purple flag with a winged horse and the words SCUDERIA GUELFA.
‘What can I get you?’ the man asks – in Italian, which still gives me a bit of a boost.
‘Coffee, please, and a still water.’
He puts a saucer in front of me and a glass next to it. ‘Would you like a glass of water or a little bottle?’
‘Do you have a large bottle? Cold?’
‘Of course.’ He smiles and reaches under the counter to bring out a litre bottle of water, then turns to the coffee machine and starts making my espresso. I pour out a glass and down it, studying the photographs to see whether I can catch sight of Granny. And there she is, a scarf over her blonde hair, bending to kiss Achille as he sits at the wheel of his Alfa Romeo. The headline above it reads INFURIATI’S LAST FAREWELL. I shiver.
‘That’s Achille Infuriati, the racing driver. You’ve heard of him?’ I nod. ‘And that’s his girlfriend Rita,’ the barman goes on as he puts the espresso cup on its saucer. ‘She was an English lady. You know, you look a lot like her.’
‘That’s nice of you to say,’ I say, stirring sugar into my coffee. I don’t want to air my family history to this perfectly kind stranger. ‘Are youromituzzanolike Achille?’
‘No, I’m from Palermo. No Tuscan can make cannoli like these, believe me.’ He smiles and gestures to a display case full of the little ricotta-stuffed pastries. ‘My name’s Salvatore, Totò for short.’ He holds out his hand and I shake it.
‘Victoria. I go by Tori. Actually, those cannoli do look good. Could I have a chocolate one?’
‘Of course. Another coffee?’
‘Please.’
While I eat the cannolo and drink the coffee, Totò fills me in on his background. It turns out that he only took over the bar recently, though his family moved to Romituzzo in his early teens. ‘There’s just so much more work in the north,’ he says frankly. ‘You’ll find plenty of Sicilians here, Neapolitans, people from Puglia and Calabria. Anyway, this bar is kind of a local classic. The guy who ran it died a couple of years ago. He was a racing fanatic, but his wife wouldn’t have any of his memorabilia in the house, so when I took over I inherited all this stuff. Maybe it’s not what I would have chosen myself, but I like racing and I like the regulars, so I kept it.’
‘I suppose you had to learn a lot about Achille Infuriati, very quickly.’
‘Oh, no, I knew all about him already. Long before I came here,’ Totò says. ‘When my dad was a little kid in Palermo, he actually met Achille when he came to town to race in the Targa Florio. Achille knelt down and shook his hand. Dad’s still talking about it. Seriously,’ he adds. ‘Come here at five o’clock any day of the week, and you’ll find him telling his Achille story to anyone who’ll listen. Not that you’d necessarily want to be here at five – it’s wall-to-wall old guys talking shit about cars. Most of them have an Achille story too. And if it wasn’t Achille Infuriati then it was Achille Varzi, or Tazio Nuvolari, or Giuseppe Farina or Enzo Ferrari. And if they weren’t actually there, then they knew someone who was.’
He gives me a broad smile and I smile back. ‘Totò, can I ask you something? A favour?’
‘Shoot.’
‘I’m a writer and I’m working on a book about Achille – well, it’s partly about him. Really, it’s about my grandmother.’ My eyes drift to Granny’s picture, and Totò turns to follow my line of sight.
‘Oh,’ he says, with the air of a man for whom it’s all coming together.
‘Look, I don’t have time today, but if I came back another day around five, do you think your dad would tell me his story? Maybe his friends would talk to me, too?’
Totò laughs. ‘Are you serious? Do you really think my father would turn down the chance to tell his Achille Infuriati story to someone who’s actually never heard him tell it before? No,’ he says, ‘I don’t think you’re going to have any trouble there. In fact, if you call before you show up, I’ll make sure he brings his photo album from home.’ He takes a business card from the holder next to the till and hands it to me.
‘That’s wonderful,’ I say. ‘Really. I’m so grateful, you can’t imagine.’
‘Let’s see how you feel after my dad and his friends talk your ear off for three hours. I’m glad if I can help, though. Anything else I can do?’
‘Yes, actually. Could I have another of those chocolate cannoli?’
*
By the time I’ve finished my water, paid up, visited the loo and applied more sunscreen, the sun is high in the sky. Going outside is an unpleasant shock, like when you open the oven to check on your dinner and the heat blasts you in the face. But Chiara should be here soon, and I want to pay my respects to Achille before I go. I turn left down the via Senese and head for the church, clinging to the narrow margin of shadow afforded by the buildings on the eastern side. A little way along the street is a florist, and I stop on a whim and buy six red roses. Even numbers are for mourning – that’s what Granny always told me.
‘For the cemetery?’ the saleswoman asks.
‘For Achille.’
The woman nods and takes out a roll oftricoloreribbon, tying it into an ornate bow around the stems of the roses and curling the ends with a flourish. ‘There you go,’ she says, handing me the bouquet.
