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‘No,’ Cecco says. ‘They didn’t leave an address, and quite right. Sandro and Enzo would have beaten that guy to a pulp if they’d managed to track him down.’
His voice is stony. I feel bad asking, but I have to ask – it’s nagging at me. ‘But shouldn’t there be some evidence now? My, uh… a friend who’s helping me with the book tried to trace Stella with the Anagrafe here in Romituzzo, but they didn’t have a record of where she went next. And she’d have had to register at her new address, wouldn’t she, legally?’
There’s another wave of amusement, more muted this time. ‘Such faith in human nature,’ Vito says. ‘Such faith in Italian bureaucracy.’
Ettore nods. ‘Even if they followed the law to the letter…’
‘I doubt that,’ Cecco snorts.
‘Yes, but even so,’ Ettore says. ‘Everything was on paper in those days, and things happen to paper records. Fire, flood, earthquake, incompetence. There could be a hundred reasons why that information didn’t find its way back to Romituzzo.’
‘That makes sense,’ I say – and it does, of course. I don’t know why I feel so oddly disappointed about it. ‘I hope your sister was all right, Cecco.’
‘Eh. She and Davide were so young, it would never have lasted. And Lucia did eventually meet someone else and marry and have children, like she wanted, and she was happy then. But it was brutal at the time.’ He fixes me with a steely eye. ‘Any other personal questions?’
‘No. I think I’ve ruined the atmosphere enough as it is.’ I smile to show I’m joking – sort of – and they all smile back except Cecco, who gives a harrumph and drains the last of his beer.
‘Don’t pay any attention to him,’ Carmelo says. ‘He always was a moody bastard and he hasn’t improved with age. If there’s anything you need to know, just say so. We’ll try to help you even if Cecco won’t.’
‘Well, actually…’ I mean to ask about the lady I saw at the cemetery, the one who tends Achille’s grave. But I remember the shock on her face when she saw me, her obvious desperation to be private and alone, and I can’t do it. She probably doesn’t want to be found any more than Stella did. ‘No,’ I say. ‘No, really, you’ve all been so helpful today.’
After that, the conversation settles into an easy groove. I fall silent and finish my spritz, listening to them all as they banter back and forth, exchanging comfortable insults. After a little while Vito excuses himself to get home for dinner, and then Ettore gets stiffly to his feet and says goodbye too. Carmelo, with a press of the hand and a kiss of the cheek, goes back inside the bar to talk to Totò, and then only Cecco and I are left sitting outside in the square.
‘I’d better get going,’ I say. ‘Thanks so much for today. It was a pleasure.’
Cecco harrumphs again. ‘If you say so.’
I smile at him and start packing up my bag. It’s about half past six, and if I walk smartly I should make the next Florence train. And then just as I’m getting to my feet, just as I raise my hand to wave goodbye to Totò, Cecco says: ‘No, wait. I ought to tell you something.’
Well, I can get the next train but one.
23
‘So what did he have to say for himself?’ Marco asks. He’s crushing peppercorns with a pestle – or is it a mortar? the grindy thing – forpici cacio e pepe. The smell of the pepper tickles my nose. The hand-rolled pici, like fat starchy worms, are ready to be plunged into the salted water; the pecorino cheese is grated and there’s a heavy-bottomed pan heating up on the hob. I don’t think my tiny kitchen has seen this kind of action since… ever, probably. Certainly not since I moved in.
‘Well, to his credit, he knew he’d been a moody bastard,’ I say, ‘and he wanted to explain. Turns out there was a bit more to the story than he’d been prepared to say in front of the others. He never liked Achille, but you don’t admit to that in Romituzzo.’
‘Huh,’ Marco says. ‘What would he have against Achille? Was it about the whole history with Stella and his sister’s boyfriend?’
‘No, not that – or not only that. Remember I said that his big brother Sandro was good friends with Enzo Sangallo?’
‘The navigator?’
‘That’s him. It turns out Enzo was really more like family. He was orphaned during the war and Cecco’s mother had lost a child of her own, her oldest boy Tommaso. Tommaso was called up in 1940 – he died in North Africa. So when Enzo needed help, she just took him in.’
‘Very kind of her.’ Marco tips the pepper into the hot pan and starts toasting it. I eye the smoke detector nervously.
‘I think it suited everyone,’ I say. ‘But obviously Raffaella – that’s the mother – had been through a lot by then. The war had taken one of her sons, and then her daughter got her heart broken. Enzo had fought in the Resistance, too, and that was risky enough. So you can imagine that she didn’t want any more pain or fear in her life. She hated it when Enzo got serious about motorbike racing, and she hated it even more when he started joining Achille on road races as his navigator. She couldn’t stop him, though I think she tried, but she was permanently on edge in case he came to grief. Then Achille signed the deal with Pierfrancesco Legni and moved away to Florence, and she must have thought the danger was past.’
‘Poor Raffaella.’ Marco shakes his head. He’s stirring the pepper with one hand and somehow draining the pasta with the other. If I tried that I’d end up calling an ambulance. I lean forward, trying to see how he’s managing it. ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘Stop staring and finish the story. This will be ready any second.’
‘Well, of course Achille came back to town for the Coppa Valdana and wanted Enzo to be his navigator one last time. Raffaella absolutely flipped. Apparently she told Enzo she’d kick him out if he even thought about getting back in a car with “that devil”. “He’ll get you killed,” she said. “He doesn’t care about anyone.” She only gave in at last because Sandro said that if Enzo didn’t do it, he would, and Enzo was by far the safer navigator. So of course Enzo did go in the end, and Achille very nearly did get him killed.’
‘For a good reason, though,’ Marco says.
‘That’s what I said – well, I thought it, anyway. But honestly, I don’t think Cecco sees it like that. As far as he’s concerned, that little girl needed saving in the first place because her parents wanted to see the famous Achille Infuriati drive too fast in dangerous conditions. I suppose he’s got a point.’
Marco puts a plate of pici in front of me. It’s creamy and glossy and speckled with pepper. ‘This looks amazing,’ I say. ‘I don’t know how you do it. When I make any kind of cheesy pasta dish, it turns into wallpaper paste and ruins all my sponges.’
