“Are you dating?” Mary suddenly asked with a sly smile, and I kicked her under the table.
Roberto didn’t budge. “Your brother and I are just friends, Mary.”
“Bummer,” she said with an eye-roll.
“I have to go change first,” I said, averting my eyes. I needed to get out of there. Inside I changed into my swimming trunks and a t-shirt, and stopped at the bathroom to brush my teeth. When I got back, I heard Mary questioning Roberto again.
“And why do you smell like tomato?” she asked.
“Because I spent the past three hours checking on a boiling pot of tomato sauce… Hey, James, you ready?”
“Sure…” I said, a little embarrassed. I joined him on the other side on the fence and Roberto showed me the way to Marco’s bike. I wondered if the beer can I hid last night behind the bush was still there. I should find a way to look for it and eventually bring it home.
“What is it that smells like chips?” I whispered to him.
He heaved a sigh. “That is me again.” He touched my shoulder and squeezed it a little. “Let’s go.”
◆◆◆
We rode our bikes uphill to the old part of the town, where rocky walls, medieval houses and tiny streets dominated the view. It felt like riding a bike through the streets of King’s Landing. I told Roberto and he laughed so hard that he had to stop the bike for five minutes. I was glad I had the chance to rest a little because my legs were on fire. We resumed our climb and finally reached the highest area of the town. A circular square paved in stone was surrounded by old houses, a church, a bar (which in Italy doesn’t sell exclusively alcohol but coffee, food and gelato instead) and a huge terrace from where we could see the hellishly steep street we came from going all the way down to the sea. At the bar, a few old men were playing cards and some other customers were having breakfast drinking cappuccino and eating cookies. I took a deep breath as a delicate breeze caressed my sweaty hair. The sweet, fresh smell of grass reached my nose and as it filled my lungs, all my tiredness faded away. The place was so breathtakingly beautiful that it made perfect sense to suffer so much to get there. It was worth it.
“You like it here?” Roberto asked me with a sweet smile, and I just nodded my head. I was about to ask him what errands he had to run when one of the old men at the bar shouted something and came toward us with his arms fully spread out. He was short, bald and with a curved back.
“Nonno! Ciao,” Roberto shouted back and rushed to the old man to hug him lovingly. The man took Roberto’s face in his hands, caressing his cheeks with his thumbs. He was smiling helplessly, his eyes shining with joy, pure, blissed love and something else which made my heart ache.
Roberto told him something, gesturing toward me, and the old man waved his hand at me with a smile.
“James, this is my Grandpa, Roberto. As you can guess, I take my name from him.”
I walked closer and extended my hand to him for a handshake. He took it and then he put his other hand on top of mine and squeezed it lightly. It felt familiar, domestic and loving. Just like Claudia’s smile from the night before. How could I feel such warmth coming at me from a total stranger? What kind of power did those people have, to make me feel so disgustingly vulnerable?
Roberto took a heavy-looking plastic bag out of his bike basket and said something to his grandpa. The man nodded and showed us the way to one of the old buildings surrounding the square. I followed them, curious and also fascinated by how different the place felt from anything I had known before. The front door of Grandpa Roberto’s house was unlocked and led to a narrow hallway with a wooden dresser, on top of which family pictures were placed solemnly. Roberto led the way to the living room, but I stayed behind to look at the photos.
Some were in black and white and the people depicted in them looked very serious and stood perfectly still, with their backs straight and their hands folded in their laps. One in particular caught my attention; a picture of a young soldier proudly posing in his uniform, smiling at me with the same, identical, pretty eyes as Roberto.
“Io,” Grandpa’s voice said. I looked at him and he pointed at the picture first and then at himself.
I found myself smiling and bit my lower lip, thinking of a way I could communicate with him. I pointed at him and said, “You, Roberto.” He nodded, so I continued, pointing at the living room, “and Roberto.” He nodded again. “Same eyes,” I concluded, touching just below my right eye. I wasn’t sure he understood this time, so I took the framed photo in my hands and pointed at his eye. “Eyes,” I repeated again, “Same eyes as Roberto.”
The corners of his mouth turned up, and he clapped on my shoulder, saying, “Sì, sì, io e Roberto. Sem ais. Bravo.”
“Hey, making friends?” Roberto asked me, coming back to the entrance. Grandpa told him something I couldn’t understand, but I figured he was telling him about our half-conversation, because he gestured toward the picture enthusiastically. “Listen, James,” Roberto then said, “Grandpa wants to offer you something to drink. I know you just had breakfast but it’s really important for him that you’ll accept something. Coffee, juice, tea, whatever. The general rule with old people here is that the more food and drinks they get to stuff in you, the happier they are.”
“Oh,” I blinked a couple of times, “okay.” Good thing that ride had made me so thirsty. I could have drunk a river.
Roberto put a hand on my shoulder and spoke in a low voice, “I want to say hi to Grandma, but she’s not feeling well today and is in bed. She doesn’t like to meet people when she’s ill, so do you mind waiting in the living room with Grandpa?”
“No, absolutely,” I smiled. Grandpa then brought me to the living room, a big room with a red brick fireplace which was obviously not being used at the moment, a comfortable-looking couch facing a TV and a huge wooden table decorated with a crochet tablecloth. The room didn’t have a fixed style, but it gave out vintage vibes. The floral-patterned marble tiles of the floor were clearly from the 70s, as was the rest of the furniture, except the fireplace which had probably been renovated. Once again, the walls were filled with pictures. These ones were more recent; there was a wedding taking place probably in the early 90s (judging from the girl’s huge wedding dress), then photos of children; Christenings, birthdays, graduation days. I recognized Claudia and Francesco in a few photos. A younger but still gorgeous Roberto was there, too, smiling brightly with a bottle of champagne in his hands and wearing a black robe with a laurel wreath over his head which I had heard was a thing Italians wore on their graduation ceremony.
Grandpa served me iced tea with cookies and I didn’t hold back eating or drinking. They were delicious. Like Roberto said, the more I ate the more pleased Grandpa seemed. At some point, he told me, “Tu e Roberto,” pointing at me and at the other room. I had no idea what he wanted to tell me. He seemed to be thinking about it and then he showed me his wedding ring. Then I understood.
“Oh, no,” I shook my head.
“Sì,” he said instead. “Va bene. L’amore è sempre bello.”
I didn’t know what he said. But it did sound pretty.