Page 21 of Livia in Rome
Kenzi snorts. ‘Did she accuse you of being too Scottish?’
‘Umm . . . not in so many words.’
‘My mama is not so subtle. Anytime my siblings and I do anything she disapproves of, we’re either“too Italian” or “not Moroccan enough”.’ She uses a mimicking tone, and I assume it’s supposed to be a Moroccan accent. ‘That’s multiple times a day, by the way.’ Her face is a picture of long-suffering irritation.
My mood lightens. Kenzi and I might not share the same background, but we share the same struggles.
We fall silent when Mas-si-mi-li-a-no – who now insists we call him Mas-si – bounds to the front of the room. My muscles contract, bracing for his overenthusiastic greeting.
‘Ra-gaz-zi!’he booms, circling the free-standing whiteboard like he’s about to use it in a magic trick. ‘Today, I am going to take you on a delicious journey!’ He rubs a hand over his stomach for emphasis – as if he needs any.
Ren raises his hand. ‘Wouldbaguettibe a masculine or feminine noun?’ he asks in his slightly wobbly Italian.
Mas-si frowns and smiles at the same time. ‘Do you mean baguette or spaghetti?’
Ren chews on his lip like he’s trying to taste the concept. ‘A combination...Not sure how, yet.’
Mas-si’s grin dims by a couple of watts, as if he’s unsure how to mime something that doesn’t exist.
The lesson is, as expected, pretty basic, but Ren keeps it lively. He’s such a foodie; he’d talk pasta varieties and regional dishes all day. It’s interesting,though, listening to everyone speak with varying degrees of success. Kenzi could teach the class herself. Italian is her mother tongue, even if it isn’thermother’s tongue. I’m surprised to realize I’m probably next, though I’m more comfortable speaking to Kenzi, Ren and Sofia than I am to Mas-si and the whole class. Sofia’s got bags of confidence to mask her shaky Italian, and Ren...well, he speaks the universal language of food.
We gather our things at the end of class and the four of us linger outside the main doors for a while, until Kenzi turns to me with a curious look. ‘So, did you find out any more about Giulio’s mysterious letter and phone call?’
‘Ooh,do que se trata?’ Sofia asks what’s going on as she pushes her thick yellow hair behind her ears.
‘Just the boy who’s trying to steal my nonna, my summer job, and possibly my sanity.’
Sofia lifts one eyebrow. ‘Tell me more . . .’
‘Why don’t we come to the bar and help you spy on him?’ Kenzi says.
Ren flings his arm around my shoulder. ‘Bonne idée. I would like a snack after today’s lesson.’
‘And I need a good coffee shot,’ Sofia adds with a shrug.
At first, I think Sofia means she needs a shot ofcoffee, but when we get to the bar – Ren still with an arm around my shoulders, as if he’s weak with hunger – she orders aristrettofrom a surly-looking Giulio, then spends a few minutes taking photos of it from different angles. ‘For my travel blog,’ she explains, not looking up.
I want to ask more, but I’m distracted by Giulio. He’s scowling at Ren, who’s just let me go to press his face against the refrigerated cabinet, pestering him about whether theporchettafilling comes from Ariccia, the nearby town famous for its roasted pork meat.
Ren finally settles on a huge slab ofpizza biancastuffed with lettuce and cured meats, and we’re about to head outside when Sofia pulls me by the hem of my top to a table near the counter. ‘Better view from here,sim?’ she whispers in my ear.
Ren launches into his latest Franco-Japanese fusion ideas, wondering how to give them an Italian twist, when Enrico, who’s seated at his usual table by the snack stand, clears his throat loudly. ‘Scusa,’ he says, pausing to drape a fine-knit jumper around his shoulders when he recognizes me as the girl who tried to maim him with the A/C unit. ‘Did you say French, Japanese and Italian cuisine together? My wife and I used to run a trattoria on this street, and I’ve never heard of such a thing.’
Ren’s like a puppy with a waggly tail. ‘Oui, monsieur!I mean,sì, signore! I’m studying to become a chef, and I want to come up with my own signature style.’
Enrico beckons Ren over to his table. ‘Interessante.What kind of dishes do you make?’
They dive into a deep conversation about food, with Ren occasionally asking for help when his Italian fails him. Kenzi and I translate bits and pieces, while Sofia mostly nods along, keeping up with her latest posts. It’s fascinating to hear Ren’s schoolboy Italian mixing with Enrico’s Roman expressions. But...they manage.
Giulio’s still watching us from behind the counter – or rather, watching Ren – with an odd expression. Is he jealous Ren’s just as good as he is at charming the local customers? I overhear Enrico saying he’d love to try onion and wasabi gyoza. So much for him not liking change.
‘You’ve got good ideas,ragazzo,’ Enrico says, getting to his feet. ‘My wife would’ve liked you.’
‘Merci. . . I mean,grazie!’ Ren replies, puppy eyes bright and happy.
‘Err...did you see that?’ I ask Kenzi as Enrico shuffles out of the bar. ‘Ren just picked up more Italian in that one conversation than all our lessons put together!’
‘Amazing what a little real-world practice can do,’ she murmurs. ‘Mama and Baba didn’t know a word of Italian when they moved here, but they picked it up soon enough. They had to.’
