Page 26 of Livia in Rome
She carries the container to the counter, holding it high like a waiter in a fancy restaurant. ‘Chef Ren invites you to try hisfamososushi caprese. Ébom!’
Giulio holds one up to the light. ‘I don’t know who’s going to be more offended – the Japaneseor the Italians.’
Ren grins. ‘You sound like my parents.’ He adopts a high-pitched French accent and pretends to flip his hair. ‘Why change something that is already perfect?’ Then he folds his arms across his chest and dips his chin, his voice deepening. ‘This is not the Japanese way.’
Kenzi, Sofia and I share a moment of understanding at Ren’s imitation of his parents – we know exactly what it’s like to be caught in a cultural crossfire.
It’s almost strange speaking English again, after only using it with Isla, but Kenzi and I chat easily now that we’re free from the stilted role-playing of class. She tells me about her brother Mehdi’s citizenship application, how he’s struggling to find a long-term job to boost his chances. And when it’s my turn to speak Italian, I keep it light – about life in Edinburgh, mostly. How bidets are NOT the norm, and umbrellas are pointless because the wind makes the rain horizontal. I’d love to fill Kenzi in on what I know about the bar, but not when Ma’s within earshot.
Sofia drifts in and out, occasionally giving Signora Pedretti tips on how to use her new mobile – even though Signora Pedretti’s elected Giulio as her tech guru. I don’t even notice the time passing until Ma starts dropping some not-too-subtle hints that it’stime to close – it starts with her noisily cleaning the coffee machine and ends with her shooing everyone out so she can lock up and mop the floor without our footprints ruining it all.
I float up to the apartment, giddy from the success of the swap. The bar felt less like a backdrop and more like a part of my life – even if I was on the wrong side of the counter.
Kenzi and I were the ones doing it properly, actually making an effort with the whole language thing. Ren was fine until Enrico showed up to test his snacks, but redeemed himself when Signora Pedretti accidentally switched her phone settings to Japanese. And Sofia? Well, she has too much faith in Signora Pedretti being able to follow her ‘handy shortcuts’.
I’m grinning when I slump on to the sofa. It looks old, but the cushions are firm and the textured fabric doesn’t have any worn patches. I get the impression this room rarely gets used and that, like our house in Edinburgh, the kitchen is the real hub. There’s a long, low coffee table between the sofa and a dusty TV screen, the corner of an envelope poking out of a single drawer just under the tabletop. My mind races – could it be something from the bank? A final notice, maybe? Or something worse? I wince as the drawer creaks open, expecting to see formal paperwork or anofficial letterhead. Instead, the envelope is part of a bundle, neatly tied together with a length of string. They’re not bills or statements, though. They’re personal...I recognize the handwriting instantly. Those neat, rounded letters, the fancy Gs and slanted As I’ve seen on shopping lists and notes attached to the fridge door at home.
My breath catches. These are letters from Ma to Nina.
Before I can stop myself, I shove the bundle of letters under my T-shirt and slip into the privacy of my Giulio-themed bedroom. I sit on the edge of the bed and quickly untie the string holding them together.
The first one is dated nearly ten years ago, which must have been shortly after our last family visit to Rome. It’s short, just a page, but it starts with an apology.
Mamma, I’m sorry for what happened. I don’t know how to fix this, but I’m trying. Please answer my calls.
An apology? From Ma? She never apologizes. Not in words, anyway. Her medium is food;tagliatelle al ragùif the apology is for me, and some awful Roman offal dish for Pa – an apology that stinks out the kitchen for days and has the cats scratching at the connecting door to get in. Thankfully, Ma doesn’t apologize to Pa all that often.
So it’s surreal, reading through the rest of the letters, finding apology after apology and Ma beggingNina to get in touch. There’s other stuff, too – little glimpses into our lives in Edinburgh like when Ma started up Caterina’s Cat Casa and was worried about making a go of it, about how difficult it is when Pa’s away on shoots...and loads about me growing up and starting school. But the same thread of apologies runs through every letter –Scusami, Mamma. Perdonami.
I make sure to keep the envelopes in the same order they were tied in, all ten years’ worth. And yet, in all that time, I don’t remember any letters arriving from Nina, apart from birthday cards for me. My chest tightens at the thought of Ma reaching out, trying to fix something I didn’t even know about. Something Istilldon’t know about.
I lean back against the wall, accidentally dislodging a photo from the collage. It flutters on to the bed and I pick it up to find it’s one of a younger Giulio, standing next to the blue Vespa with a woman who must be his nonna. The Vespa looks like it does now – Giulio clearly takes care of it. Guilt gnaws at me. He’s been upfront with me about the debts, about being prepared to sell his nonna’s Vespa to help save the bar. I need to share this with him too. I know the letters aren’t about the debts, but they are about Ma and Nina – and it’s their constant bickering and sniping that’s holding me back from opening up to Ma. Howcan I tell her Nina’s in debt without making things a hundred times worse between them? And, much as I hate to admit it, Giulio knows Nina better than I do, so maybe he knows how to help with this too.
It’s nearly midnight when Ma finally heads to bed. But I wait another half hour before sneaking up to the rooftop. The night air is warm, the cityscape bathed in golden lamplight, still alive with people enjoying the summer evening. I climb over the low railing on to Giulio’s side of the terrace and, after a little pep talk from Inner Isla, I knock on his door...so gently I have to do it a second time. Louder...in tune with my hammering heart.
There’s a pause, then the sound of footsteps. Then Giulio’s tall shape appears in the doorway, silhouetted against the light from inside. His face is hard to read in the shadows, but I can tell he’s surprised.
‘Couldn’t wait until morning to see me, Scotland?’ he murmurs, his voice low as he joins me outside.
‘I need your help.’ I hold up the bundle of envelopes. ‘I found these letters from Ma to Nina, full of apologies.’
Music drifts up from somewhere nearby – probably from the piazza with the octagonal fountain at the bottom of the road. I think back to wandering past it with my case that first night, looking and feeling likean outsider, then drag my attention back to Giulio.
He frowns at the letters in my hand. ‘What’s she apologizing for?’
‘That’s the thing, see? She doesn’t say...it’s like she doesn’t have to, as if Nina will definitely know.’ I shake my head in frustration. ‘Ma started sending them after our last trip to Rome ten years ago. Something must have happened then. I...I was wondering if you knew anything?’
I unfold one, scanning it quickly to make sure there’s nothing embarrassing about me in it. Once I’m sure it’s safe, I hand it to Giulio. His long, straight eyelashes almost brush his cheeks as he skims the letter. I clear my throat, grateful it’s too dark for him to see the tide of warmth flooding my cheeks.
I find a point on the horizon and stare at it, breathing in for the count of four and out for the count of six...remembering the technique from some wellbeing class at school, hoping it will return my face to its normal colour.
‘This doesn’t really tell us anything.’ He holds out the letter and I make an effort not to brush against his fingers when I take it from him.
It hits me suddenly – what if Giulio thinks I’ve dragged him out here for nothing? That this is just an excuse to...see him?
I try to make him understand. ‘It’s vague, I know. But something happened. Ma never apologizes...’
‘Isn’t that just adults, though?’ Giulio scoffs. ‘My parents never say sorry. It’s the one thing they have in common.’
