Page 46 of Livia in Rome
‘I know how to help the bar. And I only need one day to do it.’
Which is good. Because one day is all we have.
The church bells in Rome chime all through the night – on the hour, every hour. I know this because I lie awake, planning and plotting, sending messages, and begging for favours well into the early hours.
But the mistakes I make in the bar the next morning – dropping things and mixing up orders – aren’t down to tiredness, or to me being the foreigner who doesn’t belong here. No, these come from the nervous energy coursing through me, from the sheer enormity of what we have to do – and how much we stand to lose if we fail.
Even then, my extra sense, the one that’s only for Giulio, is on high alert and trained on the door, waiting and hoping for him to show up. But he hasn’t. Not yet.
‘I barely made it on to the last Metro,’ Ma wheezes as she dumps four bulging IKEA bags on to the counter. ‘It was packed – everyone rushing to get on before the strike started.’
Towers of stackable paper cups spill over the edges, and Ma slumps with them, red-faced from exertion.
‘Hey!’ I poke her arm. ‘No time to rest. I’ve sent you a screenshot of Ren and Enrico’s shopping lists. They’re upstairs now. They even know where to find that special ingredient I asked for.’
Ma barely lifts her head. ‘They’re here already?’
I raise an eyebrow. ‘Can’t you smell?’
The aroma of Ren’s fusion snacks and Enrico’s Roman classics are already wafting down from Nina’s kitchen. I swear it’s drawing people into the bar – that, and the sense that something’s happening here today.
It’s barely midday, but we’ve been running around for hours already – since I bounced on to Ma’s mattress at 5 a.m. to announce The Plan.
It’s busier than usual for a Saturday, too – mostly because we’ve offered the neighbours free coffees for any folding tables, camping stoves and fairy lights they might have stashed in their basements.
I’m slicing a lemon, gasping as the juice stings the paper cuts I’ve collected from folding flyers all morning, when Signora Pedretti bustles in. ‘Have you seen Giulio?’ She leans over the counter, as if we’re hiding him. ‘I thought he’d be here by now.’
‘There’s a strike,’ Ma reminds her, as if the echoingchaos of car horns and angry shouts weren’t enough. ‘Nothing’s moving. He’s probably caught up in it.’
I shake my head. ‘That’s not it. He told me he had stuff to do today. And the strike wouldn’t bother him. He’s got his Vespa.’ And he’s probably on it with Flaminia now – the image of them together stings more than a thousand lemony paper cuts.
Signora Pedretti seems about to say something, then she folds in her lips as if she’s thought better of it.
My love flu symptoms flare up with a vengeance, aching deep into my bones. She probably knows Giulio’s with Flaminia, but my feelings must be so obvious, she can’t bring herself to tell me.
Left a bit . . . right a bit . . . higher . . . lower . . . there!’
Our bedsheet banner is perfectly centred above the bar door and I give Ren and Sofia a big thumbs up. This is it. It’s official. Hours of frantic phone calls, speedy shopping trips, and begging at neighbouring doors and businesses, and our fundraiser – BREW COMMUNITY – is officially underway.
The banner, with its marker pen bubble writing, is as makeshift and scrappy as the rest of our efforts, but if I step back and scrunch my eyes a bit, the last-minute lively event that now stretches from the bar all the way to the fountain at the bottom of the street is not a million miles away from the Piazza Navona–Edinburgh Fringe Festival mash-up idea that kept me awake all night.
There are stalls and food and even a juggler in the shape of Kenzi’s older brother, Mehdi – minus the fire, hula-hoop, unicycle and traffic cone. But still, he’sgood. The Swedish exchange students are handing out flyers, but instead of advertising comedy and theatre events like the Edinburgh festival, these ones show a simple line drawing of Pasquino surrounded by handwritten notes that read:Save Nina’s Bar, Support Your Community, Help the Little Peopleand, most importantly,FREE COFFEE, written in at least six different languages. We’re trying to capture the essence of what Pasquino stands for, giving a voice to this tiny corner of the city.
We even have a giant cardboard cut-out of the talking statue surrounded by stacks of colourful Post-its for people to scribble down their ideas for the bar – what they want from their community, what they’d like to see. And Sofia is like a modern-day version of Pasquino, sharing our story on the crowdfunding page she’s set up, amplifying our voices online, too.
‘You’re incredible, you know that?’ I peer over her shoulder, earning myself a mouthful of yellow hair, and watch her fingers fly over the screen as she uploads photos from her phone.
She shrugs, bumping my chin. ‘It’s not so different from the retro flash mob I organized for my mum’s birthday. And who doesn’t love an underdog story?’ Her hand glides through the air like she’s showing me a news headline. ‘Fragile old lady evicted by powerfulbanker while stuck in hospital bed.’ She shoots me a grin. ‘Clássico!’
Ma catches the tail end of our conversation and we share a grimace. Nina would be absolutely furious to hear herself described as a ‘fragile old lady’. And, to be fair, none of the elderly regulars who’ve shown up for us today fit that description either – this entire event, aside from Ma, has been pulled together by teenagers and pensioners.
But despite the joy and energy that fills the street, my mind keeps wandering back to one person. Giulio.
I can’t stop thinking about him – where he is, what he’s doing, why he’s not here with us, and why-oh-why couldn’t it have been a sturdy deckchair instead of a wobbly hammock?
Ma hands me an empty wine cooler and nudges me towards the stalls. ‘Can you go and collect some of the donations?’
I weave through our pop-up market. Paper tablecloths cover stacked crates, turning them into impromptu stands. There’s one selling the friendship bracelets we’ve been stringing together in every spare minute, and another featuring Pay-What-You-Can portraits run by an artsy neighbour – with a cheeky sample drawing of a bank manager extorting moneyfrom someone who looks remarkably like Nina in a hospital bed. The raffle table is overflowing with gifts from neighbouring businesses – fancy wines, chocolates and handmade goods all jammed together.
