Just South of Rome (4 page)

Umberto appeared from the kitchen. He strutted about, grinning and bowing and acknowledging their friendly heckling as if it were a standing ovation. ‘Is good, eh? For my American
signoras
I make my special.
Molto benne, si
?’

I was slowly starting to burn inside. Marinara? Ravioli? Umberto’s special dishes? It all made sense to me now. The chef wasn’t ‘sick’ at all. The chef had obviously gone home after he’d prepared the mass fodder for the Americans. One stray Aussie in the place didn’t warrant a la carte service. I’d been dumped with the set menu and I was feeling angry. Very angry.

Despite their good-natured grumbling, the women devoured their pasta with a passion. Food was obviously serious business to them and the talk died down until the last bread roll was wiped over the last empty bowl. It started up again as the plates were collected and the next course set before them.

‘Ravioli! Wow! What a surprise!’ Mary-Jane exclaimed. ‘More bread rolls, thank you, dear.’ And relative silence once more prevailed as they attacked the second course.

Sarina collected my plate. Well, of course Umberto would send Sarina, I thought. He wouldn’t have the nerve to come near me himself. She gave me a quick, nervous smile before scuttling off – the poor girl hadn’t stopped scuttling all night. She was desperately overworked.

‘You like the ravioli, eh? Is good,
si
? This even better. Is my masterpiece!
Si!
Umberto’s masterpiece!’

I couldn’t believe the audacity of the man and I sat, silent, dumbfounded, as Umberto placed the bowl before me. ‘My very special bolognaise, for my friend Jane.’ He grinned triumphantly, kissed his fingers – ‘You like, is very, very good’ – and left.

I stared down at the spaghetti bolognaise. It looked suspiciously like the spag bol I made at home – stick a jar of Paul Newman’s sauce into a half kilo of mince – and it tasted suspiciously the same too.

I ate a few mouthfuls and toyed with my food, still fuming, while the Americans caught up.

‘Spaghetti bowl-of-nails, my, my, my.’ The others laughed loudly, it was obviously Mary-Jane’s running gag.

‘Is the best bolognaise you ever taste,
si
?’ Umberto was prancing about amongst the tables. ‘Is my very special bolognaise for my American
signoras.
’

‘Which jar’d you get the sauce from Umberto?’ a beefy brunette called from the far table, and the others roared with laughter. Yells of ‘Prego’ and ‘Paul Newman’ resounded around the room.

‘
Signoras, signoras,
please.’ Umberto positioned himself on the dance floor, his hands in the air, desperately calling for their attention. ‘Is my special recipe that I give the chef.’ A few disinterested cries of ‘sure, sure’ went around the room, but Umberto continued. He looked genuinely hurt and his voice quivered with emotion. ‘Is a secret family recipe,’ he said with ardently, but the women weren’t paying him attention anymore as they piled salad onto their plates.

I couldn’t help myself, I actually felt sorry for him. ‘Is a secret family recipe, I swear to you.’ Umberto looked about to cry. ‘Handed down from my mother’s mother to –’

‘Give us Charlie, Umberto!’ It was the beefy brunette again and the others backed her up – ‘Yeah.’ ‘Charlie Chaplin.’ ‘Come on, Umberto, give us Charlie.’

I watched, appalled. The man was being humiliated. How could these apparently humorous, good-natured women be so cruel?

But, even as I watched, Umberto’s face cracked into his inane grin. He leapt to the sound system beside the dance floor, flicked a switch and grabbed the bowler hat and cane that were sitting on top of the adjacent speaker.

‘Smile, though your heart is aching,

Smile, even though it’s breaking …’

A scratchy old recording of the famous Chaplin song emanated from the two speakers, and Umberto went into his act. He shuffled, Chaplinesque, between the tables, doffing his hat right and left, smiling, winking, over-using his eyebrows and twitching his moustache. He kissed hands here and there and leered at one and all. He leaned on his cane and fell over in slow motion. He mimed something in his ear, put his head to the side and butting his temple with the pommel of his hand took out the imaginary offending object and ate it. Then finally he shuffled back to the centre of the dance floor, pretending to trip and glaring back at the invisible object that had tripped him, took off his hat, gave a final facial contortion and bowed to thunderous applause. It was obviously his nightly performance and the women loved it.

This, I thought, is the most bizarre evening I have ever spent in my life.

‘He is good, Umberto,
si
?’ It was Rosella. She fluttered into the seat beside me, the feathers of her bright silk dress taking a moment or two to settle. Without a word, Natale sat beside her. There was a third person with them. ‘This Stefano,’ Rosella said, ‘he is tour guide for the Americans.’

Stefano had remained standing. ‘Do you mind if we join you?’ he asked.

‘No, not at all,’ I heard myself say, ‘would you like a glass of wine?’ Not that there was much left – dear God, I hoped I wasn’t slurring my words.

‘No thank you.’ As he sat he held up the beer he was holding and I noticed that Natale, too, had brought his drink in from the bar. Rosella had another green concoction in her hand.

‘I’m Jane,’ I said.

‘Yes,’ he shook my hand, ‘I know, the famous actress from Australia.’

‘I’m not at all famous, I’m afraid.’ I smiled apologetically. ‘Just a working actress, that’s all.’ Had I really said ‘actress’? Well, it didn’t seem important anyway, the night had suddenly picked up. Here was a normal person. One who was sane, civilised and spoke perfect English.

I suddenly wished that I’d dressed for dinner instead of throwing on a fresh shirt. Stefano was more than normal – sane and civilised. Stefano was devastatingly attractive.

‘Umberto is good actor,
si
?’ Rosella was clapping her hands with glee as Umberto took the last of his bows, Chaplin-style, the strains of ‘Smile’ crackling to a finale, leaving only the hiss of the speakers.

What could one say? ‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘very amusing,’ and I shook my head to Sarina, who was offering me a dessert dish of stewed pears as she collected my barely touched bowl of spaghetti bolognaise.

‘How long are you here in Genzano?’ Stefano smiled and made polite conversation while Rosella and Natale chatted in Italian.

‘I leave for Rome the day after tomorrow.’ The man’s attention was wholly centred upon me, as if every word I uttered was of the utmost interest, and I was a little disconcerted. It was his eyes that made him so extremely attractive, I realised. They crinkled humorously at the corners, as if sharing a very special joke with the person upon whom they were focussed. And that was me.

‘Your English is excellent.’ I realised I sounded brittle and rather patronising, but I meant to. I didn’t like feeling disconcerted and told myself that he knew how attractive he was, that his interest was an act and that he was a suave Italian womaniser flirting with a tourist.

‘My mother is English.’ He didn’t appear in the least offended. ‘I have spent a lot of time in London over the years. What is Sydney like? Is the harbour as beautiful as they say?’

‘Yes.’ Damn it, I wasn’t falling for it. ‘And you’re the tour guide for the Americans?’ I’d keep the conversation focussed on him, I decided. Besides I was dying to know what the American women were doing in Genzano di Roma. ‘What sort of tour is it?’

‘It is a religious pilgrimage.’

‘Oh.’ I was surprised, I don’t know why – it certainly explained Father Ralph. But, as I glanced at the American women devouring their stewed pears, it was somehow difficult to associate pious devotion with such healthy appetites and robust energy.

‘Yes, there are many sacred sites in this area,’ he continued. ‘We spend four days here and then we travel north to Assisi.’ He looked at the Americans. ‘They’re nice women, mostly from New Jersey. All except Mary-Jane, that is – she is from Arkansas.’

As if hearing her name, Mary-Jane had heaved herself out of her chair and was heading for our table.

‘Dessert’s over, sing-along time,’ she announced as she arrived. ‘Hallo there dear.’ She beamed at me. ‘I’m Mary-Jane.’

‘Hallo.’ I shook the hand she extended to me. ‘Jane Prescott.’

‘Jane, my, my, we have something in common. That’s nice.’ It was a beefy handshake. ‘Would you like to join us, dear? Father Ralph is going to lead the sing-along.’

Stefano, who’d risen from his chair, noted my hesitation and rescued me. ‘Perhaps another time if you don’t mind, Mary-Jane.’

‘You always say that, Stefano, you always say that,’ she grumbled pleasantly.

‘Jane is going to tell me all about Sydney.’ He sat again.

‘Sydney, Australia?’ Mary-Jane looked impressed. I nodded. ‘My, my, such a long way. Come along, Rosella, we need our little sparrow.’

But Rosella had been on her feet the moment she’d heard the word ‘sing-along’. She bent and whispered excitedly in my ear, ‘I am singer. Music is my life.’ I watched as she flitted off after Mary-Jane, the faithful Natale at her side.

‘Thanks,’ I said gratefully when they’d gone. ‘Are you sure you don’t want a glass of wine? I really can’t finish the bottle.’ I was beginning to feel a little ashamed of my rudeness. Stefano might be a womaniser, but he was an extremely polite one.

‘If you insist. Thank you.’ He poured himself a modest half-glass.

‘You didn’t eat with the Americans,’ I commented. ‘You’re not staying at the hotel?’

‘No, I am a local. When I work in this area I stay with my parents, it saves money. Gospel Tours are not the biggest of payers.’ The eyes crinkled. ‘Besides, the food here is terrible.’

Again, as if by cue, Umberto bounded up to the table. ‘You like my food, is good,
si
? The wine, is good,
si
?’

I was at a loss for words. Outrage burned, but I simply didn’t know what to say in the face of his audacity. Stefano winked at me, a devastating wink, which confused me even further.

But Umberto didn’t wait for a reply. ‘You do not join the sing-along,’ he urged. ‘Come. You must. You must.’

‘No thanks, Umberto.’ Again, Stefano took over. ‘We’re going to take our drinks into the bar.’ He stood and picked up the bottle of wine.

‘Ah, the young, the young.’ Umberto clasped his hands and looked dotingly at us. I rose, feeling myself flush with embarrassment. I wanted to hit the man.

As if announcing our departure, forty voices burst into song. I’d expected hymns but, led by Father Ralph’s impressive baritone, the women were all singing
‘Funiculi Funicula’
. They knew every word.

‘Jammo, jammo, ncoppa jammo ja!

Jammo, jammo, ncoppa jammo ja!

Funiculi funicula funiculi funicula,

ncoppa jammo ja, funiculi funicula.’

The Italian lyrics, with a strong American twang, resounded boisterously about the dining room.

‘He’s a rogue,’ I said as we entered the bar, more to cover my embarrassment at Umberto’s parting remark than anything, although I was still fuming about the entire evening.

‘Who?’

‘Umberto. He’s a rogue.’

‘Yes, he probably is.’ We sat and Stefano poured the remains of the wine into our two glasses. ‘But he’s a harmless one.’

‘Like hell,’ I protested, ‘he’s a conman.’

Having drunk nearly the entire bottle, I was well and truly feeling the effects of the wine by now, and for the next ten minutes I loudly voiced my outrage about the ‘sick chef’ and the ‘special dishes’. So carried away was I that I forgot I was sitting with a drop-dead gorgeous thirty-something man who looked like an Italian movie star and had Ryan Gosling eyes. I even found myself leaping into Umberto impersonations.

‘“I create Umberto special for my very good friend Jane”.’ I closed my eyes in ecstasy, kissed the air with my fingers, wiggled my eyebrows and generally gave it the full performance. ‘“When you go back to your country, you say to everyone is the best meal you eat in the whole of Italy”.’

Stefano was laughing loudly, which only encouraged me all the more. ‘“Never will you taste such food! Ah,
bella, bella, signorina
Jane …’” I noisily kissed my arm from hand to elbow.

Stefano applauded when I’d finished. ‘You are obviously an actress,’ he said.

‘He’s an appalling man,’ I insisted, trying to maintain my outrage, although by now I’d relaxed and so enjoyed my own performance that my anger was spent. Stefano merely smiled and shrugged.

‘He’s a liar and a conman, surely you agree?’ I demanded. I get a bit belligerent with a few drinks in me, or so Roland tells me, and I wanted Stefano to acknowledge I was right. ‘You said yourself, the food is terrible, and what about this wine? Is this honestly a ‘98 Burgundy?’

He shrugged again. ‘I am no connoisseur …’

I knew he agreed with me but his refusal to join in my assassination of Umberto’s character only brought out my fighting spirit.

‘Well, I’m not going to let him get away with it,’ I said. ‘He has a menu and tomorrow I’m going to order a la carte, and I’m going to demand to see the wine list and –’

‘There is no wine list.’

Stefano laughed as I stared back at him, my tirade halted midstream. ‘Umberto has a cellar full of wine left him by his aunt. He sells bottles for whatever he thinks a guest might pay. Some are good and some are bad, but Umberto would not know – he drinks nothing but coffee.’

He took a sip of his wine. ‘You are right, this is terrible,’ but he drained the glass nevertheless. ‘It works both ways, however. Sometimes you will get a real bargain. Sometimes Umberto will sell a truly magnificent wine for very little.’

‘It wouldn’t be out of the goodness of his heart,’ I grumbled, ‘that’s for sure.’

‘Oh no, it is out of ignorance, I agree. But then that means he is not a true conman, surely.’

A rousing rendition of
‘O Sole Mio’
emanated from the dining room and, above the voices of Father Ralph and the women, I could hear Umberto giving it all it was worth.

‘If he was a good conman,’ Stefano insisted, finally forced into debate, ‘the Hotel Visconti would attract more than the odd cheap package tour. But Umberto knows nothing of business. He simply likes to play the host. Annita keeps the villa functioning on a basic level and Umberto pretends that he is running a five-star hotel.’

‘Exactly. He pretends. That makes him a conman.’

‘All right,’ Stefano said, acceding that ‘pretend’ was the wrong word. ‘He
believes
it. He believes that his Hotel Visconti is a grand hotel and that his food is special and his wine is special and that he is host
extraordinaire
.’

‘Well, he’s certainly that,’ I muttered.

I was intrigued. Had I misjudged Stefano? Was he one of those ‘good’ people who refused to think ill of anyone? No, he was too suave, too good-looking to be ‘nice’. Perhaps, like Rosella and Natale, he had simply fallen under Umberto’s spell. Surely not, he was far too intelligent. Perhaps, and this was the most likely scenario, I decided, Stefano was a conman himself, a conman who recognised another conman.

‘I have an excellent idea,’ he said, changing the subject. ‘Will you join me for dinner tomorrow night?’

‘Oh.’ I was jolted back to reality by the Ryan Gosling eyes.

‘At my parents’ place.’

‘Oh,’ I said again. (His parents?)

‘No, no,’ he laughed, my surprise at the suggestion was readable, ‘not their home. They have a little restaurant in Castel Gandalfo.’ He was waiting for me to say something but I didn’t. ‘The food is good,’ he added.

Still I was silent, my mind rapidly adding up the data. His mother is English, I thought. She’s married to an Italian. They have a restaurant in Castel Gandalfo. Oh my God …

‘The food really is very good,’ he promised again, ‘and there are lovely views of –’

‘The lake.’

‘What?’

‘The lake. You said there were lovely views.’

‘Yes. Of the lake. That’s correct.’

I was right. I had to be. Stefano was Wendy and Bruno’s son. ‘Um … that would be lovely, Stefano, but …’

I was curiously deflated. Stefano’s mystery was diminishing before my very eyes. His relationship with Wendy made him somehow ‘family’. Good God, if I went to the restaurant, not only would Bruno think I was freeloading again, we’d all end up talking about Roland and the good old London days, I could just see it. And much as I loved Roland …

‘No thank you,’ I said firmly. ‘I intend to eat at the Hotel Visconti.’ I was stubborn in order to hide my disappointment. ‘I’m determined to put Umberto to the test. I shall order a la carte, a huge steak, and I shall choose my own wine, which he will open at the table.’

Stefano looked at me for a moment and shook his head, either in admiration or exasperation, I wasn’t sure which. ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘may I join you?’

What could I say? Disappointment flew out the window. ‘Yes, I’d like that.’

A few minutes later, the Americans rounded off with ‘
Quanto e Bella
’ and Umberto raced into the bar.

‘Come, come,’ he said, grabbing my arm, ‘the Americans go to bed. You listen to Rosella. She sing.’

I was tired with travel, heady with wine and knew I should go to bed, but Stefano was following us into the dining room, so I decided to stay for a further half hour of his company.

As the last of the Americans trudged up the stairs, however (I noticed none of them use the lift), and as Umberto settled me back at my old table, Stefano made his apologies.

‘I must talk to Father Ralph about the morning’s itinerary, please excuse me. I shall see you tomorrow, Jane. Seven o’clock, in the bar?’ There was a wicked twinkle in his eyes – he knew he’d left me stranded.

‘Yes, fine.’ I glared back. ‘Seven o’clock’s fine.’

The indefatigable Sarina was scuttling in and out of the swinging doors, collecting the dishes that Annita was methodically and efficiently stacking. The night was clearly over and I longed to go to bed.

Rosella and Natale joined me at the table. ‘But I thought you were going to sing for us, Rosella,’ I said. The sooner we started, the sooner we could get it over with.

‘Yes, yes!’ Umberto exclaimed. He took a CD from his pocket and flourished it at me. ‘Here, she sing. You listen, you listen.’ He dashed over to the sound system.

‘They play this song on the radio,’ Rosella said, glowing with pride.

‘Umberto has friend in the radio.’ It was Natale. I was surprised to hear him speak at last. ‘He ask for his friend to play this song.’ Natale glowed with a pride that equalled Rosella’s. ‘He say he will make Rosella a star. Umberto is good to Rosella.’ The two of them nodded, held hands and smiled fondly at Umberto as he returned to the table.

The speakers started to hiss … Then came the sound of a third-rate band playing disco music … ‘Is good,
si
?’ Umberto pulled his chair up to the table. ‘I have friend with studio. He has band …’ Natale put his finger to his lips … Then, finally, there was Rosella, twittering faintly and prettily in the background:

‘
Ah, ah, ah, ah, stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive.

Ah, ah, ah, ah …’

It took me a while to discern the fact that she was singing in English. When she wasn’t being drowned out by the ghastly backing, her accent was so appalling that it sounded like a different language altogether.

Rosella herself was leaning on the table, hands clasped beneath her chin, eyes staring radiantly up at the ceiling, lips mouthing the words of a song that had been a hit nearly forty years ago. Natale and Umberto were both beaming at me and I was left with nowhere to look. I fixed my sights on the nearest speaker, painted on a smile and nodded along to the rhythm, although even that part was difficult to discern every now and then.

The song seemed to last forever. Just when I thought it had finished, off she’d go again: