Luciano’s restaurant—the ‘Hostaria del Cacciatore,’ its name painted in red on the front window just above the small figure of a hunter with a rifle and a hunter’s sack slung over his shoulder—sat just across from the main square, where Alberto de’ Giardini had once bared himself to the hollowed-out tomolo; though the tomolo had recently been replaced by a stone obelisk, a memorial to the townspeople killed in the second war. After the market my mother and I had been up and down a dozen crooked streets—first into one of the shops to buy me a shirt; then into a cold dim office where my mother had filled out a form and talked in a low voice to a man behind a counter; then, strangely, into a photographer’s studio, where a sleek-haired, spectacled man who reeked of perfume had taken our picture, my mother didn’t say why—but it was still only late morning by the time we arrived at the restaurant, and most of the tables were empty. A single couple was seated inside, visible through the frilly curtains and plastic vines and leaves that decorated the front window, and outside only a thin old man in a suit and fedora who peered up from a newspaper to give a long narrow-eyed look at my mother as we sat down at the table next to his.
A heavy-set boy of about fifteen, dressed in black pants and white shirt, came out to serve us.
‘Where’s your father?’ my mother said.
‘He’s gone out. He said I should take care of you if you came.’
He took my mother’s order and went inside, disappearing then through a door at the back of the restaurant. A moment later a large, rough-featured woman, heavy bosom straining against a black sweater, came bustling out of the same door wiping her hands on her apron. She stared hard towards our table for a moment before disappearing again.
‘Do you like it here?’ my mother said.
But despite the coins I’d collected in the market, the tinny fives and tens and the large one lira, despite the new shirt that lay wrapped in brown paper on the chair next to me, despite the photographs we’d had taken, a silent resentment had been building in me since my mother’s conversation with Luciano, and I would not let go of it now until it had some issue.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ my mother said. ‘Do you have a bug in your pants?’
She reached under the table and poked me lightly in the ribs, but I pulled away from her sulkily.
‘Beh, do what you want,’ she said.
We sat silent. A bottle of wine appeared, set out and poured expertly by Luciano’s son, then a bowl of tortellini and a plate of trippa in tomato sauce for my mother. We had begun to eat already when I felt the shadow of a large shape looming over us, and looked up to see the black-sweatered woman smiling down on us, her hands on her hips, a thin line of moustache overshadowing her smile. A dark wart stuck out prominently on one cheek, a few thin hairs spiralling up from it.
‘Buongiorno, signora! And this must be your little son! How handsome he is! Are you going to tell me your name?’
She had reached down to run her fingers under my chin.
‘His name is Vittorio,’ my mother said, curt. ‘He’s shy.’
‘Isn’t that sweet! And so many boys these days are little devils. Diavoli!’
My mother took another bite of her food.
‘And your friend?’ the woman said finally, her mouth remaining open around her last syllable.
My mother raised her eyebrows as if she had not understood.
‘Yes, of course, he’s gone out of town,’ the woman said, forcing a laugh. ‘A shame—do you like the way I’ve made up the tripe?’
‘I’ve had worse,’ my mother said.
‘Yes, Luciano bought it in Tornamonde, you can’t find good meat here in Rocca Secca anymore. But you should be careful how much you eat! A friend of mine ate tripe every day for a week, and she gave birth to triplets!’
My mother forced a smile. Pig tripe was what people in the region fed to grooms on their wedding nights, to help them have children.
‘And did they have little tails, the children?’ my mother said, still smiling.
The woman’s face darkened for the briefest instant before she let out a long falsetto laugh.
‘Oh, signora, always joking!’ She laughed again, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘Well, enjoy your meal, Luciano will be sorry he missed you. I’ll give you a good price on the wine.’
‘Eat your food,’ my mother said when the woman had gone, returning to her own meal with a vengeance. My appetite, though, had died, the wet texture of the pasta in my mouth beginning to make my stomach turn. But when I set down my fork my mother looked at me in irritation.
‘What’s the matter with you? Oh! Basta!’
‘It tastes like shit,’ I said.
I had got it out now, spit out my resentment like something that had stuck in my throat. But an instant later my face was burning: my mother had slapped me, hard, against the cheek. A lump rose in my throat but I swallowed it, my lips sealed tight. There were a few people sitting at the tables around us now, but only the old thin man glanced over at us, peering up above the top of his newspaper for an instant before returning again to his reading; though almost at once I looked up through the restaurant window to see if the black-sweatered woman had been watching us. For some reason it was the thought of her having seen my mother’s anger that made me burn more than anything now, the thought of the large false smile she would light for us then if she returned, like someone who had won an argument; and when I could not make her out anywhere I felt a great relief, as if my mother’s slap had not been a punishment at all but part of some sin or crime we’d committed together, and which had gone undetected.
In silence I picked up my fork and began to eat my tortellini, my eyes trained now on the slowly emerging bottom of the bowl. When we had finished eating, Luciano’s son came around to collect our dishes.
‘How much is it,’ my mother said tonelessly.
‘Never mind that,’ my mother said. ‘Just give me the regular price.’