I’m finally revisiting the characters from The River City Chronicles nine years after their original timeline. I’ll be running the series weekly here on my blog, and then will release it in book form at the end of the run. Hope you enjoy catching up with all your faves and all their new secrets!
Today, Carmelina finally finds out what secrets her Uncle Angelo has to tell…
< Read Chapter 48
Join my email list to get my weekly newsletter
with notifications of new chapters.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Strangolagalli
Chapter Forty-Nine
Strangolagalli
Carmelina got out of the car and stretched her arms and legs, thrilled to be done with the twisty windy climb up through the foothills of the Apennines. It was a beautiful day, white clouds scudding through the blue sky overhead, and the rolling hills of the Frosinone region, just southeast of Rome, bursting in verdant green—a postcard-perfect scene of an Italian countryside.
It had been a long drive, first winding their way around the outskirts of southern Rome in the beltway connector, and then heading down the A1 highway toward Napoli. They got off the freeway in a small town called Ceprano. And typical and unsurprising Italian fashion, the road that took them the remaining fifteen kilometers changed names an astonishing seven times.
The town of Strangolagalli itself was perched on a hill overlooking the lovely region. It was a little shabby chic itself, full of semi-historic buildings they probably look better from above, with a welcoming mural with an eagle’s head and an aqueduct and swirls of distorted people whose depiction would have made Picasso proud. Nevertheless, it had that specific Italian charm, and apparently some very English charm, at least to go by the name of some of the local establishments. She supposed an English word—to the Italians—carried a certain je ne sais quoi, just like Italian words did for Americans, but still, seeing the signs for Eden Garden di De Vellis Luana and Hair Style Donatella was a little jarring.
It was a warm late spring day. Out here in the countryside, things were much quieter than in Ostia Antica. It had been a wild evening after the wedding, the night before. There had been bonfires and dancing on the beach, a never-ending flow of prosecco, and lots of spoken Italian, which had tested her language skills to the limit. But it also been immensely enjoyable.
In the morning, they’d gotten up and borrowed Elena and Isabella’s car—the couple were leaving later in the day for their honeymoon in Morocco.
Daniele and Carmelina got on the road early, but there had still been a lot of traffic around the beltway in Rome, even though it was a Sunday. Who knew the arcane rules of Italian traffic?
But none of that mattered now. I’m here. She was going to meet her mysterious uncle ,and see what strange secret he had to tell her. Am I adopted? Was my mother part of the mafia? Was there a murder involved?
She shook her head and chuckled under her breath. Stop that. You’ve been reading too much Teresa Papavero.
Chiara Moscardelli was an amazing Italian author. Carmelina had stumbled upon her books a few years earlier, while visiting a small Italian bookstore called Libreria Pino in San Francisco. She could readily relate to her protagonist, a middle-aged woman searching for love, whom everybody underestimated. Of course, the fact that she was kind of crazy didn’t hurt either… “So this is the place.”
Daniele looked around and nodded. “Looks like it. How do you feel?”
She grimaced. “Excited. A little nervous. Have you ever been here before?” It wasn’t as charming as some of the Italian villages she had been in. It was a little too modern and a little too old at the same time. But still it had that Italian charm.
He closed the door and locked the car—it was an old Peugeot, old enough that it still had a key lock. “No, this is the first time. I grew up in Rome, but we didn’t get south very much. And this is quite a ways up into the hills.”
“So I’d noticed.” Her stomach had gotten a little unsettled, with all those twists and turns coming up the hills. I could use a good, stiff drink.
“Where is this place your uncle wants to meet us at?” Daniele looked up and down the short street.
She pulled out her phone and looked up the text. “It’s called Civico 23 Bar Gelateria.”
“Is that it, across the street?”
It was a modest beige storefront, with a white roll-down vinyl shade and a newish-looking external Panasonic air conditioning unit sticking out of the wall above. A couple pots with scraggly plants tried to project a little curb appeal, and someone had painted jaunty cartoons of a gelato cone on one side and a steaming cup of coffee on the other.
“That’s the one! I wonder if he is there already?” They’d passed a group of old men seated in chairs on a little tongue of sidewalk across the street on their way into town, but otherwise the place was very quiet.
She checked the time on her watch. They were half an hour early, even after all the traffic. “Let’s go grab a little something to drink.”
“It was probably better if she stuck to something non-alcoholic, given the state of her stomach. She wanted all her wits about her when she spoke with Uncle Angelo.
They entered the Bar. It was part gelateria, part café, with a long black countertop along one side and a trio of refrigerator cases along the back. It had exactly one table.
Like the town itself it was a strange mixture of old and new, history dressed up with a fresh coat of paint and recessed lighting.
“Auguri.” The server was a kid, all of sixteen years old. He had short-cropped hair, earrings in both ears, and an AS Roma soccer tattoo on one arm. Other than that, he could’ve fit in perfectly in any Starbucks in the United States. It made her wonder what Gio was uo to, not that he was a teenager anymore.
The boy grinned. “Come posso aiutarti?”
Another sign of the new Italy. Addressing your elders in informal language, instead of the using the formal tense. Not that she really minded.
“Vorrei un bicchieri di soda.” Something carbonated was just what she needed.
“Coca Cola va bene?”
“Certo. Con ghiacchio” Very few Italians took their soda with ice. Something to do with believing that it was bad for your constitution, or some such nonsense.
The kid didn’t say anything, though, just a slight quirk of his lips. He turned to Daniele. “E tu?”
“Dammi pure un caffee corretto.” With alcohol.
At her raised eyebrow, he grinned. “I’m not the one who has to stay sober. Besides there’s very little actual alcohol in it.”
The barista nodded. “Un momento, per favore.”
Carmelina chose the seat nearest the window, turning her chair sideways to be able to look out on the town and the hills outside.
Dante joined her, sitting across the table from her and leaving the middle chair for their host. “Are you nervous?” He put a hand on hers.
There were butterflies in her stomach, but she wasn’t about to admit it. “Not at all. It’s probably nothing. But I’m enjoying being out in the Italian countryside.” Worst case, she would end up having spent a day seeing someplace she likely never would’ve visited otherwise, a place that was near and dear to her heart because of the mystery books she’d read about it.
There were a few more people about now, going back-and-forth in front of the café. A little down the street she could see the group of old men chatting about their day. She wondered if people here still took a passagiatta in the afternoon, a walk around town just to see and be seen.
A moment later, their drinks arrived. The barista set them down on the table and flashed her a dazzling smile. “Dimmi se hai bisogna di qualcos’altra.”
“We will. Lo faremo.”
She hadn’t taken but two sips of her drink before the door burst open, yielding an Italian man who was mostly balding, with a few wisps of dark gray hair combed over the top of his head and a pair of wild uncombed eyebrows to match. His teeth were crooked, but he had an engaging smile, nevertheless.
“You must be Carmelina,” he said in Italian, with an accent thick enough to catch flies. He threw his arms around her and hugged her roughly, causing half the air in her lungs to erupt out of her mouth in a surprised gasp.
“A pleasure, I’m sure…” she managed between gulps of air.
He let go of her and held her out at arm’s length. “You are the spitting image of your mother.”
Her cheeks flushed. A huge compliment. “Thank you!” She gently wriggled out of his grasp. “And this is my partner, Daniele.” The word for partner in Italian, fidanzato, was a little awkward, as it meant both fiancé and seriousboyfriend, and she’d spent the last three years awkwardly avoiding the whole marriage question with Daniele.
He rose and shook the man’s hand. “Piacere, Signor Farelli.”
He waved away the formality. “Call me Angelo, please. Let’s sit. Are you hungry?”
Her stomach was still in knots from the twisty ride up through the hills. “Not really. I’m—”
“Fantastic. Angelo, bring us a stesa con cioccolato, and bring me una birra.”
Daniele blinked twice. “His name is Angelo too?”
“It is a very common name in Strangolagalli. We have seventeen Angelos in town. None of us are related. Oh, except Angelo Morolo and Angelo Monterosi. They are married now. Nice boys.”
“Ah.” Nice to know he was comfortable with the gays. That said a lot about him.
He took a seat next to Carmelina, setting down an old duffel bag on the floor. “You know the stesa, si?”
Carmelina exchanged a glance with Daniele. “No. I don’t think I do.”
He grinned. “Ah, let me tell you. The stesa is a special kind of pizza, made only here in Strangolagalli. Well, only made the right way here. You make a flour and water dough with a little salt, then boil it until it’s cooked, then stuff it with meat or cheese or something sweet. There’s even a festa for it in October!”
Carmelina wasn’t sure if that sounded delicious… or disgusting. It was a bit too close to the fried everything one found at the California State Fair. Fried jalapenos. Fried twinkies. Fried soda… “That sounds… unique.”
“You try it, see if you like it, no?” He held out his hands and shrugged his shoulders.
She laughed. “Of course.” He seemed like a very nice man, if a bit overenthusiastic. And she still didn’t know why he had asked her here. Surely not just to eat a local pizza? “Mia mamma never mentioned having a brother.”
He stared at her for so long that she wondered if he was offended, but then he smiled and nodded vigorously. “Oh, no, sorry, that makes sense. Your mother was not my sister. She was my cousin. So I am like an uncle to you, but not exactly.”
Carmelina worked it out in her head. Grandmother’s sister’s son… “Ah. You are my first cousin.”
“Not the first one. I had another, but he died young—”
“No, that’s what they call—never mind.” She took a deep breath and pushed ahead. Her Italian had vastly improved over the last few years, but keeping up with a native Italian was proving to be a challenge. “So why did you want me to come here?”
“Ah, now we come to the reason. But first, the stesa.”
Young Angelo appeared carrying a large white tray, decorated with hand-painted olives and branches, and set it down on the table before them. It was a misshapen, vaguely round flatbread, golden-brown at the edges, and smothered in chocolate. The barista had cut it into pieces like a traditional pizza.
She stared at it doubtfully.
“Give it a try.” Her uncle—cousin?—picked up a piece for himself. “Delicioso. Bravo Angelo!”
With a frown, she took a piece for herself. It was warm, and the blended aromas of pizza crust and chocolate worked their magic on her senses. She took a hesitant bite. “Oh mio dio!” It was like the best chocolate croissant she had ever had. “Daniele, you have to try this.”
Daniele raised an eyebrow, but then took a piece of his own. “Santo cielo!”
Uncle Angelo flashed them a grin with his crooked teeth. “Now, you have passed the test.” He finished his slice, then leaned over to open the duffel bag and fished out something heavy. Scooting the platter aside, he set it down reverently in the table and then slid it over to Carmelina.
“Oh my God. Is that Marisa?” It was a book, with an old sepia-tone photo taped to its cover. In it was a tall, handsome man in a military uniform, and next to him, a short woman with long black hair less than half his height. Despite her diminutive stature, she had a fierceness about her that reminded Carmelina of a tiger.
The resemblance to Teresa Papavero’s governess-Marisa-in Chiara Moscardelli’s books was uncanny.
“No, that’s my nonna. Your bisnonna. Great grandmother. This book has all of her recipes.”
“Accedenti! May I?” She felt a thrill run down her spine.
Angelo nodded, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. He held out his hand, palm up, in permission. “Please do.”
She opened it carefully. The inside said Dalla cucina di Maria Angelica Carenna. From Maria Angelica Carenna’s kitchen. Inside, it was filled with tens… no, hundreds of handwritten recipes.
Breathless, she leafed through it. There were chicken dishes, seafood dishes, dishes with beef and pork and even rabbit. Homemade pastas, sauces… and then she came to the desserts.
Her heart beat faster. Is it here?
When she was a child, her nonna had spoken of a recipe of her mother’s, by then lost to time: una crostata di ricotta e visciole. A kind of cheese and sour cherry pie.
She eased through the old pages, not wanting to ruin the precious book. And there it was.
She picked it up and hugged it to her chest, and closed her eyes. “What a treasure.”
When she opened them, Angelo was beaming. “I am very happy to hear that you think so. Your bisnonna was a celebrated cook. People came from far and wide to sample her food.”
Carmelina nodded, misty-eyed. “My grandmother said she had died in the war. She never mentioned your mother…”
“Angelica.” He smiled again, but this time it was weaker and tinged with sadness. “They had a great fight, your mother and mine. Over my father, I think. Your grandmother went to America and never looked back.”
Carmelina nodded, setting the book back on the table. They had lost one another, just like she had lost her own little girl. She put a hand on his shoulder. “So why show this to me? Why ask me to come halfway around the world to see it?”
Daniele nodded. “Surely you could have sent a photo. It would have been easier.”
Uncle Angelo shook his head. “I have no children. And I have cancer. The doctors—they have given me a year.”
“Oh Angelo. I’m so sorry.” She leaned forward to give him a hug. She’d just met some family she’d never known she had, and now she was going to lose him.
“Thank you. I have lived a good life. I am content.” He put his hand on the cookbook. “I looked for my Aunt Elena on the web. Young Angelo helped.”
The barista waved. “Non era niente.”
“And then I found you. Imagine my surprise when I saw that you were a chef.”
Carmelina blushed “Nothing so grand as that. I make sweets and sell them in a little flower shop with… with Daniele.”
Daniele’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.
This time it was Angelo’s eyes that were misty. “Nonna Maria worked in a flower shop too.”
“Imagine that.” She glanced down at the book again. “Thank you for sharing this with me. Maybe I can take photos of a couple of the recipes, if you don’t mind?”
“Mind? No, you don’t understand. I want you to have it.” He poked her in the chest. “She would want you to have it. You are her successor.” He pushed it gently back toward her.
She stared at him, only slowly becoming aware that her mouth was agape. “She… me… it?”
Daniele laughed. “Yes, I think that about sums it up.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “She, you, it. Say ‘thank you,’ Carmelina.”
“Thank you, Carmelina.” She blinked and shook her head. “I mean, thank you, Angelo. It’s… that’s wonderful.” The poor man, staring down his own mortality. And to give her such a precious gift at the same time…
“I suppose you’ll be going now. It’s a long trip back to Ostia.” His shoulders sagged.
Carmelina glanced over at Daniele, who nodded. “We don’t have to leave just yet.”
His face lit up again. “Perfetto. Then come with me. I will show you the town. You can leave the book here. We will come back for it.” He turned toward the bar. “Angelo, watch the book!”
“Certo, Angelo!” The boy gave them all a thumbs-up and went back to wiping down the bar.
Off they went together, to explore the strange, beautiful little Italian village that had come alive in the books she had read and had inspired so many of her dreams.
< Read Chapter 48
Like what you read? if you haven’t tried it yet, check out book one, The River City Chronicles, here.