Serial: Down the River – Chapter Fifty-Four

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, Gio and Dante meet the cousin they never knew they had…

< Read Chapter 53

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Chapter Fifty-Four
Sole

“Come on up! We’re on the third floor.” Aunt Stella’s voice was encouraging, even if the ascent itself was not.

Gio stared up at the narrow stairway. He wasn’t sure it was wide enough to fit even his own broad shoulders, let alone his backpack.

Stella and her daughter lived in the heart of Bologna, just off the Piazza Maggiore on a side street called Via de’ Fusari, which he was pretty sure meant “really narrow old Italian street.” It was almost as narrow as the stairwell before him.

“Never know until you try.” Dante shrugged and muscled his way past Gio and into the stairwell. His backpack just fit. He disappeared around the corner, whistling, and Gio decided to try his own luck.

Five sweaty, struggling minutes later, he reached the third floor, hauling his backpack behind him—it was the only way it would fit through the narrow space. There was no sign of Dante, but there was an open door at the end of the hall.

He made for the light, and was drawn inside by the most enchanting smell. His nose picked out notes of tomato, basil, and oregano, but there were also some other things there that he couldn’t recognize.

Stella’s voice found him. “Close the door behind you, and put your things in the guest bedroom. It’s just down the hall.”

Gio did as he was told, finding the indicated bedroom. Dante was already busy, putting away his toiletries in the bathroom.

“Well, it’s no Marriott.” Gio had long ago learned that things were different in Italy. Nothing was new like it was in America, but everything had a quiet dignity about it, a storied age that spoke to you about the many lives lived there before you, if you just knew how to listen. Still, sometimes he missed new.

Dante nodded. “Maybe not. But it’s nice. Look, there’s a window.”

Gio put his stuff down on the bed, and peered out through the warped glass. There was a view of the lane below, and the building right across the street, no more than ten feet away. “Yes, with a great view.”

If Dante caught his sarcasm, he didn’t give any indication. “I love being in the city. So many things going on all around you, all the time. Not like back home in Bertinoro, where the most interesting thing to do is pick cherries and everyone’s in bed by eight.”

Gio laughed. Boy has a point.

The room itself was nice enough, freshly painted in a bright, cheery Tuscan gold, with posters of some of the great masters—da Vinci, Caravaggio, and Michelangelo—pinned to the wall. The bed was old, but the brass headboard had been recently polished, and the duvet looked new. There was a steamer chest at the end of the bed, and a large wooden armoire next to the window where they could hang their clothes.

“Boys, dinner! Come meet your cousin!” Stella sounded eager.

“We can put these things away later. I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry.” Dante slipped out of the room and down the hall, and Gio followed.

He was hungry too.

The kitchen was just down the hall, and was the source of the wonderful aroma he’d smelled when he arrived. It was a warm, friendly room—in the place of the cabinets he was used to back in Sacramento, there were three long shelves above the counter and cooktop, filled with pots and pans, plates, ceramic bowls, and glasses. The whole room was rich with earth tones—ruddy reds, deep browns, and ivory whites, accented here and there by bright blues.

A young woman stood in front of the cooktop, her back to Gio and Dante. Stella was busy setting the table.

“Sole, say hello to your cousin Gio.”

The girl turned around, and Gio noticed two things about her at once. The first was that she was stunningly beautiful. She reminded him so much of his mother when she was younger, but paler—her hair was almost white, and her skin was as light as Tahoe snow.

The second thing was that her eyes were two different colors. One was blue and the other was brown. “Hello, cousin. I’m Sole. What’s your name?”

“Your eyes are different colors.” Dante was staring at her.

Gio hit hm up the backside of his head. “Idiot. You don’t say that to someone.”

Sole smiled. “It’s all right. Everyone notices. How could you not? I’m used to it by now. It’s called heterochromia, and it’s a fancy way of saying that I was born with two different eye colors. I think it makes me quite unique.”

Stella smiled, then turned back to putting out the silverware. “My daughter has a thick skin. You have to when you’re born albino, as she was.”

Ah, that explained the pale skin and hair. “You are unique. And beautiful. I’m Gio, by the way, and this little a-hole is my cousin—and yours—Dante. Forgive his manners. He doesn’t have any.”

“Hey!” Dante looked wounded. “It’s true, but still…”

“Nice to meet you.” She grinned at him, and then went back to stirring the pot. “Mamma texted ahead, so I made us some dinner—tagliatelle al ragu. I hope you like it. It’s simple fare. Hand me your plates.”

Dante picked up two of them from the table and handed them to her. She scooped out a handful of wide egg noodles on each one, and topped it with the sauce.

Gio took a deep breath. “What’s the meat?” It smelled like a slice of heaven on Earth.

“A little minced beef and pancetta. My own variation.” She filled two more plates, then turned off the oven and joined them at the table.

Stella lit a purple taper candle. “For Luna.” A flash of sadness crossed her face, then was banished by a brilliant smile. “Dig in! Sole is studying to be a chef at the Culinary Institute of Bologna.”

“Ah, CIBO—I get it.” Cibo was Italian for food. “My father Diego’s a chef, and I work at his restaurant. I came to Italy looking for inspiration for the restaurant.”

Sole’s eyes lit up. “Certo? What’s his restaurant called?”

“Ragazzi.”

Gio took a bite of the ragu, and his mouth exploded with flavor. He could see the farm where the tomatoes were grown, just north of Bologna, where they had ripened on the vine. He could picture each leaf on the basil plants as they bathed in the golden Italian sun. And he could feel the life force of the cow and the pig that had provided the beef and pancetta.

In an instant, he was transported by her cooking and exalted. In that simple ragu sauce was something complex and real, something he had always lacked but had never known he was missing. “Porco miseria.” He dropped his fork and sat back, hands dropping to his stomach, shocked by what had just happened.

Stella nodded. “There, you see? He understands it. He sees how good your cooking is.”

Good is an understatement. He felt humbled, embarrassed to realize that he had ever thought he knew how to cook.

“He’s just being polite.” With four words, Sole dismissed out of hand what had been one of the most transformative moments in Gio’s young life.

Dante took a bite, chewed on it, and set down his fork. “Oh my God, this is good.” He wolfed down all the pasta on his plate, and looked up mournfully. “Is there more?”

“You two are just being nice.” Still, she seemed pleased. She took Dante’s plate and heaped on another serving.

“Being nice?” He stared at his new cousin as if she’d gone mad. “This is one of the best meals I’ve had in my entire life, and I work for my father, who is a master chef.”

Sole turned to stare at him, her multi-colored eyes narrowing. “You’re not just humoring me?”

Gio shook his head vigorously. “Not at all. Sole, when I tasted your sauce, I was transported to the garden where the vegetables were grown. I could actually feel the sun on my face.” He took another bite, getting some of the noodles, and he could feel her hands kneading the impasto—the pasta dough. “You shouldn’t be taking an Italian cooking class. You should be teaching one.”

Sole practically glowed, like her namesake.

“I tell her this every day, and she doesn’t believe me. But who am I? Just her mother.” Stella leaned over to kiss Sole’s cheek.

A new thought entered Gio’s head, inspired by his cousin’s amazing cooking. “You two need to come to America, to meet my papà. Diego would love your cooking.”

Sole’s mouth dropped open. “I’d love to. Could we, Mamma?”

Stella frowned. “I’m not sure it’s such a great idea. There’s the cost, and the time away from work. And things over there are getting a little scary…”

Gio sighed. “It’s different in California, I promise. And things aren’t so great here, from what I’ve heard.”

“You’re not wrong about that.” Stella shook her head. “This new government…”

Dante piped in. “You have to go. Gio is awesome, and I would kill for a chance to visit America.”

Sole looked from her mother to Gio, and back again. “Please, Mamma? It would be nice to meet our family.”

Gio grinned. Smart, kid, playing the family card. “My dads have a ton of frequent flier miles. I’ll bet they would help out, if you wanted to come to meet them.” Gio was still marveling at the fact that he had family of his own. Since his mother had died, his only blood relative had been Diego. It was like a phantom limb that had suddenly grown back. Stella and Sole were here, for real—in flesh and bone.

Stella bit her lip. “I don’t know.”

Gio was struck by how much she reminded him of Luna. It was a gift, this remembering of his mother, of all her little mannerisms. “You’d love Diego, and I’m sure he’d want to meet you.”

“He must be a good father, to have raised such an upstanding son.” She nodded. “All right. We will come—I can probably get a few weeks off of work. But only if your father says we won’t be a burden.”

Gio grinned. “I’m sure it will be all right.” He pulled out his phone to text Diego.

Papà and Babbo, you won’t believe who I just met here in Bologna…