Gelato

            Antonio Gramsci was not a man to waste time, nor words. His wife Lucy had seen him off at La Guardia airport the day before, insisting on driving him, and since he had gotten next to no sleep the night before his departure he was in no mood to argue. His farewell was brief, deliberate, but kind. And now he was free for a while, a man alone, on a business trip in Italy.

The bus from Florence wound its way to Sienna, and when it disembarked at the city wall Antonio stretched his legs, which had dangled the whole ride due to his slight height. His light weight gray-green suit already felt too warm, on this unseasonable March day. Zapped from the heat, his dark curls fell into his face and he pushed them out of his eyes. He arrived so early, that before meeting his client, he had time to take in the famous campo before visiting the gelato shop, which according to his instructions lay right on the square. He extended the strap of his leather briefcase and slung it across his chest like a book bag to free his hands. Standing at the entrance to the campo, Antonio commanded a wide view, and he imagined the Palio—horses charging around in a circle—by closing one eye and tracing the edge of the circular space with his index finger. A stand of flags near him spoke of the importance of the square, and to one side he could see the Duomo peering over, its tall green and white striped surface gleaming in the sun, the four-pointed miniature towers on top of each corner giving the impression that the structure could take off like a rocket. Only the narrow Medieval windows placed it in time.

He wished he had family to visit, but none of his Italian-Jewish family remained in Italy after his grandparents left in the late 1800s. His mother’s parents had come directly to New York, while his father’s parents had made a meandering line from Italy through Eastern Europe, before heading to the U.S., escaping the Germans during WWII. Somewhere along the way one member of his father’s family had been left behind. They were all in Poland before the war when their village was torn asunder and the family had to split up, straggling in pairs, some smuggled out by Polish friends, others escaping by chance. Antonio had asked questions, trying to make sense of it all, but had gotten nowhere. Even his chosen profession, international law, had afforded him only the frustration of waiting in various offices in Eastern Europe for the usual fading elderly male clerk with thick glasses to come back out to the counter with no records, only a shrug.

Antonio’s last name, Gramsci, was a mystery locked behind the doors of Eastern Europe, because when the family came to the U.S. the last half of their name was taken away. No one in his family remembered what the original ending consisted of, even the two remaining aunts—one dizzy with the effects of Parkinson’s drugs, the other at a loss because of her weekly shock therapy treatments. Some of the cousins thought the suffix had been something like “sohn,” like German composer Felix Mendellsohn, but Antonio and his brother Maggio scoffed at the sound of Gramsci-sohn, and when they were kids made up all sorts of name combinations: Gramsci-misci, Gramsci-oggle, and Gramsci-finkle. Besides, the grandparents had gone through the Austro-Hungarian Empire, not Germany, so –sohn didn’t really hold.

Shielding his eyes from the sun, he could make out the gelataria in the far corner, and made his way there. His client was supposed to meet him outside the shop, yet it was the appointed hour and there was no one waiting. He could see a few Americans inside the shop ordering their treat.

“Mi scusi,” said a voice.

Antonio readjusted his gaze quickly. Standing next to him, aquiline nose dropped gracefully to full lips, stood a real Italian. Her high cheek bones could have competed with Ingrid Bergman’s and her flowing black dress fell along the natural lines of her graceful form, slender yet tall, several inches above Antonio.

            “Si?” he replied.

She waved her arms, elbows bent, hands gesticulating. Was she asking him something about himself—his town perhaps?

“Nuevo Yorko.” He shrugged and smiled. His parents and grandparents had done him a disservice in not sharing the native tongue and his infrequent visits and the phrase book did not help.

“Come ti chiami?” She paused, pursing her lips before continuing. “Di dove sei?” She shrugged her shoulders. “English, si?

As she removed her sunglasses her eyes appeared, dark brown to match her smooth, shiny hair, flickering in the light breeze. What a relief, she spoke a little English! He was in luck. What would Maggio say if he knew Antonio was passing the time with an Italian beauty.

“I’m American. You speak English?”

“English, yes… en peu Francais, ein bitte Deutsch. Papa, he work with Americans and French. He fight the Bosch. Capisco?”

Antonio suddenly had a pang in his stomach. He hadn’t eaten since the cheese-filled pastry that morning at the train station in Florence, so while waiting for his client he would avail himself of the gelato shop. He pointed to the shop and extended his arm, hoping she would join him.

She walked on ahead of him and her hips swung from side to side, the thin layers of sheer material moving independently, creating an illusion where her hips ended and the material began.

As they entered the shop, Antonio heard big band music—his favorite, Artie Shaw’s version of “Stardust,” the clarinet soloing over the large band, easily moving up and down mellifluously like cotton candy strands. Why would a gelato shop play American music of the 40s?

She slowly began ordering a cup for herself, the words rolling off her tongue like the thick, cool treat he anticipated.

“Per favore… Gianduia—”

“What is it?” he asked her.

“Chocolate nut—hazelnut, I think you say.”

“Make that two—duo. Grazie.” Antonio said to the man behind the counter, eyeing the large paper cup being loaded for the woman, twice as large as the size the customers before them had received.

The woman stepped closer to Antonio and whispered in his ear. “Papa.” She pointed to the man heaping the gelato now into Antonio’s equally large cup. Their faces were only inches apart.

“Oh, he deals with Americans, does he? Very funny.”

She smiled widely, her mouth expanding to form a bridge from ear to ear, where a set of pearl earrings shimmered. He could smell what remained of the perfume she must have dabbed on that morning, reminding him of the stuff his grandmother had worn, thick and flowery.

“How can I help you?” the man asked.

The server must be confused, for Antonio had already ordered. Maybe he knew Americans intuitively and wanted to be friendly. That was his job. He looked Antonio in the eye, commanding a response. He reminded him of his uncles, all now gone, his father’s brothers. They all had the same way about them, like they could take you apart with their eyes and put you back together again with their half-smiles, one side raised, the other insistently straight. Maybe he was protective of his daughter?

Antonio glanced over at the woman, who met his gaze.

“Papa!” She took her eyes off Antonio and placed them on her father. “This is the man.” Then she returned her gaze back to Antonio.

“What? I’ve come to meet a Mr. Mantusci in the square. I was told to wait until a man with a white apron—” Antonio stopped as soon as he realized the situation. But what would a gelato maker need with an international attorney?

            “Come, come,” the man said, motioning for Antonio to follow him to a back room through a door which he hadn’t noticed before.

The room was larger than Antonio would have imagined. Dusty boxes were stacked all the way up to the ceiling, inconvenient unless the old man had someone young to climb a tall ladder and get them down carefully, and he couldn’t picture the daughter doing it, at least in that dress. In the corner, a thick wood table sat with two chairs. A bare bulb hung from the ceiling offering a dim resemblance of light.

“Please. We can talk in here,” Mantusci said.

            “I will go now,” the girl said, throwing her shoulder bag over her arm before closing the door to the shop.

He didn’t even catch her name.

“Mr. Mantusci…” Antonio began, swiftly placing his briefcase on the dusty table and pulling out the file. He usually met clients either in his office or in theirs, wherever he happened to be, so the storeroom seemed a bit informal. “I have here the correct documents for what you requested—or rather what your friend Harry Barton in New York said you needed to make the transaction. Usually I have more information from the client, otherwise—”

“Ah, Mr. Barton—how is he?” Mr. Mantusci spoke almost perfect English, as though he had been speaking it his whole life, surprising for a resident of a small Italian town. Only the accent, slurring a few consonants, gave him away. His hazel eyes were a surprise, after his daughter’s dark ones, and the few strands of remaining gray hair on the elderly man had been smoothed forward to resemble a new hair line. His teeth looked like they would pop out, half of them gone, lost along the way. But he seemed like a much younger man, in spite of his physical appearance.

“Barton seemed fine, when we met in my office. He was pleasant enough—but you see, he didn’t tell me the extent of your property. Perhaps you could fill me in on it?” Antonio was used to being patient—not pushing too much, but enough to expedite the transaction. He believed in being personable yet swift in his delivery. He adjusted his tie as he waited for Mr. Mantusci to respond. A small fan rotated the stale air around from corner to corner, kicking up dust. A small window with bars to the side of the campo did not offer much of a resource.

“Let me see now.” Mr. Mantusci loosened his belt, got out his handkerchief, took a good blow, wiped his face, and re-arranged the pencils on the table. Then he moved to the end of the table a glass of water so dingy that a person would drink only if there were no other source. “I haven’t seen Barton since July 1942, during the war…”

If he were going to tell his whole life story, Antonio didn’t need to hear it. He knew the Italians were friendly people, and appreciated it in the man’s daughter, but he needed some air. “Look, can we please get down to business?”

“Oh, maybe you would like a glass of something.” Mantusci gestured to the crate behind him, not in the tower of wine, but a box alone on the floor beside the desk.

“Yes, please, my throat—”

“My dearly departed wife’s family…” He crossed his chest. “The best wine makers in Toscana.”

The bottle must have been over a hundred years old, for the lettering melded on it with the label into a golden brown color, distorting whatever value was implicit to the knowing eye.

The man procured a couple of slender glasses from somewhere behind the desk, wiping them off with the hem of his apron before pulling the cork with the corkscrew he also materialized from behind the generous desk.

“Let it sit for a moment, so the centuries can breathe,” he instructed, taking a deep breath. “And now, to business!”

Now, at last, Antonio thought.

“Back in the war, my family left Italia, and went North. When the Germans got me, they took me to the camp. I stayed there for two years. My dear friend Mr. Barton—”

Antonio felt tingles down his spine. Probably the wine. He wanted to get to business, but obviously there was no deterring the fellow. “You say your family left?” Like mine, he thought.

“Si, so what? Many got left.”

“Can you tell me more?” Antonio’s interest was piqued.

Mantusci changed the subject. “Barton, he was Polish and Jew—the worst combination. We slept in the same bunk, were skinny enough before a few weeks. We nearly escaped one time and almost got killed, but ‘escaped’ back in because we bribed a guard. The guard got thrown down by the Americans when they came, taken away. I felt bad because he helped us…” He stared up at the ceiling before his gaze came back to the table, and the bottle. He took the bottle with a rough, large hand and poured slowly, the light-colored syrup threading around the glass like sugar, as it made its way down the narrow space. A few drops clung to the edges. He pushed the glass over to Antonio, motioning for him to drink.

Mantusci was a hard man to get information from. The liquid fell slowly like honey against Antonio’s lips as he put the glass to his mouth. He thought it was wine, but the look of it told him it was a liquor. The flavors of apricot, orange, and a deep plum all at once hit his tongue.

Mantusci smiled wildly at Antonio before pouring some for himself and taking a sip, then rubbing his belly. “If Mama could taste this! Her family knew how to make a wine.” He slammed his fist down on the table and the bottle jumped. Then he looked lost again, this time focusing on the little window to the square.

Antonio thought, he could stay here awhile with this wine. He was in no hurry. He had come here for this anyhow, hadn’t he? When he decided to travel abroad in his business he told himself to be open to new experiences instead of just sitting in his office back home waiting for clients. He had waited for a lot of things. He and Lucy had lived together for twenty years now and had they failed to get her pregnant—something they both wanted—no matter what they tried, even with artificial methods. His mother died a few years before and his father hung around for another year, hoping for grandchildren. His brother Maggio remained single all these years, confounding the rest of the family and putting more pressure on Antonio. Lucy’s parents too, though politely silent, had grandchildren on their minds. When visiting her parents up in Maine, in their little ocean-facing house with the white fence, he and Lucy would look down at their dinner plates to say grace before dinner, silently. Antonio wished they would speak. Now approaching forty, he had all but given up on a family, except for the idea of adoption, which he proposed and she rejected. The night before his departure to Italy, Lucy had cried quietly in the bathroom before coming to bed, running the water to try to hide the sound, and all Antonio could do was roll over and try to sleep, not even looking at Lucy’s soft face and brown curls as they made their usual shallow indentation on the pillow. He used to watch her fall asleep, but now he could hardly look at her. He hoped his return would spark something, even if it meant another kind of departure.

Antonio finished off the last of his wine.

“Alright. Where were we?” Mantusci said, pouring more wine for himself. Antonio had barely started but the older man had moved ahead. “Si, Barton and I did not escape, but we were free in the end. Barton went to America, and me to Italia. No one was here—no family I mean. I was the only one to escape.”

“Did Barton send you the music? I thought it funny to hear Shaw in a gelato shop, especially these days with all the pop music around.” But Antonio didn’t understand all of it. There was more than the music to reckon with. “Why did you come back here?” He took the bottle and filled another glass for himself, the thick liquid hugging the slender form as it swirled down.

Mantusci ran his hand through the strands on top of his head, matting them down. “My family—this is where we lived before, so this is where I come back.”

The little bit of air that existed in the room had condensed into a kind of steam. Between that and the wine, Antonio felt light-headed and more relaxed than he had for weeks. The old man’s hair looked like a tide pool with seaweed, and Antonio’s tie had somehow wrung itself free and snaked down to the floor in a puddle. His jacket hung off the back of the chair and he swung his legs together and apart in a kind of rhythm.

“And you got married, and your daughter—what was her name?”

“I come back, the only one who survived. So I remarried. I was so happy with Gina, I almost forget Angelina and what happened in Poland, at the end. But with Gina—ah… we were given our child, by the grace of God… I changed my name to Mantusci when I escaped.” Mantusci cupped his head with both hands.

Antonio didn’t know what to say to the man’s disorganized rambling. What happened to his first wife and where was his second? The part about Poland so resembled his own family stories that he wanted to ask. Yet he was afraid to ask—and what question would he pose anyhow? The man looked as old as his own grandparents, yet he acted like a younger man, his heartiness perhaps a result of achieving freedom from the camp. And Antonio had to remind himself that his grandparents, if they were still alive, would be older than he remembered them years ago. Mantusci’s daughter was a little younger than Antonio, so he must have married at a late age—very healthy indeed. Maybe he knew Antonio’s grandparents years ago, in the small, walled town.

“What do you mean, left behind?” Antonio asked a second time.

“I am sorry—I will let you do business now.” Mantusci had changed the subject, which he was good at doing. He clasped his hands in his lap, the picture of a well-behaved child. He handed Antonio a yellowed document, cracked around the edges, the unintelligible cursive not German. “Polish,” the man explained, also producing a clean, white copy translated into English.

“”Well, I guess we can get back to your story later. I would like to get back to it though.” Antonio read the document and looked at the date—1938. Then he leafed through the paperwork he had brought with him. “Thank you for having it translated. I didn’t expect—U-hm. Well… I hate to tell you, but since your property in Poland was seized by the Germans, then reclaimed by the Poles—according to the law, from other cases I’ve seen…” Antonio hesitated. “There is little I can do about this matter. If I had know, I would have told your friend Barton.”

“Scusi?” Mantusci cocked his head to one side.

“I mean, Barton had no way of knowing about the complications of the law, and I couldn’t have known unless I had seen the document. You didn’t send it.”

“Yes, I wanted to meet in person—is a good way to do business, si?” said the man.

“It’s been years now since the war and no one has claimed the property, so it falls into the hands of the government, or whoever claimed it as theirs. If you had gone back earlier you could have done something,” said Antonio.

Mantusci’s eyes bulged. “How long did I have? If I had known…”

Antonio tried to remain calm, but the man’s bloodshot eyes made him nervous, as if Mantusci would explode. “The claim would have to be made in the twenty years following, otherwise—”

Mantusci closed his eyes.

“I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do. I feel like I’ve said that already, but I really am sorry. But I wonder. Getting back to the other subject, do you know anyone by my last name?”

The man opened his eyes slowly, as if the lids were raised by strings. He scratched his head. “The only thing I know is a man in a suit named Antonio Gramsci come to see me today.”

Antonio sat dumbfounded. Did this man really have that much faith in strangers? “Yes, my name is Gramsci.”

Mantusci spoke loudly, standing up from his chair, wobbling. “Gramsci. No, what you mean is Grambusci!” He put his hands on his belly again, and seemed to savor the name, rolling the extra syllable around on his tongue, as if he had just finished a five course meal. He slowly sat back down in his chair and said it again, more quietly, as if to himself. “Grambusci. That’s the name.”

The old man’s eyes drifted up to the ceiling in the darkening room, for they had sat talking for who knows how long and the tiny window now emitted no light. Only the bulb overhead offered anything, sending shadows to all corners of the room.

            Antonio staggered up, almost knocking the chair over. “I need some air, if you don’t mind.”

            He acted like a man on an emergency mission, a doctor rushing to a patient. Except he was the patient, his face burned red. He felt his shirt collar with one hand—a little moist.

            Mr. Mantusci had slumped into absence, breathing heavily in his chair. Good. Antonio could leave now of his own volition, unnoticed by the old man. He jiggled the latch to the door and let himself into the gelato shop. No one was left and there was a light left on over the front door, which cast a dim pallor over the line of freezer cases, and the tubs beckoned, the colors showing themselves like flowers blooming at dawn, the green, pink, orange, deep blackish brown erupting before his eyes.

            He unlocked the door to the outer world, turning the latch. The door swung open to the inside as if on its own accord, trained from the multitude of visitors that graced its ledge. Standing in the doorway, he inhaled the cool April air, a little bite pervading the beginning of evening, shadows still visible across the campo. Dark figures flew in circles around the open space. What were swallows doing out at this time?

            A dark figure approached him, coming from where only a few other people straggled slowly. As it became larger he could see that she had returned, hovering over him in the dim light of the doorway. She had changed her clothes and now wore a light purple-blue dress and black shawl, which slipped off her shoulders, revealing the front of her dress, like the dress of earlier consisting of not one layer but many. Thin straps helped the material stay up on her ample bosom.

            “Sorry about earlier. I should warn you about Papa.” She put her hands out and took Antonio’s, then kissed him on both cheeks.

            Antonio stood there, reeling. “I had to get out—the room was airless.”

            “Yes, there is not air.” She shrugged her shoulders, arms outstretched. “Let’s go sit down.” She motioned to the chairs inside the shop, turning the overhead fan on as she made her way back.

            Antonio could only follow and slump down at her command, smelling what must be a new application of perfume around her softly brushed hair. It fell in cascades around her shoulders as she removed the shawl, placing it on the back of the chair. He never had an invitation like this before, if it was an invitation, and from a cousin yet—he had to remind himself, his first cousin, if he could believe Mantusci. He sat up in the chair, trying not to slouch despite his bedraggled state.

            “Your name?” He held his hand out in a question mark towards her, setting the gelato cup down on the round marble table, like a large monicle watching the pair.

            “Ava Gramsbusci.” The words rolled off her tongue like they had always lived there, had been born there in the seat of his family home, before he existed, before even she existed. She took his hand and kept it there on her knee as if it would fly away otherwise.

            Antonio ran his other hand through his hair; pushing it off his face. The cool air coming through the open door felt good. “Ave, Ava,” he said quietly to himself.

            “Antonio. You would like something to eat? Some pasta, some wine?”

            He nodded his head up and down. He would only acquiesce to her, not deny her anything.

            She locked the doors and whisked him across the campo, his hand in hers. “Don’t worry about Papa. He will join us.”

            Antonio had to take what seemed like twice as many steps as her long spidery legs, and with one hand buttoned his jacket for aerodynamic force against the cooling breeze. The tall buildings on either side rose several stories high, their windows open to the outside only above the first floor. High pitched laughter, mumbled conversations, cooking smells, and the strains of a violin punctuated their progression through a network of even narrower streets. He would have gotten lost among them himself.

Breathless, as they came to an abrupt halt, he asked, “But what about your father—aren’t you worried?” He felt bad for the old man, slouched in the hard wooden chair, forgotten in the steamy room.

She reassured him. “Papa likes the wine too much. Don’t worry, he will get hungry.”

She cocked her head to one side and, unlatching the narrow door, waved him through. Inside he waited, doll-like, by the door while she went around turning on lights to reveal a intimate flat. The walls were a patchwork of paint over stucco, many centuries crying out their importance with differing shades of brown, orange, red, and yellow.

She re-appeared, surprising him. His radar must be deadened by the wine. How long had he been contemplating the walls?  She had changed to a soft light blue outfit, a kind of pants-suit, probably something she just wore around the house, but again with sheer layers. He didn’t reply to whatever question he heard as a garble, and could only stare in his weakened state. She led him by the hand past the living room, with orange couches, to the very back of the flat, to the kitchen and a tall stool with a chair back. Water was set to boil in a cauldron-like pot, charred black from years of flames licking its outsides. She grabbed a bunch of basil and some tomatoes from a box next to the refrigerator and started chopping coarsely, the motion of the large knife moving in a languid rhythm much like the throbbing in Antonio’s head.

He got up to get himself a glass of water, and as he attempted to slide past her in the small kitchen he felt a thud. She collided with him full force, the wooden bowl of basil and tomatoes falling out of her arms and onto the floor, red and green bouncing and flying.

“Oh!”

“I’m sorry!” he said, putting his hand to his head even though she had bumped his shoulder.

She kneeled down to scoop up the vegetables into the bowl. He bent down to help her. Her breasts, as she leaned forward, jiggled quietly with the motion of scooping and grabbing. Their eyes met quickly and he slid his arm around her waist, tomatoes rolling out of his way, others splattering against an elbow and his feet as he leaned forward to get some balance. But there was none as she reached forward and grabbed his hair, pulling his head towards her, inviting him to kiss her, which he did—long, searching kisses. He never took his eyes off her, even when she closed hers, even when his lips left hers and traveled down her chin to her throat, sweet and salty.

“Ava? Mio bambina?” Mantusci’s peppery voice moved through the flat towards the back.

Antonio righted himself more quickly than he could have thought in his worn state, standing and offering his arm to Ava, who stood beside him in an instant. Red pressed into their clothes, rubbed flat, fruit skins covering their own skin.

“What calamity has occurred here? What is this blood?” Mantusci’s eyes bulged.

“No, Papa, no blood—tomatoes.” And with that she started laughing, her mouth open, her hair flowing with the motion, tomatoes escaping from her clothes and falling back to their mates on the floor.

“I told you we needed mats for this slippery floor,” Mantusci said, with a furrowed brow. He did not see the humor.

Antonio wiped his hand over his hair to slick it back but realized he had just slapped on a layer of tomato. He started laughing too.

Ava shook her clothes so juice from the tomatoes splattered around her. “I will clean up myself. Papa, you talk to him, explain about the family.” She walked off into the hallway across from the kitchen and into a door to the right.

            Antonio stood erect and still, waiting his turn for the washroom, not wanting to stain any of the furniture. What was he thinking, rolling around in tomatoes on the floor with his cousin? He needed the Italian word for wife yet he did not know what his explanations would consist of.

            Mantusci removed his shoes before grabbing a towel and gathering up the mess of red and green on the kitchen floor, mumbling to himself.

“Can I do anything to help?” Antonio asked.

He only received silence, as Mantusci didn’t look up, immersed in his own world, the dish towel working back and forth, and finally the mop, until he was completely done, the floor a spotless white, the tiles gleaming. “You are surprised? I learned to cook and clean for myself when I came back here, before I met my Gina, God bless her. Cleaning a kitchen is not so simple when you have never done it before. Like living in the camps.” Mantusci chuckled one moment, and the next his face froze in a somber stare, his eyes a glassy pond.

He seemed proud of his accomplishment. The act of cleaning the soiled floor was not a large act, yet the man had gone through so much. A kitchen, a concentration camp—his laugh made it seem like they were the same thing, one or the other, what was the difference. His stare though, made it clear what he went through every day of his life, where even the smallest task brought him back to his losses.

Antonio grabbed a dish towel off the end of the counter and spread it on one of the tall kitchen stools, and he found his legs dangling, which they did often with chairs of normal height.

Mantusci stopped his work and looked Antonio in the eyes. “You wonder why I wanted to meet you, and I am happy to tell you. Barton knew all. I asked him to keep my secret because I wanted to talk to you myself. Si, I knew the property was probably not mine anymore—it has been so many years. I asked him if he knew a lawyer in one of my letters and he told me about you. Your name. That’s when I thought, it may be possible.” He sat down on one of the other stools, his legs also dangling.

“I was hoping—I mean, when you told me, back at the shop…” Antonio felt dizzy. The wine must have worn off by now. Maybe he was dehydrated.

“Papa?” Ava’s voice streamed out from the hallway. “Have you talked to him yet?”

“Bambina, come out here. I want to tell him with you,” he called to her.

She appeared in a plush pantsuit, an item without layers, just one solid burgundy fabric. “The air is colder now,” she said, wrapping a thick white sweater around her father’s shoulders. And to Antonio, “You can take a bath or shower. I am finished.”

Antonio nodded, but he would not move until he learned what he was there to learn. He had come hundreds of miles. Yet he found himself blurting it out. “I’m married.”

What came out of Ava’s mouth was decidedly a gasp. The color left her face and she gripped the shoulder of her father, her bottom lip curling under and the corners of her eyes frowning.

“Good,” said Mantusci. “That is good news. You have family in New York.” He glanced sideways at his daughter, whose face glared. “And you have family here.”

Mantusci slipped off his stood and leaned forward to Antonio, embracing him, who also slid off his stool to meet him, as a tomato squashed itself further into his shirt.