Adrian D'Hage - The Omega scroll

Allegra leaned in against him. She wanted to stand there for ever.

‘Sure beats doing assignments,’ she murmured.

The road down to the town contoured around the steep side of the mountain and Giovanni had to coax the ageing gearbox into second to supplement the Fiat’s equally ageing brakes. When they reached the little port Giovanni parked in one of the several empty spaces on the piazza beside the marina.

‘See that house with the orange shutters?’ Giovanni was pointing to a group of whitewashed concrete houses at the southern end of the beach overlooking the port. It was as if the little village had been carved into the side of the mountain. In front of the houses a small limestone cliff dropped vertically down to the water and the brightly painted wooden boats rocked gently under its protection. Behind the houses the dense brush of the foothills rose sharply to meet the majesty of the Apennines. ‘That’s home.’

‘It’s lovely, the view must be wonderful.’

‘It is, but don’t be deceived by the view. That part is expensive but we Donellis are simple folk. The house was owned by my great-great-grandfather and it’s been in the family ever since.’

‘It looks lovely just the same, although I’m feeling a little nervous about meeting your family.’

‘You shouldn’t be. It’s not as if I’m bringing home a fiancee.’

Allegra’s embarrassment was obvious, her blush rising through her tanned skin, and Giovanni instantly regretted the comment.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.’ For a moment there was an awkward silence between them as they each wrestled with thoughts they dared not put into words, then just as quickly the moment passed.

‘Giovanni!’ Giovanni’s sister Maria had spotted the car, and run like a young schoolgirl through the alleys and laneways to meet her favourite brother. ‘Giovanni!’ She flung herself at him, kissing him enthusiastically on each cheek.

‘Maria! You are taller than me now.’

‘That wouldn’t be hard, would it,’ she said, raising her eyebrows. Her dark eyes twinkled with the same mischief that Allegra had come to love in Giovanni. Maria’s black hair was cut short around her oval face. At just fifteen Maria Donelli was already a beautiful young woman. Without waiting to be introduced, Maria turned to Allegra.

‘You must be Allegra,’ she said. ‘ Benvenuta a Maratea! ’

‘ Grazie, Maria. You are very kind.’

‘And look!’ Maria said. Giovanni winked at Allegra. He was used to his sister’s boundless enthusiasm for life. Maria was pointing across to the arm of rocks that formed the protective breakwater for the little port. ‘There’s Papa and the boys!’

Signor Donelli, like his father and his father before him, had been a fisherman all his life and, like Giovanni, he was short and wiry. Giuseppi and Giorgio, however, were both tall and broad across the shoulders, the former a legacy of distant genes and the latter a result of leaving school as soon as they were able for a life hauling fishing nets. Papa and Giovanni’s brothers had just finished repairing the nets and had folded them back onboard the Aquila del Mare, the Eagle of the Sea, in preparation for the next day’s fishing. But that would not be tomorrow. Tomorrow was Domenica and the whole family and the rest of the little village would be in church. Giovanni had been invited to celebrate Mass with Monsignor Vincenzo Abostini, the long-serving priest who had inspired Giovanni to follow his heart and his faith.

‘ Vi vedremo a casa! See you at the house!’ Giorgio yelled, waving and grinning beside Papa and Giuseppi.

‘ Fate presto! Don’t be long!’ Maria picked up Allegra’s bag. ‘Come on you two. Mamma is waiting. She has been cooking all morning.’

‘You could put jumper leads on her and she’d power the whole village,’ Giovanni said to Allegra.

‘I heard that,’ Maria flung over her shoulder as she headed across the piazza.

Giovanni slung his bag over his shoulder and they followed Maria out of the piazza into a labyrinth of narrow flagstone alleys that were covered by concrete archways. Here and there, the damp had seeped down from above and the once white arches were covered in a dark green mould. At intervals a bare light bulb was suspended from an ancient blackened chain. The alleys were made narrower still by the storekeepers’ habit of hanging their wares from hooks in the concrete – copper pots and pans, wicker baskets and bags, and coffee mugs suspended in wrought-iron racks. Everywhere there were steps coming down from houses or up into shops and bars. Some freshly whitewashed, others worn and cracked, the steps twisted impossibly, pot plants lining one side or the other. Doorways were overhung with terracotta tiles and occasionally a faded canvas shade. Finally they reached what seemed to Allegra just another part of the maze when Maria bounded up a whitewashed staircase lined with the inevitable pot plants.

‘Mamma! Mamma! Giovanni! E a casa! He is home!’

Giovanni had always spoken of his mother with great affection and the matronly La Signora Sophia Donelli was as Allegra had imagined. A ready smile in a round face that was creased with the lines of wisdom. She came out from the kitchen, arms outspread, and embraced her son in the hallway.

‘I have missed you,’ his mother said, stepping back and pinching his cheeks. She turned to Allegra. ‘Sister Bassetti. Welcome to Maratea and while you are here, si metta a suo agio – you must make yourself at home. Maria will put your bag in your room.

‘ Avanti! Avanti! The bread is almost ready.’

The kitchen was the focal point of the family. A big wood-fired oven sat at the back of the room and a long, heavy wooden bench stood in the centre. The two big windows with the orange shutters that Giovanni had pointed out overlooked the port. Home-made pasta – menate – lay on a board, coiled like rope. Nearby was a cracked pottery jar marked olio. It was full of Lucanian olive oil that had been made from olives cultivated in Basilicata since the time of the Greeks. The region’s volcanic soil gave the oil a unique aroma and it gave Basilicatan cuisine its flavour. Sophia Donelli never used anything else. Another bowl was filled with lampascioni – a type of wild onion; another held peperoncino – the red peppers found throughout Basilicata. Goat’s cheese and lucanega – Lucanian sausage – were on the table and the smell of freshly baked bread filled the house. Ragu di carne, a sauce made from lamb, pork and kid, was simmering on the stove.

‘Giovanni!’

‘Papa! Giuseppi! Giorgio!’ Embraces and kisses on both cheeks, unabashed affection between an Italian father, sons and brothers. Many would argue that God got it right when she made the Italians – a sense of family, of community, a passion for life.

‘Allegra, meet the rest of the family!’ More embraces, more kisses.

Signora Donelli served the steaming ragu di carne into terracotta bowls while Papa carved the freshly baked bread.

‘Bless us, O Lord, and these Your gifts, which we are about to receive from Your bounty. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.’

‘How was the catch, Papa?’ Maria asked.

Signor Donelli smiled.

They all had that same warmth in their eyes, Allegra thought.

‘The Orata were running today. Tomorrow after church, Mamma will be able to serve you the specialty of the house,’ he said, beaming at their guest. ‘And if the weather is good next week, Giovanni, you should take the dinghy and show Allegra some of our beaches.’

Allegra felt as if she was a part of the family and this feeling was only strengthened when she accompanied the Donellis to Mass the next day.

Nicola Farini, the village bell-puller, toiled on the frayed rope underneath the bell of the parish church of the Addolorata. He was in his eighties, and his white moustache was neatly trimmed and he was wearing his felt hat and his Sunday best. Nicola had been the parish’s only bell-puller for as long as anyone could remember and today he bent to his task with the will of a man half his age. It was not every day that the Mass was celebrated by one of the village’s favourite sons and the joyful toll of the old iron bell reverberated around the Apennine ridgelines.