It was late afternoon in September when I saw three men walking together along the aisle between the stalls, casually taking in the various items for sale. Mid-twenties to early forties I surmised and between them a short little lady all in black. The colour immediately brought on another thought. The men were also dressed in black. Smart casual suits, nothing heavy. They looked different but in a way similar. Maybe it was down to the fact that they all wore dark glasses.My mind did a double take. Men in Black! Maybe they were actors working on a film somewhere local. It wasn’t unknown. There seemed to be an intimacy between them however which led me to think they were a family group. Not English though. Dark haired, possibly Mediterranean. My intuition ran strong. More likely Italian than anything and definitely heading my way.
Men in black, dark glasses, Italian, with a little lady in between who had to be Mamma. A tune suddenly came into my head. You know the one! I panicked. What if they liked all the trees? Wanted to buy out the business? Made me an offer I couldn’t refuse? I kept on hearing the same bloody music.
Seconds later they were standing in front of the stall talking together. They were Italian all right. I even recognised the accent. The slow easy drawl was from the far south. Almost certainly Sicilian.
I don’t know what came over me. Siciliano? I enquired, praying I’d got the phonetics right.
“Si,” one of them responded with an easy smile then began talking to me in Italian. I guessed the questions. Was I Sicilian myself? Had I been there on holiday?
I smiled back then took off my cap to the lady. No, I said politely in English. My wife and I had travelled all over Italy but alas we’d never visited Sicily. One day we would go.
His English was good. “You should definitely go. It’s a beautiful country. You will be made very welcome.”
The others came across pleasant and relaxed. I instantly liked them. My wife and I have liked all the Italians we’ve met. “Are you a family?” I asked. Having a holiday in England?
The older man nodded. Yes, it was a holiday. They were his brothers. The lady with them was their mother.
I acknowledged strongly in her direction and bowed slightly, reaching out my hand which she took.
“You’re welcome Mamma. Please feel free to pick anything up. You don’t have to buy.”
Her oldest son translated. She liked what I’d said and nodded. I knew she wouldn’t touch anything herself.
The men began talking among themselves, occasionally glancing at me, then began looking more closely at the trees. Particularly the big willows with amethyst, rose quartz, and rock crystal leaves.
“Che bello!” the youngest exclaimed, turning to his mother. The lady smiled but said nothing. Then to my horror he picked up a palm tree and began pulling at the leaves. They were mainly aventurine, a light green translucent stone. I could only watch, waiting for them to fall off with my heart in my mouth. I was done for. In a minute they’d be laughing their heads off with scorn. Then I remembered. Thank Christ! It was one I’d araldited two weeks back for use as a head twirler. I asked him to hand it to me which he did.
“Now watch,” I said coolly, holding the brass stem with both hands and bending it almost in half. See! I held up a finger. Now watch! Slowly, carefully, I began straightening it out until it was the same as before. I handed it to him smiling. They were all looking at each other and I again heard the slow easy drawl.
“I’ve been here five years,” I said, thinking it was time for a break. “I used to be a teacher before. I’ve heard Sicily’s real nice. What do you do over there?”
Even as I said it I knew I shouldn’t have. “Working here you get to meet people from all over the world,” I added quickly. Doctors, scientists… Sometimes even politicians!”
“We’re in the olive oil business,” the younger man said matter of fact. “We export.”
My thoughts raced. The olive oil business! Whoops, there was that tune again in my head. Even so it gave me an idea. Italians liked to talk about food.
“I love olive oil,” I enthused. “Green, extra virgin. Hmm… some good olive oil, a robust peasant bread, rich red tomatoes, salami from Napoli and a glass of red wine.”
I’d spoken quickly, almost with passion. I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast and I was famished! The idea of an antipasto got me carried away. They were all smiling at me broadly now, even Mamma.
“So you love our Italian food,” the younger brother enquired. “In Sicily we think ours is the best.”
“Give me a good pasta anytime,” I enthused. “Ravioli, lasagne, and most of all spaghetti. Tonight when I get home my wife will make me a spaghetti. She makes the best spaghetti in the world!”
The news was instantly conveyed to the old lady. His wife makes the best spaghetti in the world…
She muttered something to one of her sons. “Mamma asks if your wife is Italian?”
I shook my head. No, she was an English lady. We’d been married twenty years. Her spaghetti was definitely the best.
The information was relayed back and I caught the sound of a word. Something like impossibile. “If your wife is not an Italian,” the older man said, “she cannot make the best spaghetti. Maybe her spaghetti is very good, but I am sorry, it is not the best.”
Whatever sales I’d hoped to make were fast going out of the window. Too bad. Louise was a great cook and her reputation at issue. “My wife’s spaghetti is the best in the world,” I insisted. “No-one can make it like she can.” Defending her bolognaise was a matter of honour!
It was all getting very Italian. Even so, I had an idea in my head.
My support for Louise was conveyed to the old lady who began talking to her sons. I got a direct translation. Who was I to say it was the best in the world? The women in Sicily knew how to cook. Her mother had taught her and she had learned from her own mother before. Sicilian women had been making pasta for generations, always to please their men, not just to feed their bellies. In Sicily it was a family tradition.
So that’s where it stood. The reputation of my wife’s spaghetti on the one hand and that of Sicilian cooking on the other. No, it was more than that. It was the reputation of Sicilian women and that was altogether more serious! It had become a matter of honour. The honour of Sicily! Of Italy itself!
An Englishwoman could make a better spaghetti than an Italian woman? I could see how bad it was getting by the look on their faces. It was turning into what Italians love best. An opera! It gave me an idea.
“My wife’s spaghetti is best,” I said slowly, “because it’s got something secret in it. An ingredient she puts in specially for me. No-one else’s spaghetti can have it.”
Mamma again shook her head. I heard garlic muttered, and oregano. A secret ingredient? What was this? Mamma didn’t know of any secret ingredient!
I was sorry, I had to insist. My wife made her pasta with a special ingredient. It was a secret.
The little lady seemed agitated. “Mamma says there cannot be anything special,” her son came back. “If it is true then you must tell her.”
The brothers looked at me squarely. Yes, if it was true I should say. Out of respect for their mother.
We’d reached a far higher level of seriousness. Now it was a matter of respect for their mother. If I didn’t watch out I could find myself down with the fishes. I put on a look of desperation. I couldn’t I said. I’d made my dear wife a promise.
“If you just let our mother know we won’t tell anyone else.”
They were all in agreement. There’d be a code of silence over Louise’s pasta ingredient. That was the way things were in Sicily. Either the secret of her spaghetti was kept or it was death. I saw it all in my mind’s eye. Someone sitting in a bar in Palermo sipping a grappa and talking too much, next thing he knew he was in the boot of a Fiat on its way down to the docks.
Alright, I said wearily. “But only to Mamma.” I was at the front of the stall now in the middle of the group of brothers, finger on my lips and ready to whisper the secret. “My wife’s pasta is the best in the world because she puts in it…” I waited for the translation then bent down to whisper…
“Because she puts in it AMORE…”
The woman’s face took on a puzzled expression. “Amore?”
Suddenly her whole face creased with a smile. “Amore!” … “Amore!” the brothers caught, on turning to me and laughing. It was true! I’d made a very good joke but it was true all the same as one of them said. If a woman loves a man then she cooks for him with love one of them said. I shook his hand. Very good! It was so very Italian!
They really loved that! Curtain down and the audience all happy. Minutes later their eyes turned to the trees and they began talking again. I heard names being mentioned, mainly women. Sisters, wives, girlfriends I wondered? And of course the little lady herself. Soon I’d bagged up two palms, ten large willows, including a giant for Mamma, and a dozen or more tinies for friends. Close to four hundred quid all in euros. My performance was worth it. With a little psychology I’d made a real killing.
Before they left I picked up a malachite bead necklace. “A gift for Mamma,” I said, handing it to her eldest. “Will you put it on for her please.” He did and she was delighted, taking my hand and giving it a squeeze.
As for me I wondered how much it would help if any of the leaves fell off between the market and the Straits of Messina.
