Family ConcernsAn Eccentric in Lucca: Book 3

First 7 Chapters

1

‘Benvenuto a Raffaele Canetti!’ Gianni shouted, raising his glass high as he cuddled his wife Fiorenza and new son nearer to him.

The friends and family gathered together in Café Alma Arte raised up their glasses in return and saluted the new arrival to the Canetti dynasty. A round of applause and shouts of good-wishes filled the café: the heady mixture of joy and wine flowed freely amongst those citizens of Lucca invited to this christening party.

 ‘We wish to thank you all for joining us here today and for your kind gifts. Raffaele would thank you himself, but I am afraid that you will have to wait a few more years before that can happen…’

There was a roar of laughter and some suitable witty replies from the assembled guests. Fiorenza beamed with pride as she removed the blue ribbon from the baby’s christening gown worn during the mass at the Cattedrale di San Martino that morning. She disappeared to tie the ribbon to the outside door handle of the café to signify the reason for the celebration.

‘…And now, we eat!’ concluded Gianni.

            The tables of Café Alma Arte had been pushed together in two straight lines and covered with white cloths, so that the café now resembled a refectory in a monastery and not one of the must-visit tourist spots of Lucca. The sounds of dishes and metal baking trays clashing together emanated from the kitchen, and, once the door had been wedged open by Gianni’s cousin, Verriano, an avalanche of mouth-watering aromas filled everyone’s nostrils, presaging the arrival of the food.

‘Drop any of this and you’ll be for it!’ threatened Gianni’s sister Anna, as she supervised the transferring of the food to the tables. She had accepted the challenge to teach Verriano the values of working in a family business with great zeal and took every opportunity to berate the youth for his slovenly ways.

 ‘Yeah … yeah.’ muttered Verriano, who had grown so used to his cousin’s almost constant criticism that he barely paid it any heed. ‘I’ll take this through now … without dropping any of it,’ he added, mimicking his cousin as he disappeared through the kitchen door.

            Behind the ornate wooden counter, the ancient Gaggia machine steamed quietly as it dispensed the occasional cup of coffee for any guest who had had enough of the prosecco on offer. The Gaggia, a somewhat erratic relic of a much earlier age, had reached the stage where maintenance had become a weekly necessity. Today, however, it sat smugly in position; its battered chrome casing gleamed in the reflected lights of the café whilst it complied efficiently with the demands of the occasion as it had done since the time of Mussolini.

            ‘Well … I must say that this is all very acceptable Pen,’ boomed the voice of Iolanda Calametti, the Contessa’s long-time friend from nearby Pietrasanta, ‘it’s always a big event when a new baby arrives. They make so much more of a fuss here than we ever did back home in England.’

‘I think it is all the more so with little Raffaele,’ whispered the Contessa, sipping her glass of prosecco, ‘especially after the awful time they had with poor Virgilio … who is now almost fully recovered I’m please to say. Where is he? I thought I saw him over there with the proud mother and father…’

‘Anyway, I’m jolly glad you got me an invitation to this do … there is nothing like a party to kick off a visit to Lucca to see my dear friend Pen.’

As the two women continued to converse in English, the Contessa was reminded of events earlier that day, back in her apartment within the walls of the city’s ancient Roman Amphitheatre.