Chapter 22: Sunday at Pina's Mother's

Pina's mother's kitchen in the Vomero smelled of ragù that had been going since Friday.

I had eaten at that table every Sunday since I was nine years old.

I had never once brought a man to it.

"Sit there," Pina's mother told Gaetano, and pointed at the chair beside the cupboard, the one with the short leg.

"Mamma," Pina said.

"It's the best chair."

"It's the worst chair."

"It's the one he'll sit in," said Pina's mother, with a smile I knew well, because I had seen it before an exam.

Gaetano sat.

The chair rocked. He put one foot flat on the floor to steady it, and made no comment.

Pina's father, who had not spoken in my hearing since 1998, nodded from the head of the table.

Her grandmother watched him from behind a glass of wine, one eyebrow raised.

"So," Pina's mother said. She put down a bowl of pasta in front of him. "You're the harbour master."

"Yes, signora."

"They say you're honest."

"I try to be."

"That's a pity. We've had too many honest men in this family. Not one of them ever made a decent coffee."

Pina choked on her water.

"I can make coffee," Gaetano said.

"Can you? Pina's brother says the machine at your office is a disgrace."

"It's a disgrace," he said. "It was before my time. I've written three letters."

Her grandmother let out a short, wheezing laugh, and Pina's mother frowned at her.

"How long have you known our Marisa?"

"Four years."

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