The Last Concerto. Sara Alexander

in Rome to pursue her studies further. She has what it takes to become a professional, Signora Giovanna.’

      Her mother’s expression crinkled through confusion, pride, concern, a troubled spring day between showers.

      ‘I don’t know what to say,’ Giovanna replied after a beat.

      ‘I can’t tell you what to say, signora, but in my professional capacity I would urge you to permit her to go. I have friends there who will be able to arrange her accommodation; it will be simple, of course, but clean.’

      ‘In Rome, you say?’

      Signora Elias nodded.

      ‘Alone? A girl alone in Rome? She’s going to be married.’

      Alba’s eyes slit to Signora Elias, the prickle of panic creeping up her middle.

      ‘Take some time to think about it, signora, but I can reassure you that I know people who can help her in the early days and that many young people make the same pilgrimage every year. For their art. For talent that they have a duty to share with the world.’

      Giovanna looked at her daughter. Alba persuaded herself that the flicker she caught in her eye was one of a mother almost convinced.

      Giovanna said nothing on the walk home, nor as they prepared lunch. She cut the cured sausage into thin precise slices without a word. She handed Alba the six plates to set the table without even looking Alba in the eye. She washed the fresh tomatoes and placed them in a bowl without the slightest evidence of emotion of any kind, other than a robotic repetition of their regular rhythms. Only when she tipped the salt into a tiny ramekin for the table and it overflowed onto the counter did Alba spy any nerves. When Giovanna made no move to clear up the salt flakes, Alba’s sense of impending storm peaked. She gave the linguini a swirl in the simmering water.

      Salvatore came in soon after, world-weary and hungry as he always was after Saturday mornings at the officina. He slumped onto his chair.

      ‘Why all the plates?’ he grumbled.

      ‘Marcellino and Lucia are coming,’ Giovanna shouted from the kitchen.

      ‘When’s Babbo back?’ he called back.

      ‘Didn’t he say at the officina?’ Alba said, laying down a bowl of chicory on the table.

      ‘He wasn’t at work today.’

      Alba wanted to check her mother’s face for a reply as she brought out a hunk of Parmesan and a grater, dropping them onto the table with a thud, then thought better of it.

      The door opened. Marcellino and Lucia strode in, taking over the space as they always did. Lucia stepped towards Giovanna and greeted her like her second mother. Then she swished over to Alba and gave a dutiful kiss on each cheek, almost touching the skin.

      ‘Nearly ready, Ma?’ Marcellino harangued his mother.

      Lucia gave him a playful tap on his belly.

      ‘What?’ he guffawed. ‘A boy’s hungry!’

      ‘Not a boy for long,’ Lucia purred, her blue eyes flashing with something Alba struggled to identify. She did look different today, but it was hard to pinpoint why. She sashayed across the tiles with her usual perky sway, her jet-black hair lustrous even in the dim light of the shady room.

      Giovanna yelled for Alba and handed her the pasta pot. The family took their seats. Bruno stepped in just as the first bowl was filled.

      ‘Buon appetito!’ he called, his walk a playful swagger.

      ‘Get changed, amore, si?’ Giovanna insisted. Bruno stopped and grinned at his daughter-in-law. ‘Don’t get any ideas now, Lucia? You see how old married men are? Do what their little wives say at all times, si? Watch out, Marcellino, it’s the beginning of the end.’

      Alba thought her father sounded a little drunk. It wouldn’t be unusual for him to have an aperitivo at the bar with his cronies after the morning at the officina, or to drum up more business over a Campari and soda or two, but there was more sway than usual about him that afternoon. Only when he turned for upstairs did Alba spy a fleck of lipstick on his collar. The clang of the metal serving fork upon the bowls as her mother tipped another portion of the pasta brought her back into the room. She watched the steam ribbon off the strands, fragrant with anchovy, garlic, chilli, and fresh tomatoes.

      Just before the figs were brought out at the end of the meal, Lucia asked for everyone’s attention and announced she was pregnant. Alba’s father needed no excuse to crack open a bottle of moscato and the sweet wine frothed six glasses like it was Christmas. When Lucia was asked her due date, she shied around a direct answer. It wasn’t until Alba brought out the coffee that she understood Lucia’s pregnancy was almost five months along. Women on the cusp of marriage were granted different rules, it seemed.

      When everyone left, the house dipped into a sleepy quiet. Bruno snored upstairs. Salvatore lay on the couch. Only the percussive sloppy grating of Giovanna washing at the tub outside cut through the stillness. Alba stepped outside into the narrow courtyard garden. Above, a canopy of wisteria wept purple blooms. Giovanna plunged a shirt into the sudsy cement tub, then lifted it and began attacking it along the ridges of the washboard, which lifted out at an angle. Her mother’s knuckles were red.

      ‘When are you going to tell Babbo?’ Alba asked, before realizing that it was her father’s shirt Giovanna was waging war on.

      Her mother looked up at her, eyes bloodshot from dried tears.

      ‘Leave me now. I’ve had quite the morning, don’t you think? Sending me up there to be shamed by my daughter who has become a charity case? Have you any idea how I felt? I told you loud and clear what I thought about imposing on that kind woman. After everything she did for me when we were struggling? All those years when she would give me extra cleaning work to help us? Meanwhile you start pretending to run errands for her when all you’ve been doing is plonking that instrument. And now you stand here, silent as a cave, telling me to tell your father. You’ve got another think coming.’

      She plunged the shirt into the tub again, though Alba sensed Giovanna was picturing submerging something, or someone else.

      ‘That’s it, stand there like a rock. I’m used to it now. I could have lost my son that night with your father. Do you know that? Or was it just a game to you? You think you’re the only one who has nightmares of that time? I did everything I could to raise you right. Do you know what your little secret means for me?’

      Now her mother wrung the shirt as if it were her daughter’s neck. Alba stepped inside. She sat at the deserted table fingering her letter. When her father came back down an hour later, dressed in a new shirt and smelling of sandalwood, she asked him to sit down. He did. Alba put the letter in front of him.

      When he finished, he folded it and handed it back to her.

      ‘Giova!’ he yelled.

      She stepped inside, wiping her suds on her apron.

      ‘What do you know about this?’

      Giovanna looked at the letter and then at her daughter.

      ‘I haven’t read it.’

      ‘Tell him, Mamma,’ Alba interrupted.

      ‘You be quiet, I’m talking to your mother.’

      ‘It’s what Signora Elias wanted to talk to us about today,’ Giovanna replied. ‘I know you were busy. I told her that.’

      Bruno twisted away from Giovanna and ran a hand over his beard.

      ‘Why did they write to you, Alba?’ he asked, flames flickering the fringes of his tone.

      Giovanna stepped in and took a seat.

      ‘Tell your father, Alba.’

      She looked between her parents’ faces. For a moment a spark of optimism;