I sit at the counter and watch Sophia and Gio wait on a couple of customers who’ve just ordered takeout, Gio at the coffee machine, Sophia sliding sugared pastries into green-striped paper Belotti bags. I know she bakes many of the shop’s pastries herself; we’ve talked recipes over coffee most mornings I’ve been here. She’s self-taught—or Maria-taught, to be more accurate—and full of ideas and ambition. I see her flinch as Bella falters with her piano piece at the exact same place as the last three run-throughs, and after a moment she takes a cannoli from the display case and passes it my way, the diamond stud in her nose glinting as she winks.
“It’s a blatant bribe,” she whispers. “Any chance you could help Bells out? I love her but if I have to listen to this for much longer…” Her eyes finish the sentence and I turn to look at Gio, but he’s disappeared through to the kitchens.
“I can try?” I say, doubtful. I haven’t felt like playing since my mother died, but I find myself sliding off my chair regardless.
I feel oddly nervous as I rest my arms on top of the piano. “You know, I used to find that playing something completely different helped me if I got stuck in a loop.”
Bella raises her eyes and looks at me, miserable. “I’m going to fail the evaluation.”
I chew the inside of my lip, thinking back. “What’s your favorite piece to play?”
She teenage shrugs, not biting.
“Shall I show you mine?”
She flexes her fingers, probably aching from tension, and then shuffles across on the stool with a tiny nod. I round the piano and sit beside her, trying not to feel panicked by the run of black and white keys in front of me.
“It’s been a while, I’m going to be rusty,” I say, coughing as I rest my hands in place, hoping muscle memory kicks in. I’m crossing my fingers it’s a piece she knows; it’s a pupil staple back in the UK so there’s a fair chance. I pick out the famous opening bars of “The Entertainer” with two fingers and glance at Bella, gaining myself the slightest eyebrow flick of recognition. Encouraged, I start to play, hesitant and then not so, elation glittering from my fingertips to my elbows to my shoulders to my heart as my body remembers this feeling, this joy. I’ve played the piano forever, beside my mother as a child watching her long, gold-ringed fingers, and this raucous gallop of a tune was always a beloved part of our repertoire.
I look at Bella and find she’s smiling, and I nod toward the keys for her to join me. She bites her bottom lip, hovers her hands for a second then finds her place in the music with me.
I notice how slight her hands are, the span of her fragile fingers as she reaches for the notes, and I wonder if my mother noticed those same things about me on the countless occasions I joined her on the stool as a teenager. I can almost smell the stale smokiness of the working men’s clubs and backstreet pubs we more often than not practiced in—any piano would do for us. She’d sing sometimes too, entertaining the handful of afternoon drinkers in there too early for her proper set later in the evening. Powerful memories kaleidoscope in my head as Bella and I play together, getting faster and faster, our hands racing to keep up with each other. Sophia claps in time as Bella gasps with laughter, and joy bursts behind my ribs as if the door of a birdcage full of songbirds has just flung open on its springs. I’d forgotten how good this feels, wild and magical music. I’m exhilarated, I’m free, I’m on top of the world.
“What’s going on?”
Gio appears over the piano, staring at us, his tone harsher than I’ve ever heard it before. Sophia stops clapping, Bella hits all the wrong notes, and my fingers slow to nothing as I meet his dark, unreadable eyes.
“We were just messing around,” Bella says, defensive.
“It was my fault,” I say automatically, although I’m not quite sure what I’ve done wrong. “I thought it might help Bella to loosen up a bit, have some fun with a different piece.”
“She already has an excellent teacher,” he says, clipped.
“Dad, you’re embarrassing me,” Bella says under her breath, pulling her sleeves down over her hands.
“Enough for today,” he says curtly, and turns away as the bell over the door rings. “These people haven’t come in here to listen to this.”
“But I always practice in here and you never…” Bella starts to answer back and then thinks better of it, probably because of the long warning look Gio gives her.
I find myself reminded of how I felt in that bookstore all those months ago, and I need to get out of here. Standing abruptly, I put a hand briefly on Bella’s shoulder.
“Good luck tomorrow, just relax and you’ll do great.”
I can’t look at Gio as I gather my bag and coat, because I’m aware my cheeks are burning and I’m swallowing down my emotions. Anger, confusion, humiliation. I absolutely refuse to cry in here. His sharp, unexpected change in demeanor has me shaken up, is taking me back to that horrible apartment in London with Adam, and I just want to leave. Nodding a quick goodbye to Sophia, I lift my head high and walk straight out of Belotti’s.
9.
I’M NOT GOING BACK. NOT this morning, not tomorrow, and maybe not again. I spent yesterday turning it over in my head, running through the scant conversation to understand where things went wrong, why it felt so harsh, why I reacted so strongly. I’ve felt worse in the last twenty-four hours than I have in months with the reminder of my previous life, and logically of course I know Gio isn’t Adam, nor is he anything like him, thank God. These emotions are mine to work through. It’s just that he’s the first person outside of the Very Tasty Noodle House that I’ve allowed myself to get to know in New York, and I guess I haven’t taken the time to see him, or anyone else at Belotti’s, as whole people, with their own complex emotions. I’ve defined them by who they are to me and what they mean to my mother’s story, and yesterday brought home to me the fact that they’re people in their own right with their own stories and their own baggage. They’re not the von Trapp family, all singing and dancing, they’re a real family. And while I think that makes them even better, it also means I need to take a step back.
I’m secure here in the noodle house. This place is the safety curtain to my life’s stage; I step behind it with Bobby and co and we are a well-oiled crew. Even Smirnoff knows his role. Real life exists out on that stage beyond the safety curtain, and Gio and his family are the first people I’ve allowed to step on to it. I’ve painted their glass door into my set background, allowed Mulberry Street to become part of my production. I understand now that it’s not a one-act performance. My set needs more buildings, it needs to be bigger, fuller, and richer, so while I’m not going to Belotti’s this morning, I am going out. I’d become too accustomed to spending my mornings hiding behind the safety curtain before I saw that painted door, but I’m ready to step out from behind it now. New York is on my doorstep in all its messy, energetic glory—I’m taking myself out there to paint some new colors on my backdrop.
* * *
—
CLICHéD AS IT MIGHT BE, I’ve decided to start at Katz’s Deli. Not because Meg Ryan faked an orgasm there, but because I’ve got such fond memories of watching that movie with my mother. So actually, yes, maybe I am going because of Meg Ryan, in a roundabout way. I ducked in there when I first arrived in NY and pulled myself straight back out again; the place was jumping with an energy I didn’t feel up to being part of. I don’t expect it to be any different today, but I’m different, and hopefully that’s enough. I haven’t told Bobby what happened at Belotti’s yesterday so I can’t ask him to come with me, but that’s okay. Part of painting my background set involves being assertive enough to do things alone, otherwise my background will always be someone else’s take on life, and this needs to be mine.