The Grandmother, 1952

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Somewhere in Naples, on the top floor of an apartment building, Luigi’s grandmother was making marinara sauce for her grandson, who right about now would be on his way home from school. She cut the tomatoes, diced the onions, crushed the garlic and gathered a few sprigs of oregano. Then she picked two basil leaves from her balcony for the final touch on the marinara. Luigi loved his pasta. She hoped that he wouldn’t forget the olives and capers today. The sauce was simmering in the pan, and the grandmother pulled it off the heat. The apartment was filled with its tangy-sweet aroma. With loving care, the old woman set the two basil leaves in the centre of the sauce with her fingertips. It was seven o’clock, and there was still no sign of Luigi. He must be with his friends – Renato, Giovanni and Aldo. The pasta would wait until he was on the doorstep; one did not reheat spaghetti. She often looked after her grandson on weekdays, and he gave her good reason to live. Her daughter worked herself to the bone; she was a secretary in a print factory. Ah, a mother should not have to work so much! As for her husband, a sailor in the merchant navy, he was always gallivanting far and wide; you’d barely have time to kiss his shadow before he was gone again. The daughter ironed her husband’s white uniform so he would have clean clothes in his case. This time the father had promised to be home before the early hours; Luigi would be delighted if he proved true to his word.

                  “Hey, wait up! I need to buy olives and capers for my grandma,” Luigi called to his friends.

Luigi went into the grocer and bought a small bag of olives and a handful of capers. On this afternoon, the narrow streets of Naples were quiet. It was the hour of riposo, when the schools let out and grandmothers hung their laundry on lines tied between apartment blocks. Like wet white birds they fluttered in the breeze; towels, shirts and socks wafting an aroma of soap and sunshine. In the afternoon car engines stayed quiet, and folks refrained from shouting into one another’s windows. The Neapolitans were asleep, and only children wandered the streets on their way home from school. Luigi emerged from the grocer’s shop, and caught up with his friends as they chatted.

                  “Antonella has the nicest behind I’ve ever seen,” said Renato.

                  “Are you crazy? That’s the butcher’s daughter! If he catches you touching her he’ll drag you through the streets in nothing but your socks,” cried Giovanni.

                  “He’s right. You better be careful. Antonella is beautiful, but she’s not the one for you. Have you even kissed a girl?” asked Aldo.

                  “You talk too much. You’ve never kissed a girl, that’s for sure,” laughed Giovanni.

                  “What would you know about it?” asked Renato. “It’s easy, just practice on the palm of your hand. It’s the same feeling. Cup your hand and make little circles with your tongue. That’s how the French kiss, and girls love it.”

                  “If I do that I'll have to go to confession. Father Francis already told me it’s a sin!”

                  “All you think about is being a priest,” Renato said to Luigi.

                “My grandma says joining the priesthood is the path to God. One day, I’ll be a priest and I’ll say mass every day.”

                  “Being a priest is horrible!” cried Giovanni. “Priests can’t kiss girls.”

                  “Well, Antonella goes to mass every Sunday. So if you want to have a chance with her, you’d better start going,” Aldo shot back at Renato.

Luigi opened the door to the apartment. “Nonna, I'm home!” he called. His grandmother quickly set the pasta water to boil, and tossed the olives and capers into the marinara sauce. “This is the recipe God gave us. Neapolitans make the best marinara!” his grandmother always said. Luigi was hungry, and tucked his napkin into his collar. The spaghetti was poured into the simmering water, where it would remain until each strand was al dente.

                  “What kept you out so late?” asked his grandmother.

                  “I was with the boys. Just talking,” Luigi answered politely.

                  “Talking, eh – about what now? Go on, tell your nonna.”

                  “Boy stuff. Everybody wants to go with Antonella, the butcher’s daughter. But she’s not interested in any of us.”

                  “You want my advice?” asked the grandmother. “If you want to go out with Antonella, tell her you’re going to be a priest.”

Alan Alfredo Geday