Chapter Text
Sunday
Looking out the train's window as countryside and sandy shores flitted past, Maria could tell it was a bright, sunny day.
She had never seen an ocean bluer than this as white streams of light danced across its waves, shining into her young, caramel-brown eyes and making them water. Closer, and much blurrier, long grass blades curved as if they were thin candy canes, swept by the wind. She’d never seen them so green before.
“A beauty, isn’t it?” Her mother asked her, giving her small hand a squeeze. “You’ll never get sights like this in the city.”
Maria’s mother talked about Portorosso — an old, seaside, summer-drenched speck of the world — a lot, but Maria had never actually stepped outside Genova before.
Both of her parents - Signor Costa and Signora Marcovaldo - had been classmates studying law at Università di Bologna. In time, they began dating and found work in the same start-up company until eventually getting married and having their first child - a redheaded, tomboyish daughter - three years later.
It wasn’t that her mother had never wanted to go on vacation and see her old summer home again, it was simply that times were too busy to allow it, so she never quite left Genova, raising her daughter with the help of her own mother, Maria’s namesake, well within the city’s limits. There, Maria spent her summers and holidays. There, she lived and learned and made her place in the world.
There, Maria’s home sat, and where the city ended was where her world stopped, but that didn’t scare her at all.
In fact, it did quite the opposite.
“Ooh, tunnel!” The girl squealed as the light disappeared around her. “Does that mean we’re there?” she asked, bouncing in her seat, just as she had done with every other they had passed through.
“Not yet, fragolina,” her bespeckled father responded, flipping a page of his book.
“Actually—” her mother cut in, leaning forward to see out the window as her daughter did the same.
As the light returned, both redheads blinked against the blinding shine, but when one gasped with delight as an island, booming with green foliage, appeared on the horizon, they both knew the train ride was coming to an end.
“Yes! We’ve made it,” her mother declared, pulling up a suitcase from beneath the seat.
Maria was nearly bursting with giddiness, unable to contain her energy as she writhed and mashed her hands together.
Her father puffed, amused, and put his book back into a thick leather briefcase. “Alright, then. Make a liar out of me, why don’t you, Giulietta,” he said as the train’s wheels ground to a stop.
As passengers began filing out, Maria stood up and dusted herself off. Her mother would grab her hand and walk her out, strawberry-colored suitcase rolling behind.
Her mother went first down the stairs, then turned and lifted her hand to the girl. “Hold my hand,” she said as Maria carefully hopped down each step. “Good job,” she congratulated with a slight grin once the girl’s feet were both firmly planted on the terracotta brick.
Maria looked around, a whole new world opening up to her in a second.
Indeed, it had been a sunny day. Despite her sandal’s soles, she could tell that the brick was baked and would sting to the touch as its auburn hues seemed to glow in the daylight. The flaps of the station’s awning swayed gently in the wind, and even the short, choppy grass that had grown in patches where the platform fell off seemed utterly vibrant in its emerald and jade hues. The sky was a baby blue, only broken up by a few wispy clouds, and the sound of children playing in ocean water didn’t seem at all so distant with the pungent smell of sea salt now prickling at her nose.
All around her, green and mountainous hills rolled together, dotted only by sparse houses and silos. Far off, people like ants worked in the fields, plucking ripe fruit off of trees and bent to their knees on the ground, baskets of bushels of greens beside them.
Following her eye back to the crowd, the people weren’t dressed in sleek clothes, nor were carrying any briefcases or shopping bags with labels plastered all over. Instead of sticky buns and grease, their hair was done up with colorful pieces of thin fabric of rubies and lemons and limes or copper flat caps that looked worn down from years and years of use.
The women all wore warm skirts and aprons around their waists, their wool blouses - providing the most color to their attire - buttoned up to the top as the men wore almost exclusively stained cream on top with slate gray or dusty brown underneath.
Certainly, this was nothing like Genova.
A second later, she was almost startled by her mother letting go of her hand and loudly gasping with delight.
“Ciao, papá!” She chippered, running into a stranger’s arms.
Maria had to crane her neck to look up at the man. He must have been the largest man she had ever seen.
He was twice her size in height, and surely three times her width. The thin curls that poked out from beneath his cap were ash, but his mustache was thick and the color of charcoal. His eyes were hidden by a similarly thick brow, but with the way his mustache twitched wider and his giant arm enveloped her mother, Maria could tell he was no threat (despite the number of daunting knives on his belt).
After they parted, the man wordlessly delivered one last warm pat on her mother’s shoulder.
Maria, finding the courage to walk closer to them, tugged at her mother’s pant leg.
She smiled down at her, pressing against her back to come out and join them. “Maria,” she said, her happy tone swaying a little into instruction, “this is nonno Massimo. Say hello, because you’ll be staying with him for the week.”
“Ciao, nonno Massimo,” the girl said, a little meek.
“Ciao, Maria. Piacere,” he responded, bending to take her small hand and shake it. His voice, though kind, was low and gruff like an old dog’s bark.
Then, her mother spoke up. “The train will be leaving soon. Can you take this, dolcezza?” she said, rolling the suitcase closer to Maria.
But before the young girl could take it, the man had created a firm grip on the handle, pulling it to his side.
Her mother put her hands up, stepping away. “Will you be alright then?” To whom the question was geared towards - neither could say.
Simultaneously, the young girl and the old, large man nodded.
“Alright,” her mother sighed, then crouched down to cup Maria’s face with her hands. “I’ll be back to get you in a week. Go have fun, and be sure to have a good story for me and papá when we get back,” she winked, pressed a kiss to her forehead, and was off.
That was until she was sticking her head out the train’s window, calling out:
“Oh! And tell the boys I said ‘Ciao’!”
Maria looked up at her grandfather dumbly. “Who are the boys?”
—————
A swinging bell announced Maria’s and nonno Massimo’s arrival as he opened the doors of the pescheria. The girl held her nose, blasted by the horrible smell of fish as she shuffled in.
“Buongiorno, what can I get you?” greeted a complacent, rough voice from farther in the shop. Maria would have looked to the source, but her eyes were too occupied with the mounds and mounds of fish meat piled in buckets along the walls with nets and barrels. She cringed as she walked along, her footsteps sounded wet and gooey on the tiled floor.
She thought that somebody really ought to clean the floors around here and turned to look for a mop, but went white as a ghastly swordfish stared down at her with dull, glassy eyes from its place mounted atop the wall.
She clung to the back of grandfather’s leg, and he laughed.
“Just time, figlio,” the old man responded.
“Oh, papá! You’re back already?” came the voice again, much more lively now. “Is…is she here?”
Maria heard the man grunt a nod before he stepped away and to the side, pressing her gently on her back just as her mother did, coaxing her into a greeting.
But instead of saying “ciao” or “buongiorno” or even a simple “salve,” all Maria could say was, “Wow.”
He must have been the second-largest man she’s ever seen.
Like Maria’s grandfather, he was a wide tower, lurching over her and casting his shadow across the dimly lit room. But other than that — he looked nothing like him.
For one, he was bronze from head to toe, and his hair was generously poofy, billowing with golden brown curls out from beneath his flat cap, instead of falling down. His eyes were clear and bright and the greenest Maria had ever seen. Instead of a dense mustache, he had a dense beard, and instead of a single tattoo on his arm that was so faded by time that it took a quarter of an hour to even notice, his arms were covered in them, starting at the wrists and disappearing up into his sleeves.
But most prominent of all: his joyous expression was very, very clear.
He chuckled, shaking his head as he crouched down to her level. “Ciao, signoretta! Is your mamma here? —Sorry, sorry, getting ahead of myself. Piacere, zio Alberto.” He held out his hand.
Maria looked at it. It looked slimy and calloused — so much so it made her a little squeamish. Bravely swallowing down nausea, she took it and gave it a gentle shake.
“No, she’s gone,” Maria said after a moment, her voice sounding nasal as she kept her nose plugged with her free hand, the other now wiping away the feeling of raw fish on her violet overalls.
Zio Alberto’s smile seemed to falter, but he managed to bring it back. “That’s okay. I’ll catch her next time.”
There’s a small sadness in his tone that Maria picks up on, but doesn’t quite understand. Despite it, he pats his legs and stands up with a steady grin. “Can I help with that?” He said, flexing a finger towards the rolling suitcase.
Nonno Massimo nods and allows zio Alberto to take it from him, rolling it past the counter before lowering the handle and effortlessly carrying it up the stairs.
Maria looks up to the old man for instruction. All he gives her is a sideways nod, aimed for the staircase. He wants her to follow him, and so she does.
The staircase creaks with every step taken.
The smell of fish lingered, but her grip on her nose did soften as she ascended. The walls were lined with old photos - some in bleached color, some in black and white. She could recognize her mother clearly; she hadn’t changed much over the years. Her grandfather’s style never seemed to waver; it was like he had chosen one outfit to wear his entire life.
And in some photos, there appeared a teenage boy to a young man, grinning always from ear to ear. Maria would correctly guess that this was zio Alberto. She wondered why there were no “little kid” pictures of him anywhere, when there seems to be so many of her mother.
And in many of the photos, the boy was scaled (or partially so). Other kids Maria’s age would probably cry out and get teary-eyed at the sight, but she only hummed a small tune. Her uncle’s a sea monster, just like her parents’ clients - what fun!
But there was something that stuck out — something that made Maria stop in her tracks and furrow her brow, tilting her head and squinting her eyes to get a better look: there was another boy.
There was another boy, and he showed up a lot.
He seemed to be a sea monster, too, with teal green scales and indigo paddles instead of the violets and silvery blues that zio Alberto had. As a human, his curly hair was of a dark brown hue and his skin was pale and pinkish. He looked like someone that could be her uncle much more than zio Alberto, but that didn’t seem to be the case.
Though, he did show up in family portraits a number of times. He stood and posed for a picture beside Maria’s mother and uncle happily countless times. He looked like he belonged, but Maria’s mother only has one brother. At least, that’s what Maria been told.
Maria furrowed her brow and attempted to look closer.
“Something caught your eye, piccoletta?” zio Alberto chimes at the top of the staircase.
Maria nodded, her ears a little pink. “Who’s that?”
He walked towards her. The stairs complained much louder when he walked on them, Maria noted. Stopping behind the girl, he put a hand on her head and asked, “Who’s who?”
Maria tapped against the cool glass of one of the photos, displaying a happy trio - two in graduation robes and wreaths, one dressed in a villager’s version of fancy. “Him.”
For some reason, zio Alberto couldn’t help but smile. “That,” he said, much louder than before, “is the coolest guy you’ll ever know.” And then, “Well, besides myself, of course.”
Maria huffed, but couldn’t deny that she was intrigued. “No, what’s his name?” she pouted.
Her uncle didn’t seem to catch on to her little ball of annoyance. “Signor Luca Paguro, smartest man in all of Italia.”
Her eyes widened. “Is he Einstein?” she said, her neck bent upwards to look at her uncle in awe.
“He’s my Einstein,” Alberto sighed, a languid, dopey grin across his face. Then, he snorted a short laugh, moved his hand down to her back, and patted it with a tint of conclusion. “Andiamo dai. Help me unpack your bags, will you?”
Maria nodded and continued following him up the staircase, but couldn’t stop herself from prying - it’s not like six-year-olds have that much self-control.
“Why was he in the photos?” was her first question.
“Because he’s part of the family,” was the response that came - no help at all.
“How?” was the second.
“Because he is,” was the next answer - even less help than the first.
Again, Maria huffed. This time, she was too frustrated to look around and take in her surroundings. She wanted answers!
“I know you saw the fishy photos. Why don’t you ask about that?” her uncle offered, walking through a doorway.
“I already know all about that,” Maria declared.
“Oh really?” Though she couldn’t see his face, she was sure that he’d be arching a brow. He seemed like the type of man to arch a brow.
“Uh-huh! My mamma and papà work with sea monsters all the time!” Maria said, trotting after her uncle. “I know a-a-a-all about them. I’m an expert!”
“I’m sure you are,” her uncle agreed, though his tone was skeptical as he dropped her bag onto the bed and started working the zipper open. “So, other than having all the knowledge in the world on sea monsters, what else do you like to do?”
“Explore.”
“Explore?” He repeated, taking out bright, colorful shirt after bright, colorful shirt, denim overalls after slightly-different-type-of-denim overalls.
“Yup.”
“Is there a lot to explore in Genova?”
Maria’s proud smile dropped, if only by a hair. “No, because my papà says it’s too dangerous, but I want to!”
“Well, there’s plenty of space to explore in Portorosso — believe me, I’d know. Maybe you, Sr. Luca, and I can plan to do that sometime this week.”
Maria bounced on her feet, the giddy joy returning to her. “Really?”
Her uncle nodded. “Why don’t you explore this room first, some. I’ve heard it’s got some pretty neat stuff lying around.”
Maria nodded again and began looking.
Underneath the bunk bed, she found a fat, bicolored cat named Pepin hiding behind stacks and stacks of cassette tapes. On the bookshelf, she found dust collected upon an incredulous number of sketchbooks and stories. In the closet, she found her mother’s old doll — a mini-me of herself — and plenty of space for her belongings. But what she found most intriguing was inside the nightstand’s drawer: an old Polaroid camera.
“I can’t believe she left this,” her uncle said, taking it up into her hands, carefully turning it over every which way, his fingers dancing to avoid any buttons or clicks as it rotated in his thick hands. “You know, your mamma was quite the photographer when we were younger. She almost went into it as a business.”
“Really?” Maria tilted her head.
“Mhm.” Then, zio Alberto takes the camera up to his ear and pats it twice — hard, but not too hard — on its side. Something loud and mechanical clacked from within. Taking it away from his ear, he sighs.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m trying to figure out if there's any film in here, but I can’t tell. I may be the second-best fisherman in the world, but I don’t know a single thing about cameras.”
“Maybe we can ask Signor Luca! He’s smart,” Maria suggests, playing with the beads on one of her pigtails.
“Good idea.”
—————
The first thing Maria noticed about Sr. Luca was that he looked like a humanized weasel.
She couldn’t exactly tell whether his face was round or squarish, but when he looked at her from across the small kitchen, it felt like she was being stared at right through her body into the deepest, darkest pits of her soul — even if they weren’t all that much darker than a mauve.
His eyes were huge and seemed to always be a little bit too open, and his large, round glasses that sat atop his nose certainly provided no relief. She supposed this effect didn’t transfer through printed photos, and she almost wishes that it did.
In comparison to the other two men, he seemed younger, somehow. It might be because he was far better groomed, or noticeably shorter, or far, far slighter — but she was keener to bet on it being the result of all three.
Nevertheless, he still appeared happy to see her, turning to the girl with his hands folded out in front of him and cooing, “Oh? And who is this carina?”
—Which brought about the second revelation: Sr. Luca has a very funny voice.
“My name is Maria,” she said matter-of-factly, jutting out her hand in offering. She needed to be precise - proper - towards a genius like him (even if he did sound a little odd or his looks were a bit stoutish.)
Sr. Luca hummed a laugh and took her hand, shaking it once, twice, three times before letting go. “Nice grip you have there,” he complimented. She had hoped so — her fingers were turning as red as raspberries with how hard she was holding on. “Very professional.” He gave a wink. “But maybe just a tad too tight. You want to go for firm — not constricting.”
Maria nodded. She’d have to remember that for when she goes back to Genova.
Then, Sr. Luca turned to nonno Massimo. “What’s for supper?” he asked.
What Maria had learned about an hour ago, still searching through her mother’s and uncle’s shared room, was that he and Sr. Luca came over every Sunday to have a “family dinner” with nonno Massimo.
A long, long time ago, Sr. Luca’s parents would come up, out of the ocean, and spend the evening with them as well. But as they got older, they started to fear that spending too much time above the water would take a toll on their bodies, (give them “coiled-tail-itus” — or whatever that was) until they eventually stopped meeting at all.
But that was a long, long time ago, and Maria was assured that it’s not that bad, since Sr. Luca and zio Alberto visit his parents every Saturday.
Now, in the present, nonno Massimo vaguely answers the younger man’s question with “A classic,” as he reaches up into a cupboard to take out a vase of oil. “Maria,” he calls with his voice low, pouring the thick liquid into a mortar and handing it to the young girl.
She looks up at him for instruction, twiddling with the pestle through the mess of greens inside.
Nonno Massimo moves his hand in the grinding, circular motion as Sr. Luca and zio Alberto both move to set the table.
“Oh,” Maria mumbles and gets to work.
Behind her, out of sight, zio Alberto blows air. “Caspita, that’s freaky,” he hisses in a whisper — barely audible above the clinging silverware.
“Right?” Sr. Luca agrees, his voice similarly devoid of voice or volume. “I’m getting crazy déjà-vu.”
“Déjà-vu?” zio Alberto repeats. “What’s that?”
“It’s French. It’s like when you feel that you’ve experienced something before, and you’re reliving it.”
“Oh yeah, I’m reliving it alright. Like I knew she would look similar but goddamn, man.”
“Language,” nonno Massimo gruffed.
“Sorry!” Sr. Luca apologized for him. Then, much, much quieter, though still not quiet enough: “But that’s no surprise, really. Giulia looked just like her mom — it’s no shock to me that the same thing is happening with this one. I wonder how far back the looks go…”
“It’s still creepy, though. Like seeing them like this— it’s…” He couldn’t seem to find the word.
“…Unnerving?”
“Yeah, exactly! Unnerving.”
“We can still hear you,” nonno Massimo said, taking the mortar from Maria and dumping its contents in with the pasta to mix and mingle.
Maria knew that she should feel bad — they, even though adults, were talking about her behind her back, but she couldn’t seem to find it in herself to be upset. She was happy that she was her mother’s miniature doppelganger, even going as far as to say that she prided herself in it.
In time, the four gathered themselves around the table - each fitted with a good helping of a Marcovaldo-style trenette al pesto. Her mother always said that her grandfather made it best, and she would move to find out if she agreed with her words fairly soon, but first, there was something she needed to do.
Maria leaned toward her uncle, almost tilting out of her seat to reach him. “It’s okay,” she comforted with a small nod. “I’m a bad whisperer, too.”
He gives her a smile, then, to nobody in particular, “You know who else is a bad whisperer?”
“Who?” asks Sr. Luca.
“Fabia Marsigliese.”
“Oddio,” Sr. Luca groans. “Tell me about it. I had her in one of my classes last year — that girl just wouldn’t stop talking! But to who’s surprise is that? She’s a female Marsigliese — they’re all gossips.”
Nonno Massimo hums a nod in agreement, and zio Alberto continues on animatedly. “Well, it’s good for some things. Like just today she came in chattering to Luisa about how Monica caught Silvio kissing Bianca in the Clam’s Coral, can you believe it?”
“In the Clam’s Coral?!” Sr. Luca’s calmness seemed to rip right off of him, and now Maria couldn’t tell whether his grin was forced or bemused in the most devilish of senses. “Oh, I always knew that guppy was going to be a troublemaker.”
“You love troublemakers, though.” Maria doesn’t quite understand her uncle’s tone. It sounds playful, but not quite. He seems to be insinuating something, but she can’t exactly tell what.
“I did,” Sr. Luca huffed, tapping his fork against the pasta, “when I had a necessity for one. But disrespecting— defacing a place of worship? That’s not a necessity.”
“Huh?” Maria, utterly, utterly confused voiced, her mouth partially full. This whole conversation was going right over her head.
“It’s— it’s a sea monster thing,” Sr. Luca explained shortly. Then, back to zio Alberto, “Which one was it?”
“The northern one,” zio Alberto replied.
Sr. Luca untensed, if only but a hair. “Well that’s better than the southern, I suppose.”
Maria looked from face to face perplexed. She hated boring conversations — the ones that plagued her life back in Genova hearing the same old coworker’s name over and over, the same client with the same issue again and again, but she hated interesting conversations that she didn’t understand even more.
“Why’s it better than the southern?”
“It’s less important,” said nonno Massimo. Maria was surprised that he was the one to answer.
She furrowed her brow and stared up at him as he inconspicuously twirled pasta onto his fork. “Are you a sea monster, too?”
He shook his head, taking a bite.
“Why not?”
“Because I’m human.”
Maria looked down at her plate and thought for a moment. Then, a few seconds later, she spoke up again. “But zio Alberto’s a sea monster.”
“I was adopted,” her uncle cut in, seeming a little perturbed — for what reason, she didn’t know.
“Rescued, more like,” Sr. Luca mumbled into his hand.
“Shut up,” zio Alberto was quick to whisper back with a hit of his head.
“Why were you adopted?”
Zio Alberto straightened his back, sitting up in his chair and wiping his hands with his napkin, even though they hadn’t (yet) had any sauce on them. “Because I was an orphan, and needed a dad.”
Maria’s eyebrows twitched an inch upward. “Like Annie?”
Zio Alberto’s face contorted in cringe and he moved his mouth to speak, but Sr. Luca, grinning from ear to ear, beat him to the line: “Yes, like Annie!”
“Do you sing like Annie?”
“No, I—”
“Yes! He does all the time!” Sr. Luca’s offended disposition seemed to have completely disappeared within a second’s notice.
“No I don’t!” zio Alberto fought, a red entering his ears and cheeks.
“Yes, yes you do! You were just singing earlier today!” The man’s cheer carried over to Maria, who now also couldn’t help to fight off her smile. “What was it— Quando men vo soletta per la via—”
“STAI ZITTO!” zio Alberto knocked over his chair, rushing to clap his hands over the other man’s mouth.
With a little effort, Sr. Luca managed to pry them off with just enough time to laugh, “Le gente sostra e mira—!”
Then, it wasn’t just his hands that were covering his lower face — it was the entire thickness of his arm.
“Stai zitto! Stai zitto, idiota!”
Now, Maria’s smile had turned into a fit of giggles. She had never seen a pair of adults so childish and so amusing to watch.
To her right, Massimo sighs and shakes his head.
“Alberto,” he says with a demanding tone, as he lowers his fork to gesture back at the fallen chair.
“Sorry! Sorry,” her uncle apologizes, sounding much too similar to a teenage boy caught roughhousing.
When he let go, Luca huffed to get air back in his lungs, fully flushed in the face. “Mother of Pearl, Alberto. You nearly suffocated me.”
“No I didn’t,” zio Alberto disagreed, fixing his chair right-side-up and sitting down. “You could’ve lasted longer.”
“And you could do well to remember that sea monsters can’t breathe through their skin when they’re—”
“—When they’re not wet. Yeah, yeah, you act like I didn’t teach you that.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, am—” Sr. Luca blinked oddly, like he was fighting off a sneeze, “—ico. We’ve just taught each other so many things over the years, I forget what belongs to who. Forgive me?”
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever, you dork.” Then, zio Alberto’s eye moved from his pasta, to Sr. Luca, and then to Maria, her shoulders still shaking with laughter. “What’s so funny?”
But wasn’t it obvious?
She’d never seen a pair of adults so lively and so full of life as they were. She wondered why all the adults in Genova didn’t seem as happy — why they all seemed so bland, and so serious, and so busy that they hadn’t time for a joke or a quick giggle.
She wondered why it couldn’t be like this all the time, as her uncle and Sr. Luca talked mostly to each other, answering Maria’s questions as best they could when handed them. As her grandfather spoke little if only to reel in the conversation when it got a little bit too loud or too lively. As everyone was content and grinning by the end of the meal, still sitting around the table — not to eat, but just to continue the pursuit of comfortable conversation.
She learned a little about her grandfather’s old days of sea monster hunting — far, far away in the past now — as well as his affinity for operatic music. She learned that Vespa repair and commission prices (whatever those were) should never ever be brought up around zio Alberto unless she was wanting to sit through a lecture, and she learned that the most offensive thing you can say to Sr. Luca is “You’re not a nerd - nerds are sooo boring!”
But most of all, she learned that she was really, really, going to enjoy her week in Portorosso.