Lure of the grapes, p.13
Lure of the Grapes, page 13
“Wow, I feel like that sometimes too,” Akala said.
Niccolò nodded.
“I guess I’m not so different than anyone else, am I?” Akala said. “I am a writer, even if no one appreciates my writing, I’m still going to write what I want, and write with passion!”
“There you go!” Niccolò said.
“I will write a fabulous play and perform it and find a man that appreciates my sfogliatelle,” because that would mean success for her and her gifts.
“Sfogliatelle?” Niccolò asked. “That’s what we ate together, in the rain!”
Akala gasped.

Out in the hallway, there echoed footsteps again, and they hushed.
Niccolò caught Biagio’s statement about two individuals appearing suspicious. Niccolò scratched his head. The last thing he wanted was another encounter with the detective. “I will wait here at the end of the hallway until they reappear.”
Niccolò rummaged through the box of costumes under the table.
“Here, we need to put these on,” Niccolò said.
“Really?”
“So the detective will not recognize us!”
Akala put on a pink glittered wig, and a heavy layered broomstick skirt, made of linen squares of different colors, such that Josephina would wear on the farm. Niccolò put on a top hat, a mustache, and a black jacket with coattails. He carried with him the violin and urged Akala to take his arm.
“Act natural,” Niccolò said, “We will go into the theater through the curtains. If we can make it without Biagio seeing us, then we can hide in the theater!”
Akala seemed happy about the idea and they strolled out of the art room, straight to the doors of the theater. From the corner of his eye, Niccolò noticed Biagio turning their way as they entered the theater doors. Biagio made a sound, like a confused grunt, but he said nothing. However, footsteps followed them.
“Oh no, he follows!” Niccolò whispered.
Aside from some people on stage setting up props for a play, the theater remained empty. The main prop was a castle wall with a quaint window and a tree beside covered in vines. The backdrop contained a Renaissance blue sky, painted with angels and white clouds.
Niccolò and Akala ran toward the stage, turning to segue through the theater chairs.
Once on the stage, they entered the castle prop, behind which the only light was a florescent purple strobe-light. The tree prop had stairs to the top, which reminded Akala of her childhood and the intrigue of a treehouse.
Outside the castle, Niccolò caught sound of Biagio’s footsteps again.
“Have you seen two people running around?” Biagio asked the workers. “They’re up to no good.”
“No, haven’t seen anyone up to no good, but my coworkers may have seen something. They have left to eat lunch.”
The voices faded around a corner.
Niccolò shook his head. The two of them peered out of the quaint window. There was no one about but a few people cleaning up the stage. When all seemed clear they tiptoed out of the castle.
Biagio’s footsteps echoed in the changing area behind the stage.
Akala gasped. “What do we do?”
Niccolò urged Akala to go up the tree by way of the stairs.
Then he took out the violin and put the bow to the strings. At first it was awkward, but Niccolò soon caught memory of several songs. He hadn’t played in a long while as he could not buy a violin for himself after he was out of school, but the ease and joy of playing returned in full force.
The violin echoed across the auditorium, while Akala looked down on Niccolò from the tree branch, her hair glittering in the purple light. Akala’s eyes sparkled in the light. She did not take her eyes from Niccolò and when he met her eyes, Niccolò smiled, too. Biagio appeared before the stage and listened. It seemed he liked the music. The woman with the bun came and stood beside Biagio.
As the song carried over the silence and seemed to dance on the stage lights, Akala watched Niccolò intently from the tree branch. The song seemed to be a love song, sweet and introspective. Even with a topcoat and a fake mustache, Niccolò was handsome, but he also felt familiar and comfortable to her, because he was kind.
When Niccolò finished the song, Biagio and the woman clapped. Niccolò looked over his shoulder.
“The sound is so nice, but I’ve got to go,” Biagio said, and hurried out of the theater.
The woman with the bun came closer to the stage.
“That was impressive,” she said, “Can you come back next week?”

Akala took Niccolò’s arm, and they ran from the theater, laughing. A sense of peace again returned to Akala while with Niccolò, which had eluded her since she had run from Biagio a few nights before. She had expected a madness to come over her. Perhaps a madness like culture shock, where everything appears strange, twisted, and unfamiliar. Culture shock is like everything you have known your whole life is not real anymore and yet for Akala this shock did not come from the culture itself, but rather a new perception of herself.
“Come, andiamo,” Niccolò said and motioned for her to come go with down an alley.
Akala and Niccolò strolled silently down the cobblestone street, side by side.
The rain had ceased, and the sun shone brightly.
Akala looked up, where the laundry hung from wrought-iron balconies. The balcony doorways displayed ornate and intricate designs. One of the small balconies had vases of painted porcelain and a vine plant. This alley resembled a tunnel of curiosities. Each piece surely had a story, a meaning. The broken pieces possessed a certain beauty too. Akala reflected on their stories and no longer perceived them as fragmented and devoid of meaning.
“So, who are you?” Niccolò said. Akala studied him. Niccolò’s eyes were intense but soft at the same time. “What are you?”
The cowboy would say this to her, and she found it pleasant.
“Well, I love to write… but more-so to dream. I just told my friends how I always felt obligated to do things that felt uncomfortable to me, to live up to the expectations of other people. I am still trying to understand… what it is that God truly wants for my life.”
Niccolò looked at her, almost in surprise.
“I understand. Me too,” he said and Akala could sense he truly did understand. “It is important to know what you love,” he continued. Then he seemed thoughtful for a moment. “I love the vineyard, my mother’s vineyard. I love the sheep and I miss the cattle and going to the vines early in the morning to work.”
Niccolò stopped walking but continued to talk.
“I miss the smell of the smokehouse and the sound of the sheep. I have not admitted this to many.”
Akala heard sorrow in his voice.
“If God gives us the desires of our hearts,” he said, “I don’t always comprehend why these things are not mine. I do know I must make Him first and take delight in Him, this comes first. I suppose a perfect scenario is not the purpose of our lives… these beautiful moments are but a vapor, here at once and then evaporated away.”
Akala studied him as they stood there.
“I don’t understand either,” Akala answered, “If we have a desire, but it remains out of reach for us.”
“My mother said you wanted to see the lambs?” Niccolò asked.
“Oh yes!” Akala answered.
“I will show them to you!”
Akala smiled. “Thank you!”
Niccolò led her down an alleyway to a picturesque little courtyard, sandwiched between two old buildings.
“You can wait here for me, my apartment is around the corner,” Niccolò said.
He pointed to a little iron table in the closed-off courtyard and Akala sat down at the table. Pigeons gathered on the building beside her. Ivy grew there, too. The peaceful setup brought her delight.
Niccolò came back with hot tea in two mugs and some crusty bread. He had changed into green plaid pants. Akala admired his style.
“I love tea!” Akala said.
“What else do you love?” Niccolò asked as he sat down next to her.
Akala’s mouth opened and her eyes squinted as she considered it.
“I’ll let you know,” she said.
They sat there in silence for a few moments after that. Niccolò didn’t get uncomfortable and did not say “… so…” as if to imply that she was a bore.
“You’re a student? At University?” Niccolò asked as he opened a small paper bag. He popped the cork out of a small bottle of grape juice and poured it over the two bowls of bread.
“Yes.”
He gestured to the bread as he replaced the cork on the bottle.
“Go ahead and eat, wanderer,” he said.
Niccolò looked down and grinned to himself. Without saying more or lifting his long dark lashes, he took a bite of his bread.
What did he mean, she wandered? Did she look as though she searched for something? Or did he mean that all people search, and she was just another person in the world, who had to be searching?
Akala took a bite of the delicious, soft bread.
“What do you mean by ‘wanderer’?” she asked with a raised brow, but she did not feel he insulted her.
“I am a wanderer too,” Niccolò said. “Look at the birds.”
The pigeons jived around to some unheard pigeon music, but each bird was of a unique color, some iridescent. Niccolò watched them, so relaxed and still.
Akala looked down at the birds. Even they seemed harried, inadvertently bobbing their heads like little machine guns, forward and back, forward and back. Sometimes they bobbed so fast that it looked painful, for the faster they walked, the harder the heads bobbed. Overwhelmed, Akala shut her eyes and pondered the source of her anxiety, aside from Biagio. Perhaps it was the constant pretending to not be pretending.
“Even Jesus said that no one can add a moment to their life by worrying’,” Niccolò stated. “Trust. Trust in God takes a lot of practice. Trust that things will work out the way they should if you do the best you can. That is hard, but we must do it.”
They finished the delicious bread.
Niccolò stood. “Andiamo!” he said, and he walked while Akala unquestioningly followed him. He turned a few corners and walked toward the brick courtyard in front of the Cathedral of Fiorella, so brilliant in the sun.
“Cattedrale di Fiorella,” Niccolò said.
Akala took in her breath. The clear sun illuminated a lavish and sparkling view.
“It feels so good, doesn’t it? Right here, in this square!” Akala said, and closed her eyes and smiled.
Niccolò led the way into the cathedral and they looked at all the splendid artwork. Akala and Niccolò sat down in the pews. It was not just any church; it was both a cathedral and a work of art. How big it seemed on the inside. Niccolò relaxed and contemplated the cross at the front and Akala’s eyes scanned the ceiling.
Niccolò noticed as she studied painting above, containing creation on one side and the judgement on the other. Then they sat there, not saying a word. The cathedral remained quiet even with many people inside, who all seemed so contemplative, as they gazed around themselves.
“Andiamo,” said Niccolò again and motioned for her to follow.
He led her into a cold hallway and up many, many steep stairs. Upon reaching the top of the stairs, they found themselves standing on a narrow balcony that extended around the ceiling. Akala marveled at the painting on the ceiling breathlessly. A slight lean on the railing and Akala became dizzy and weak. It seemed her light heart would hang in the air if she fell.
Niccolò’s eyes never shifted from the judgment painting.
“It’s so true. There can be a beautiful moment… but if you have a dislike for yourself then you must face yourself afterward.”
He turned his head to look at her. He blinked as realization washed over him.
“What you say gives me a revelation. If we do not love ourselves, it will be hard to sustain God’s plans for us. We must love the person who has the destiny! Before the destiny can be accomplished!”
He said it excitedly and his voice echoed across the ceiling. “That’s it!” he cried.
He began to laugh.
“Thank You, Lord!” he cried. His voice carried across the ceiling and echoed throughout the church. “I praise You, Lord! I praise You, Lord!”
The people below began to praise God as well until the cathedral filled with the sound of worship.
This moment gave Akala chills and brought tears to her eyes.
After singing for many moments with those below, they descended the stairs, Akala with a deep sense of calm.

The street was uneven and full of holes in the stone. Up ahead was a small doorway. Akala wondered why Niccolò chose the particular small door, as it seemed less popular, with no small black iron tables outside.
However, as Niccolò opened the door, and they walked inside, Akala was transported to a place in her dreams. The shop was small and full of books and smelled of sweet coffee. Everything shined. Long, striped silk curtains hung between the bookshelves and decorations adorned the shelves, as Niccolò led her to the counter in the back.
On the menu extensive, the coffee and gelato flavors were written beautifully in Italian in many colors of chalk on a blackboard.
By the way that they welcomed him, Niccolò knew the people, although he had barely spoken a word. Niccolò motioned for her after shaking hands and even exchange cheek kisses with a couple of the baristas. Everyone smiled at them and welcomed her, too.
“Come,” he said. “Have some gelato!”
The flavors seemed endless.
“This one, pistachio,” he began, as he pointed at several things down the menu. “This one, lingonberry.”
“Lingonberry? That sounds good, I will try something I’ve never had before!”
“Me too!”
Soon the baristas handed them both a cone of lingonberry gelato and they sat on at a vintage booth near the counter.
Lingonberry Gelato
2 eggs
¼ cup sugar
1 ½ cups whole milk
1 cup heavy cream
8 ounce jar of lingonberry preserves, jam or jelly (or replace with your favorite fruit jam!)
Blend eggs and sugar until they are a nice creamy texture and light color, set aside.
In a saucepan, heat milk and cream over medium but do not boil. Slowly add the egg mixture, stirring constantly for 2 to 3 more minutes. Add ½ the lingonberry preserves, and slowly add more to your taste. Stir well. Take off the heat and let cool.
Place the mixture in a freezer-safe container with a lid and place in the freezer. Take the mixture out after 30 minutes, stir to break up ice. Freeze again and repeat. Do this for at least three hours before serving. The gelato should be smooth and creamy!
Niccolò appeared satisfied while enjoying the gelato, he only paused to glance up at her.
“You like this place, no?” he asked.
“It’s like a dream.”
“There is a beautiful courtyard out back, I will show you! My uncle owns the bakery on the other end of the courtyard. We can get more sweets there.”
“Really?”
“Yes, but please enjoy the gelato!”
“Okay, I love it in here.”
“Me too.”
Akala wanted to inquire about observing the sheep when she glanced up and noticed Niccolò grinning from behind his gelato.
“What are you thinking of?” he asked.
“Sheep!” she said, dead honest.
Niccolò seemed amused.
“I really want to pet them!”
“I will show them to you.”
Following that, they fell into silence for a few moments. Akala studied the plates hanging on the walls and looked back to him. He maintained his smile.
“And your face,” Niccolò said, “now it is saying…” Akala was sure he was looking at the clueless gaze, but instead he said: “‘Give me something new, I’m waiting.’ Your face expresses a desire for new experiences, something fresh to perceive and experience.” Akala beamed. “You study things,” he said, simply. It was true. Where some perceived thoughtlessness, Niccolò recognized the inner workings.
Niccolò seemed to forget her and began to chuckle.
“What?”
Niccolò chuckled harder. “Are you studying my face?” he asked and pointed to himself. “What a funny thing is a face! Isn’t it? What a funny thing is a mouth!” He moved his lips awkwardly, as though he’d never used them before, making a buh… buh noise. His handsome face contorted hysterically.
Akala burst out in soprano laughter despite herself. People gazed at them, some stared blatantly.
Niccolò slapped the table with his hand. He said: “What a funny thing are teeth! White squares!” he exclaimed and grinned, while crossing his eyes to look down at his own mouth.
At that moment, a tall, dark-haired man confidently approached them but suddenly halted and observed them with a serious, inquisitive expression on his face. Niccolò never stopped smiling. Akala looked toward the man and stopped laughing, self conscious all of a sudden. The man was either disgusted or strangely curious.
After a few silent moments, the man threw his head back, “Nipote!” he cried. The owners smiled toward them but otherwise paid no mind. “Nephew, where have you been?”
Niccolò stood and took the man’s hand and they embraced. Akala put gelato in her mouth while staring toward the scene. She did not know what they said, but she felt the emotion.
It was yet another perfect moment in Italy. In these moments, it was like all she had to do was exist. She didn’t have to face mundane reality, because reality in Italy was not ever mundane, was it?
“Zio,” said Niccolò, “This is Akala.”
“Oh, she is a beautiful girl, with beautiful red hair,” said Niccolò’s uncle, “Call me Zio,” he said and pulled up a chair.
