Lorenzo/Laurenz

Lorenzo had never felt at home in London. His father had come to England over fifty years ago.  By accident, if that was the way to describe a POW. For years papa had waved his arms around and talked of returning home. But there was always the restaurant to run.

Vipiteno was a small town  stuck between Italy and Austria. Papa had learnt to describe it as an Italian town.  Papa had learnt to cook like a southerner. The happy diners of Lorenzo's childhood had sat on red plastic benches cutting up spaghetti with knives and forks. They'd look longingly at the posters of Naples, Pompeii, the Amalfi coast - places Papa had never seen.

The last few years the menu had reflected the stodge of northern Italy. Noodle dumplings and pancake soups had become the prized dishes of the rich and famous who circled Soho.

Then Papa was dead. Mama/mum sold up and moved back to rural Bedfordshire, not far from the old POW camp where she had first seen Papa. At fifty-five Lorenzo felt like an orphan.

"La Rosa" was now a wine bar full of drunken office workers, eating cheesy nachos washed down with overpriced Chardonnay.  He could retire early and buy a vineyard and sit at a cafe in town and watch the well- dressed world go by. Except Vipiteno was too far north, too high up for such things -  and since Papa had died he was losing his Italian. The words were fading, moving further away and he couldn't catch them.