‘My favourite taste tester. Buongiorno.’ Marinella calls from the small kitchen behind the counter where she is setting up for the day.
‘Buongiorno. Come Va?’
‘Bene.’
‘What lovely flavours do you have for me today?’
‘I am going to convert you to Mint chocolate.’
‘Ew.’ Ife made a face because Marinella knows how much she does not like mint chocolate ice cream, but she is open. ‘Fine if you insist let me have it.’ She deposits her coat on the hook by the door joining Marinella’s before heading to the back to join her friend. She decided, if she was going to hide out here in this village, she would do it by ingratiating herself with the people who have welcomed her and adopted her as one of their own residents. Her phone remains off and hidden, blissfully unaware of the implosion of the rest of her life. It can keep for one more day. So, she tells herself everyday but that ache in her heart for her children remains. If they got the letter, they must hate her now. She pushes that thought to the back of her mind joining her new friend in the kitchen.
‘Open. Taste.’ Marinella deposited the little scoop of ice cream in her friends open mouth, she’d tried different proportions of this mixture to soothe her friend’s particular palette. She waits a beat, two, three… this may not-
‘Oh wow! Oh WOW! Marinella this is perfection! This is how mint choc chip should be done.’
Marinella heaved a sigh of relief because she had hinged everything on this flavour knowing if her friend did not like it, she would toss it out altogether. But this reaction is priceless. ‘Si?’
‘Si. Bravissimo Bella. Stunning. Absolutely stunning.’ Ife helped herself to another spoonful and positively swooned from the flavour. Salient; the mint was prevalent but not overpowering, she could taste the vanilla churned with the chocolate chips and was that honey and honeycomb? Her friends would never tell her the mix of flavours and she would never elect to ask her. As a small business owner, Marinella struggled to make ends meets in the off season, so Ife helped her with the accounting and future proofing her business for a small fee of ice cream and pastries and dinner at her home with her family two doors away from the store when Ava was not hurrying over with more food. These women looked out for her and she will always be grateful for them.
The bell jingled and a customer walked in from the cold. Marinella pops her head through the door, ‘Buongiorno Papa, una momento.’
‘I can help. You do what you have to do here, I’ll serve them out front.’
‘Would you?’
‘Of course.’ Ife donned on an apron and nipped out to the front of house where a lone customer sat patiently. She gasped!
‘Buongiorno.’ The elderly man greeted her cheerfully.
‘Buongiorno.’ Ife could hardly contain herself, she recognised him immediately, how could she not. He was only the subject of her thesis all those many years ago. The one she worked on in The Church those many nights and days she spent there. He was inextricably linked to her past and Hendrix. She swallowed, ‘sorry, can I help? What flavour can I get for you.’
The older gent smiled, and said, ‘surprise me. Marinella always does.’
‘Well, I have just the flavour for you sir.’ Ife nipped back to the kitchen and hopped on the spot happily much to her friend’s surprise. ‘That is Papua Dinka out there.’ She whispered.
‘Huh? Signor Dinka. Yes.’
‘Do you know who he is?’
‘Yes, he’s Signor Dinka he has lived here for ten years, moved from Senegal. He had some health problems, and his doctors suggested some lifestyle changes, so he moved to live here.’
‘He’s an artist. The greatest artist of the 20th century from Senegal.’
‘Yes, he’s a native of Senegal, he visits home often enough but no one comes to see him I don’t think. And you say he’s an artist.’
‘Yes! I defended my thesis on him. He dropped off the face of the earth some ten years ago and now it makes sense. I was gifted one of his works by my…’ Ife trailed off short of saying that name that now finds its way to the tip of her tongue, her past rushing back to her like a tonne of bricks. ‘He’s incredible.’
‘Ah. I didn’t know.’
‘I think he wants to keep it that way.’
‘Same as you?’ Marinella gave her a soft look and she sees the fear behind her friend’s eyes. ‘Don’t worry, I know nothing other than what my husband has told me, but we have never talked more about it because it is your secret to keep. Know that we are also protective of you and your secret is safe with us.’
‘Has someone come asking questions?’
‘No but if anyone does, we will hear about it.’
Ife nods her head. ‘Okay. Thank you.’ Her heart is starting to settle, ‘I want him to try the mind choc chip.’
‘Si?’
‘Of course, that there my friend is a winner.’
Marinella served two big scoops of the new mint flavour and places a loafer on top. ‘Go try it on our first customer and let me know.’ Marinella watches her friend head back out to the front of house, that momentary fear in her eyes confirms what she’d thought from the first moment she met Ife, she is a woman running from something. What? She doesn’t know, didn’t until her husband saw a story about her online last night, and showed it to Marinella, they’d talked between themselves, and kept her secret between them. She need not worry; everyone has stuff going on in their lives so who are they to judge. She is a fantastic addition to the village and all the villagers who have had interactions with her, only have good things to say about her.
‘Prepare to be transported to heavenly bliss.’ Ife says, setting the ice cream bowl before her guest of honour as she has now come to think of him.
‘That’s a tall order my dear.’
‘Oh, but my friend is a genius at this. Sheer genius.’
Papua Dinka helps himself to a scoop from the bowl set down before him and savours. ‘Magnificent.’ Eyes wide and full of wonder, Ife had been correct, his face creases with a smile that pull out his deep-set dimples. His entire face comes alive.
‘See! I told you.’ Ife looked back at Marinella where she stood, her happiness evident knowing people enjoy what she makes.
‘Pull up a chair join me.’ Papua invites Ife and she obliges.
‘I’m Ife.’ She holds out a hand taking the seat opposite him.
‘I’m Papua and yes, I saw the look of shock on your face when you walked out and saw me, I know you know who I am.’ He winked. He is more surprised that anyone should know who he is. He has lived here for all of ten years now and no one was the wiser that he is a celebrated artist. Celebrated in certain spaces since African artists are seldom celebrated in the wider world; he should know it had taken him over a decade to show at the Met, despite his work pulling in several millions at auction. But she knows who he is. Knows his work.
‘It is such an honour to meet you. I successfully defended my thesis based on your work. It is such an honour.’
‘Mine is the honour. I have never met anyone outside a gallery who knows my work.’
‘Well, I am glad to say I do. I have visited every single exhibition that you have shown in. The last was in Dakar two years ago.’
‘Indeed, it was.’ Dinka sighed, ‘shows are rigorous, but my agent is even more so. Demands of the art makes it feel like a work that must be ticked but as an artist that is not how I work. Hence, I came here to get away from it all. My son knows where I am, he has no interest in the work I do, he’s in Engineer makes a good living in England and on occasion I get to see him. When I am not avoiding calls from my agent which is most of the time, I am busy painting.’
‘You still paint?’
‘Of course, I do.’
‘My dream was to have a gallery full of your work. Yours and Jibril Sise.’
‘You do know your art.’
‘I studied art history with specialisation in African surrealism, cubism and the neoclassism. I dabbled in the renaissance too because Botticelli remains one of my favourites, but the classes were always full. There were only ten of us in my class which gave us all a wide range of specifics to study. I sent my thesis to you, and I did get a lovely typed and auto-signed note from your agent. It hangs in my wall in London.’
‘I should like to issue you with a new one if you’d send me your thesis again. That is if you have it of course.’
‘Modern technology for the win.’
‘Now, here is where I shall judge you harshly.’ Papua leaned forward the twinkle in his eyes conspiratorial, ‘what is the more superior of the two works of Botticelli. There can only be one right answer.’
‘Easy. La Primavera.’
Dinka clapped his hands and threw his head back in laughter. ‘You are a true art historian.’
‘Highest honour and praise.’
Marinella observed her two customers who bonded over ice cream in her little corner of heaven, and it all made sense, why she does what she does, ice cream is art of its own making, a curation of flavours that if blended well would bring people together and palettes would cross cultures. Here in her own café, strangers became friends, cultures intermingled and, their lives intertwined over ice-cream, a friendship well blended.