I'm walking slowly, quietly, carefully, down the road in Pascoso; the rain is still drizzling as it has been doing on and off all day. Drizzle, rain, drizzle, rain. The cobblestones are glistening from the coat of water that has clothed them; it tickles my skin as I pat down the frizz in my hair. Eva opens the door to the big stone house on the corner; we all step inside. Its a Tuesday night, but every table is filled with Italian families apart from one - lucky we made a reservation this morning, I think. A lady greets us and mum mentions Fausto; ah, yes, she knows, and points us towards the vacant seats. There's five bambini, kids, scattered around the room; two bushy headed boys in front in their terrible twos; one baby on
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