Chapter 3
Chapter 3
Giovanni prepares to leave Copenhagen for Sardinia. Astrid and the narrator spend a quiet morning with him, sharing a final meal of wild herb omelette and memories. Giovanni entrusts Astrid with the key to the restaurant, and at the airport, he finds a small note from his grandmother tucked inside his coat—a message of courage. He boards the plane, carrying the notebook slip and the wooden spoon, as the promise of home grows nearer.
The morning came soft and grey, the city still half-asleep under a blanket of cloud. I arrived at Giovanni’s apartment as the first light crept through the kitchen window, casting pale ribbons across the tile floor. He was at the stove, already dressed in his travel clothes—a worn linen shirt, a jacket that had seen many seasons. His grandmother’s wooden spoon rested on the counter, a talisman waiting to be packed.
Astrid sat at the small table, a cup of tea cooling between her hands. She looked up as I entered, her smile quiet but present. “He’s been up since four,” she said, her voice carrying a gentle weariness. “Pacing. Checking his bag. Cooking.”
Giovanni turned, a spatula in hand. “I couldn’t sleep. My nonna used to say that the best journeys start on an empty stomach, but I think she meant the opposite—that you should leave with the taste of home still on your tongue.” He gestured to the pan, where a simple omelette was taking shape, flecked with wild herbs from the trunk. “Omelette with thyme and a little pecorino. Bread from the bakery on the corner. Nothing grand, but it’s something.”
We ate in the quiet that follows early mornings—the clink of forks against plates, the soft hum of the refrigerator, the distant sound of a bicycle passing on the street below. Astrid broke off a piece of bread and dipped it in honey, watching Giovanni as he pushed his food around his plate.
“You’re nervous,” she said, not a question.
He set down his fork. “Not nervous. Just… full of questions. What if the notebook isn’t there? What if the recipes are gone, lost to time and mice?”
“Then you’ll find something else,” Astrid replied. “Maybe not the recipes you remember, but something of her. The house itself holds her. The light in the windows. The smell of the earth.”
Giovanni reached across the table and took her hand. “You always know what to say.”
She shook her head. “I only say what I believe. And I believe you’ll come back with more than you left with.”
After breakfast, Giovanni packed the last of his things: the wooden spoon wrapped in a cloth, his grandmother’s recipe slip tucked into a pocket of his coat, the letter from Barumini folded carefully in his notebook. He stood for a long moment in the doorway of his apartment, looking back as if memorizing the shape of the room.
Astrid drove us to the airport. The sky had cleared by then, a pale winter sun breaking through the clouds, casting long shadows across the motorway. Giovanni sat in the passenger seat, his bag on his lap, staring out at the flat Danish fields as they slipped past. The wind turbines turned slowly, their blades catching the light.
At the terminal, we found a quiet corner near the departures board. Giovanni set down his bag and turned to Astrid. She stepped into his arms without a word, her face pressed against his shoulder. They stood like that for a long moment, swaying slightly, as if the ground beneath them was uncertain.
“I’ll be back before the winter vegetables are gone,” Giovanni murmured into her hair. “I promise.”
Astrid pulled back and wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand. “You’d better. Who else will argue with me about the right amount of salt for the minestra?”
He laughed, a sound that came from somewhere deep and honest. “No one. You’re always right about salt.”
She handed him a small package wrapped in brown paper. “Open it on the plane. Or when you need it. It’s not much—just something to remind you of the kitchen here.”
Giovanni turned to me. I could see the gratitude in his eyes, the way it softened his features. “Thank you for being here. For listening. For writing it down.”
“It’s your story,” I said. “I’m just following the thread.”
He smiled, then picked up his bag and walked toward the security gate. He paused once, turning back to wave—a small, almost shy gesture—before disappearing into the stream of travelers.
Astrid and I stood side by side, watching until we could no longer see him. The departures board flickered, listing flights to Rome, to Cagliari, to places that felt like stories. She let out a long breath, her shoulders dropping.
“I’ll miss him,” she said quietly. “But I think this is right. He needs to go.”
We walked back to the car in silence, the sun warm on our faces. As she drove, I watched the city recede in the rearview mirror—the towers of Copenhagen, the swirl of bicycles, the canals catching the light. Somewhere above us, Giovanni was already in the air, heading south toward the island that held his grandmother’s memory.
That evening, I found a message on my phone from Giovanni. Just a single line, sent from the airport in Cagliari:
“Found a note in my coat. Nonna’s handwriting. She said: ‘The recipe is in the soil. Dig with your hands.’ I think I understand.”
I smiled and put down the phone. Outside, the night was settling in, the first stars appearing above the rooftops. The thread was still there, thin and bright, leading southward—toward myrtle and honey, toward fennel and wine, toward a lost recipe that might, in the end, be the smallest part of what Giovanni was really looking for.