Evening Class

by Maeve Binchy

  “Absolutely, all in one piece. It’s a gorgeous evening, we’re going to walk down to the Piazza Navona and have a drink.”

  “Great, I’m sure it’ll be terrific.”

  “Yes. Brigid, is anything…you know…?”

  “It’s probably stupid, Dad, but a kind of loopy woman came in twice wanting to know what hotel you’re all staying at. It might be nothing but I didn’t like the feel of her, I thought she was off her rocker.”

  “Did she say why?”

  “She said that it was a simple question and could I answer her and give her the name of the hotel or would she have to speak to my boss.”

  “And what did you do?”

  “Well, Dad, I did think she was out of a funny farm, so I said no. I said my father was out there and if she wanted a message passed to anyone I’d get in touch.”

  “Well, that’s it then.”

  “No, it’s not. She went to the boss and said it was very urgent she contact a Mr. Dunne with the Mountainview party, and he gave the hotel name to her and gave me a ticking off.”

  “She must know me if she knew my name.”

  “No, I saw her reading my name Brigid Dunne from my badge. Look, I suppose I just wanted to say…”

  “Say what, Brigid?”

  “That she’s sort of crazy and you should look out.”

  “Thank you very much my dear, dear Brigid,” he said, and realized that it had been a long time since he had called her that.

  IT WAS A warm evening as they set out to walk through Rome.

  They passed near Santa Maria Maggiore, but not near enough to stop and go in.

  “Tonight is just a social night…we all have a drink in the beautiful square. Tomorrow we look at culture and religion for those who want to, and for those who want to sit and sip coffee they can do that too.” Signora was anxious to remind them that they were not going to be herded, but she saw in their eyes that they wanted a little looking-after still. “What do you think we might say when we see the wonderful square with all the fountains and statues in the Piazza Navona?” she asked, looking around.

  And there on the side of the street they all shouted out, “In questa piazza ci sono molti belli edifici!”

  “Benissimo,” said Signora. “Avanti, let’s go and find them.”

  They sat at peace, forty-two of them, and watched the night fall on Rome.

  Signora was beside Aidan. “No problems with the phone call?” she asked.

  “No, no, just Brigid ringing to know if the hotel was all right for us. I told her it was wonderful.”

  “She was very helpful over it all, she really wanted it to be a success for you, for all of us.”

  “And it will.” They sipped their coffees. Some of the group had a beer, others a grappa. Signora had said there were tourist prices here and she advised only one drink for the atmosphere. They had to keep something to spend when they got to Firenze and Siena. They smiled almost unbelieving when she mentioned the names. They were here in Italy to begin the viaggio. It wasn’t just talk anymore in a classroom on a wet Tuesday and Thursday.

  “Yes, it will be a success, Aidan,” Signora said.

  “Brigid said something else too. I didn’t want to bother you with it, but some kind of madwoman came into the agency and wanted to know where we were all staying. Brigid thought she was someone who might cause trouble.”

  Signora shrugged. “We’ve got this lot here, we’ll cope with whatever else turns up, don’t you think?”

  In small groups the evening class were posing each other by the Fountain of the Four Rivers.

  He reached out his hand and took hers. “We can cope with anything,” he said.

  “YOUR FRIEND ARRIVED, Signor Dunne,” said Signora Buona Sera.

  “Friend?”

  “The lady from Irlanda. She just wanted to check the hotel and that all of you were staying here.”

  “Did she leave her name?” Aidan asked.

  “No name, just interested to know if everyone was staying here. I said you were going on a tour tomorrow morning in the bus. That’s right, yes?”

  “That’s right,” Aidan said.

  “Did she look like a madwoman?” he asked casually.

  “Mad, Signor Dunne?”

  “Pazza?” Signora explained.

  “No, no, not at all pazza.” Signora Buona Sera seemed offended that a madwoman might be assumed to have called at the Hotel Francobollo.

  “Well then,” Aidan said.

  “Well then.” Signora smiled back at him.

  The younger people would have smiled if they had known how much it had meant to them to sit there with their hands in each other’s as the stars came out over the Piazza Navona.

  THE BUS TOUR was to give them the feel of Rome, Signora said, then they could all go back at their leisure to see particular places. Not everyone wanted to spend hours in the Vatican Museum.

  Signora said that since they served cheese at breakfast, people often made themselves a little sandwich to eat later on in the day. And then there would be a big dinner tonight in the restaurant not far from the hotel. Somewhere they could all walk home from. Again nobody had to come, she said. But she knew that everyone would.

  There was no mention of the woman who had called to look for them. Signora and Aidan Dunne were too busy discussing the bus route with the driver to give it any thought.

  Would there be time to get out and throw a coin into the famous Trevi Fountain? Was there room for the bus to park near the Bocca della Verità? The party would enjoy putting their hands into the mouth of the great weatherbeaten face of stone that was meant to bite the fingers off liars. Would the driver leave them at the top of the Spanish Steps to walk down or at the bottom to walk up? They hadn’t time to think of the woman who was looking for them. Whoever she might be.

  AND WHEN THEY came back exhausted from the tour, everyone had two hours rest before they assembled for dinner. Signora walked around to the restaurant, leaving Connie asleep in their bedroom. She wanted to check about the menu and to arrange that there would be no gray areas. Only a fixed menu was to be offered.

  On the door she saw a notice draped in black crepe CHIUSO: morte in famiglia. Signora fumed with rage. Why couldn’t the family member have died at some other time? Why did he or she have to die just as forty-two Irish people were coming to have supper? Now she had less than an hour to find somewhere else. Signora could feel no sympathy for the family tragedy, only fury. And why had they not telephoned the hotel as she had asked them to do if there was any hitch in arrangements?

  She walked up and down the streets around Termini. Small hotels, cheap accommodation suitable for the people who got off trains at the huge station. But no jolly restaurant like the one she had planned. Biting her lip, she went toward a place with the name Catania. It must be Sicilian. Was this a good omen? Could she throw herself on their mercy and explain that in an hour and a half, forty-two Irish people were expecting a huge inexpensive meal? She could but try.

  “Buona sera,” she said.

  The square young man with dark hair looked up. “Signora?” he said. Then he looked at her again in disbelief. “Signora?” he said again, his face working. “Non è possibile, Signora,” he said, coming toward her with hands stretched out. It was Alfredo, the eldest son of Mario and Gabriella. She had walked into his restaurant by accident. He kissed her on both cheeks. “È un miracolo,” he said, and pulled out a chair.

  Signora sat down, she felt a great dizziness come over her, and she gripped the table in case she fell.

  “Stock Ottanto Quatro,” he said, and poured her a great glass of the strong sweet Italian brandy.

  “No, grazie…” He held it to her mouth and she sipped. “Is this your restaurant, Alfredo?” she asked.

  “No, no, Signora, I work here, I work here to make money…”

  “But your own hotel. Your mother’s hotel. Why do you not work there?”

  “My mother is dead, Signora. She died si
x months ago. Her brothers, my uncles, they try to interfere, to make decisions…they know nothing. There is nothing for us to do. Enrico is there, but he is still a child, my brother in America will not come home. I came here to Rome to learn more.”

  “Your mother dead? Poor Gabriella. What happened to her?”

  “It was cancer, very, very quick. She went to the doctor only a month after my father was killed.”

  “I am so sorry,” Signora said. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am.” And suddenly it was all too much for her. Gabriella to die now instead of years ago, the hot brandy in her throat, no place for dinner tonight, Mario in his grave near Annunziata. She cried and cried while Mario’s son stroked her head.

  IN HER BEDROOM Connie lay on her bed, each foot wrapped in a facecloth wrung through in cold water. Why had she not brought some foot balm with her or those soft leather walking shoes that were like gloves? She had not wanted to unpack a sponge bag full of luxury cosmetics in front of the unworldly Signora, that was probably it. But who would have known that her soft shoes would have cost what none of her companions would have been able to earn in three weeks? She should have taken them, she was paying the penalty now. Tomorrow she might slip away to the Via Veneto and buy herself some beautiful Italian shoes as a treat. Nobody would notice, and if they did, what the hell? These weren’t people obsessed by wealth and differences in standards of living. Not everyone thought about the whole business of wealth. They weren’t all like Harry Kane.

  How strange to be able to think about him without emotion. He would be out of jail by the end of the year. She had heard from old Mr. Murphy that he intended to go to England. Some friends would look after him. Would Siobhan Casey go with him? She had inquired almost as you ask after strangers who have no meaning to you, or characters in a television series. Oh no, hadn’t she heard, there had been a definite cooling of relationships there. He had refused to see Miss Casey when she went to see him in prison. He blamed her for everything that had happened, apparently.

  It had given Connie Kane no huge pleasure to hear this. In a way it might have been easier to think of him in a new life with a woman he had been involved with forever. She wondered had they ever come here together, the two of them, Siobhan and Harry. And had they felt touched by this beautiful city the way everyone did, whether or not they were in love. It was something she would never know now, and it was of no importance really.

  She heard a gentle knock at the door. Signora must be back already. But no, it was the small bustling Signora Buona Sera. “A letter for you,” she said. And she handed her an envelope.

  It was written on a plain postcard. It said: You could easily die in the Roman traffic and you would not be missed.

  THE LEADERS WERE counting heads to go to dinner. Everyone was present and correct except for three. Connie and Laddy and Signora. They assumed Connie and Signora were together and they would be there any moment.

  But where was Laddy? Aidan had not been in the room they shared, he had been busy getting his notes together for the tour the next day to the Forum and the Coliseum. Perhaps Laddy had fallen asleep. Aidan ran lightly up the stairs, but he was not to be found.

  At that moment Signora arrived pale-faced and with the news that the venue had been changed but the price was the same. She had managed to secure a booking at the Catania. She looked stressed and worried. Aidan didn’t want to tell her about the disappearances. At that moment Connie arrived down the stairs, full of apologies. She, too, looked pale and worried. Aidan wondered was it all too much for these women, the heat, the noise, the excitement. But then he realized he was being fanciful. It was his job to find Laddy. He would take the address of the restaurant and join them later. Signora gave him a card; her hand was shaking.

  “All right, Nora?”

  “Fine, Aidan,” she lied to him.

  THEY WERE GONE chattering down the street, and Aidan began the hunt for Laddy. Signor Buona Sera knew Signor Lorenzo, he had offered to clean windows with him. A very nice gentleman, he worked in a hotel in Irlanda too. He had been pleased to hear that there was a visitor for him.

  “A visitor?”

  “Well, somebody had come and left a letter for one of the Irish party. His wife had mentioned it. Signor Lorenzo had said this must be the message he was waiting for and he was very happy.”

  “But was it for him? Did he get a message?”

  “No, Signor Dunne, my wife she told him she had given the letter to one of the ladies but Signor Laddy said it was a mistake, it was for him. There was no problem, he said, he knew the address, he would go there.”

  “God Almighty,” Aidan Dunne said. “I left him for twenty bloody minutes to do my notes and he thinks that bloody family have sent for him. Oh Laddy, I’ll swing for you yet, I really will.”

  First he had to go to the restaurant where they were all sitting down and then standing up again to take pictures of the banner saying Benvenuto agli Irlandesi.

  “I need the Garaldis’ address,” he hissed to Signora.

  “No. He’s never gone there?”

  “So it would appear.”

  Signora looked up at him anxiously. “I’d better go.”

  “No, let me. You stay here and look after the dinner.”

  “I’ll go, Aidan. I can speak the language, I’ve written to them.”

  “Let’s both go,” he suggested.

  “Who will we put in charge? Constanza?”

  “No, there’s something upsetting her. Let’s see. Francesca and Luigi between them.”

  The word was out. Signora and Mr. Dunne had gone to hunt for Lorenzo and two new people were in command, Francesca and Luigi.

  “Why those?” someone muttered.

  “Because we were the nearest,” Fran said, a peace-maker.

  “And the best,” said Luigi, a man who liked to win.

  THEY GOT A taxi and they arrived at the house. “It’s even smarter than I thought,” Signora whispered.

  “He never got into a place like this.” Aidan looked amazed at the big marble entrance hall and the courtyard beyond.

  “Vorrei parlare con la famiglia Garaldi?” Signora spoke with a confidence she didn’t feel to the splendid-looking uniformed commissionaire. He asked her name and business and Aidan marveled as she told him and stressed the importance of it. The man in the gray and scarlet went to a phone and spoke into it urgently. It seemed to take forever.

  “I hope they’re managing back in the restaurant,” Signora said.

  “Of course they are. Weren’t you great to find a place so quickly? They seem very welcoming.”

  “Yes, it was extraordinary.” She seemed miles away.

  “But everyone’s been so nice everywhere, it’s not really extraordinary,” Aidan said.

  “No. The waiter, I knew his father. Can you believe that?”

  “Was that in Sicily?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did you know him?”

  “From the day he was born…I saw him going to the church to be baptized.”

  The commissionaire returned. “Signor Garaldi says he is very confused, he wants to speak to you personally.”

  “We must go in, I can’t explain things on the telephone,” Signora said. Aidan understood and marveled at her courage. He felt a little confused by this rediscovering of a Sicilian past.

  Soon they were walking through a courtyard and up another wide staircase to a fountain and some large doors. These were seriously wealthy people. Had Laddy really penetrated in here?

  They were shown into an entrance hall where a small, angry man in a brocade jacket seemed to hurtle out of a room and demand an explanation. Behind him came his wife trying to placate him, and inside, wretched and totally at a loss, was poor Laddy sitting on a piano stool.

  His face lit up when he saw them. “Signora,” he called. “Mr. Dunne. Now you can tell them everything. You’ll never believe it but I lost all my Italian. I could only tell them the days and the seasons and order the di
sh of the day. It’s been terrible.”

  “Sta calma, Lorenzo,” Signora said.

  “They want to know am I O’Donoghue, they keep writing it down for me.” He had never looked so anxious and disturbed.

  “Please Laddy, I am O’Donoghue, that’s my name, that’s why they thought it was you. That was what I put on my letter.”

  “You’re not O’Donoghue,” Laddy cried. “You’re Signora.”

  Aidan put his arm around Laddy’s shaking shoulders and let Signora begin. The explanation, and he could understand most of it, was clear and unflustered. She told of the man who had found their money in Ireland a year ago, a man who had worked hard as a hotel porter and had believed their kind words of gratitude to be an invitation to come to Italy. She described the efforts he had made to learn Italian. She introduced herself and Aidan as people who ran an evening class and how worried they had been that due to some misunderstanding their friend Lorenzo had believed there was a message for him to call. They would all go now, but perhaps out of the kindness of his heart Signor Garaldi and his family might make some affectionate gesture to show they remembered his kindness, and indeed spectacular honesty, in returning a wad of notes to them, money that many a man in many a city including Dublin might not have felt obligated to return.

  Aidan stood there, feeling Laddy’s shaking shoulder and wondering about the strange turnings life took. Suppose he had become principal of Mountainview? That’s what he had wanted so much, not long ago. Now he realized how much he would have hated it, how far better a choice was Tony O’Brien, a man, not evil incarnate as he had once believed, but a genuine achiever, heartbroken in his battle against nicotine and shortly to become Aidan’s son-in-law. Aidan would never have notes for a lecture in the Forum stuck in his pocket, he would never be standing here in this sumptuous Roman town house reassuring a nervous hotel porter and looking with pride and admiration at this strange woman who had taken up so much of his life. She had brought clarity and understanding to the face that had so recently been creased with anger and confusion.