by Bill Cariad
At one O’clock in the afternoon, standing in gold-trimmed open-toed sandals in the reception lobby of the Waldorf Hotel, with her long black hair gleaming and falling free, wearing a ‘Gina Bacconi’ flared red skirt and white silk blouse, Maria Orsinni saw him coming and prepared to greet Signore Tommaso Kennedy with what she hoped would be a blush-free smile.
“Looking at you,” said Kennedy, standing so close she could smell his cologne, “makes me think of how hungry I am. You look beautiful, Maria Orsinni.”
Maria looked into his green eyes as she replied, “My mother once told me that a healthy appetite is a good thing in a man.” She managed the smile but couldn’t control the blush.
Telling her that his hire-car was under guard for a limited period, Kennedy led Maria outside to where she saw the $20 dollar reward bill change hands before the smiling concierge moved to open the car’s front passenger door. As she settled herself beside Kennedy, Maria was reminded that Sergio had been the last man, and also the first, that she had sat beside in a car transporting her on a date. Pushing that memory from her mind, she clipped on her seat belt as fresh thoughts emerged. The difference between sitting in the back of Tony’s taxi, and sitting in the front of a private car, was immediately evident to her. This close to the windscreen she instantly felt the warmth of the sun’s rays, and the other traffic appeared to be much nearer, more frenetic, and more difficult to filter out whilst attempting to think about what she should be saying at this point.
“We’re not going far,” said Kennedy, “before we park up and walk to what I hope will be a pleasant experience for you. But I still haven’t mastered talking and safe driving at the same time in this city. So until we reach the car-park, you’ll have to excuse my silence.”
“Understood. No problem,” said Maria, reminded again that Sergio had been the last man to drive her to a destination intended to be a surprise. Her driver on this occasion wasn’t looking as comfortable as Sergio had been behind a steering wheel, she realized, but he was definitely looking attractive in his black chinos, cream linen jacket, and open-necked deep blue shirt. Busy with pedal work, his feet were encased in shiny black loafers.
Maria suddenly startled herself with a comparison that came with its own no less startling questions. Sergio was actually more handsome looking, more physical looking, than Kennedy. So what was it about this quiet Englishman beside her now, which was causing her to think these very thoughts, and to feel the way she did? What was it about him that was making her think about thunderbolts? She felt herself blushing at that thought as the now familiar overhead street signs told her that her driver was travelling on Lexington Avenue and had just passed East 51st Street. Progressively numbered East Street signs continued to be passed until Kennedy made a turn into East 58th Street and drove in to an underground car-park.
Kennedy brought the car to a halt and told her they were getting out here, and Maria opened her door as a uniformed man emerged from the small glass-fronted office on the other side of the barrier-pole and began approaching them. The man was met at the barrier by Kennedy, and Maria saw the $50 dollar bill and car keys change hands before he returned to where she stood.
“Now we walk,” said Kennedy, “Which I can do whilst talking.” He indicated the required direction as he added, “Sorry about the silent driving performance. Pretty feeble.”
“Nothing feeble about it,” responded Maria, “A man who elects to drive me somewhere and puts getting me there safely above conversation, wins this girl’s vote of confidence any day of the week.” She saw him smile at that before she followed through with her addition, “But that was an expensive parking fee, wasn’t it?”
“That was just for him,” replied Kennedy, “It guarantees the car will be there when we return. That just gets us parked,” he added, “Getting the car back will be another fee.”
Maria refrained from asking why he hadn’t used a taxi, suddenly remembering his offer to show her the sights. He’d obviously decided that self-drive would be less expensive and more practical. Then she remembered something else. Her father had talked about Englishmen, describing their traits, and, as she walked alongside Kennedy up a concrete ramp and into the bright sunshine and busy thoroughfare of East 58th Street, she wondered now what she would do if this particular Englishman suddenly reached for her hand.
“It’s not far from here,” said Kennedy, making no attempt to hold hands but wanting to, “I’ve reserved us a table at a restaurant run by your fellow Italians. The food is delicious.”
“And you did say you were hungry,” Maria reminded him, grinning.
“Man must eat,” he responded, returning her grin, “But women also get hungry, don’t they?”
“This one does,” replied Maria, “and she is looking forward to lunch.”
“I don’t think the venue will disappoint,” said Kennedy, bringing them to a halt outside an attractive frontage with a sign declaring it to be that of ‘Felidia’s Restaurant’.
And Signore Kennedy had been right, decided Maria once she was inside Felidia’s, the restaurant was instantly pleasing to both ear and eye. The muted sound of Pan-pipes was being unobtrusively carried to diners seated at tables embraced by the glow from red-shaded lamps fashioned from Chianti bottles. Warmly welcomed by an apron-clad individual who introduced himself as ‘Aldo’, they were led past walls which held framed paintings and photographs of all things Italian; ranging from instantly recognizable artists from the worlds of opera house, stage and screen, to copies of the works of Renaissance painters depicting moonlit scenes of Florence and Tuscany. The romantic ambience was not lost to Maria, who feigned ignorance of Kennedy’s approval-seeking glance as they were finally shown to a table which stood under the watchful gazes of Gina Lollobrigida and Mario Lanza.
“First impressions?” asked Kennedy.
“Signore Kennedy has chosen,” began Maria, selecting her words with care but wrapping them up in a smile, “what looks like a good place to enjoy a good lunch.”
“Signore Kennedy does have a Christian name,” said Kennedy, returning her smile as he added, “This place opened four years ago, and I’ve never had a meal here I didn’t enjoy.”
“Perhaps Tommaso has bought shares in this place,” responded Maria, picking up her menu as she wondered how many times he had been here and who might have sat where she did now.
“You make it sound like something I may find on the menu,” said Kennedy, “but I also like the way you make the name Thomas sound so exotic.”
Maria ignored him and studied the menu. Which listed, she had to admit to herself, some of her favourite dishes.
“See anything you fancy?” asked Kennedy.
She saw the green eyes twinkling and smiled away her earlier thoughts. “How can I resist,” she teased, watching the green eyes widen, “today’s recommendation made by a Chef with the wonderful name of Fortunata Nicotra? I will have the Mediterranean Bass, please.”
Aldo had reappeared at their table, as if having sensed how long it would take them to make their selections, and wrote down Maria’s order.
“An excellent choice, Signorina,” said the waiter, looking expectantly at her host.
“I probably should have brain food as well,” said Kennedy, “but my stomach is demanding the grilled Florentine steak with salt, anchovy, and olive-oil-rub.”
“The stomach of a hungry financier,” said Maria, “should not be denied.”
“The steak it shall be, Aldo. The woman speaks, and man must listen to her words of wisdom.”
“It is the same in my house, Signore,” said a smiling Aldo, scribbling on his pad the wine numbers selected by Kennedy to accompany the meals.
The waiter had barely departed before Maria heard her host’s voice again, and his tone was sonorous and the green eyes were again twinkling.
“Finance is, as it w
ere,” said Kennedy, “the stomach of a country; from which all other organs take their tone.” He smiled with his qualifying addition, “I’m paraphrasing William Gladstone, another Englishman, a statesman of yesteryear.”
Maria smiled at that with her question.“How long have you been a financier?”
“What you’re really asking,” replied Kennedy, “is how can I be a so-called financier if I’m maybe only half the age of your uncle.”
Maria side-stepped that. “In my country,” she told him, “the term financier can also refer to a member of the Guardia di F’inanza, which deals with financial crimes.” She saw the green eyes close for an instant and knew he was choosing between serious or flippant.
“Thieves respect money,” responded Kennedy, “They merely wish other people’s money to become their money, so that they may more perfectly respect it.” Once again a smile prefaced the addition, “I’m paraphrasing again, from yet another Englishman....”
“Named G. K. Chesterton,” interjected Maria, silently blessing one of her English tutors, “Do you simply make a habit of paraphrasing others as a means to amuse? Or as a way of evading questions about yourself?”
“An excellent two part question,” responded Kennedy, quietly, “from a clearly well-read questioner. I suppose my answer has to be yes to both parts.”
Maria suddenly remembered the last occasion on which she had posed a two part question, but she closed down the memory of Harry Albright as she made her reply to Kennedy.
“I’m not a member of the Guardia di F’inanza, Tommaso. My questions can be answered without fear of incriminating yourself.”
“I’ve always thought,” said Kennedy, “that it must be boring for a woman to have to listen to a man blabbering on about himself. I would much rather talk about you. Stanhope, and your uncle, have both been very unforthcoming on the subject of Maria Orsinni. What do you do with yourself from day to day? Do you have some form of mysterious occupation which forbids the aforementioned to talk about?”
Maria was immediately unsure of what she should say in response. She was instantly reluctant to portray herself to Tommaso as some kind of worthless individual, and also knew that her Plaza cover story wouldn’t hold up with him. Rapidly realizing that it mattered to her what Tommaso thought of her, wondering why, exactly, that it should, she was about to attempt an answer to his questions when he pre-empted her.
“But you might,” said Kennedy, “be thinking that I’m just being evasive again. So prepare to be bored, mysterious Maria, whilst I tell you about myself.”
So Maria sat at the table, tuning out the babble of voices and laughter coming from other diners, watching the hand with no wedding band on the strong looking fingers which were toying with a salt cellar. She sat in the glow from a red-shaded and Chianti-bottled table lamp, as the story of Tommaso Kennedy was told to her. He was presenting an edited version, he said. Not to evade, he carefully qualified, but to make the story less boring. So she learned about the English mother who had died when he was a small boy, and of the grandmother who lived in England’s county of Sussex and who had raised him and encouraged his early interest in the world of finance.
Frustrating Maria, the arrival of their food and wine interrupted Kennedy’s story, and an understandable interval passed as they gave both the warranted attention. The word delicious was uttered by both of them several times, and the words I’ve eaten too much were said only once, by Kennedy. Who continued with his story. So Maria found out about the Irish father, now also dead but a wealthy man in life. The Irishman who had bequeathed the fortune, and the contacts, which had secured a son’s first footholds on the cliff-face of high finance. Perseverance, said Kennedy, and a lot of luck, had eventually established him in the financial circles within which he now moved.
Maria had of course noticed his omission of the word talent, and knew that the referred to elements of perseverance and luck would have been insufficient on their own to bring the man to where he was now in his professional life. She had noticed something else.
“Towards the end of your story, Tommaso, you sounded as if you were... dissatisfied with your chosen profession.”
“That’s because I am,” admitted Kennedy, “Which is why I am getting out of it. At this level at any rate,” he added, shrugging his shoulders, “When your uncle’s problem is done and dusted, I’m switching to lower profile stuff. More satisfying stuff. Such as helping to prevent people like my grandmother being ripped off by so-called financial advisors.”
They were at the end of the coffee stage, and Kennedy was waiting for the bill to be brought to him, when Maria’s storytelling host, green eyes twinkling again, posed his question.
“So how does all that stack up against the mysterious Maria’s occupation?”
“Leaves me in the shade,” replied Maria, keeping her tone light, having decided how to present herself to him, “I’m just a trainee troubleshooter.”
“You make that sound more innocuous than it probably is,” said Kennedy, “otherwise Stanhope wouldn’t be so keen to involve you in this kidnapping affair. I wouldn’t like to think he was getting you into something which could harm you, but neither do I feel happy about the idea of your uncle acceding to the demand of the Lucchese family.”
Maria could feel the skin on her arms tingling as she concealed the way she felt at hearing some of the words Tommaso had used. It hadn’t just been the words themselves which had impacted upon her, she realized, but the way he had spoken them which had seemed to touch something inside her core. “Let’s not talk today,” she said, “about the dramatic Signore Stanhope and that other business, Tommaso, and anyway here comes Aldo with the bill.”
All too soon they were leaving Felidia’s restaurant behind and retracing their steps to the car park. Maria realized en route that she was actually disappointed in the fact that Tommaso still made no attempt to hold hands, but she masked her disappointment with small talk. The car was duly released from its secure but expensive bondage and Maria sat with her feelings in turmoil, unmindful of their route, as Kennedy drove them in now understood silence. Just as she became aware that they were on 5th Avenue, her driver made the turn in to another underground car park.
“You’re underneath what’s called Trump Tower,” said Kennedy, “I won’t bore you with the history. I just thought you should see the view of Central Park from one of its floors. It’s really quite something to see.”
And once again Tommaso was right, decided Maria as she later stood on a floor of the building which seemed to be in the clouds. The view over the park was spectacular, revealing to Maria for the first time just how large an area it covered. Time happily passed, and then they declared a halt along with the shared need of caffeine. They used an elevator in the building which housed a hotel as well as offices and found a coffee bar, where they sat and chatted about the different parks they had visited. Kennedy had travelled more, so he did the most talking. Maria enjoyed listening. Later, back outside on 5th Avenue, they began strolling the short distance to the car park and Maria suddenly spotted the unmistakeable name above the jewellers shop.
“I saw this in a film only recently, Tommaso, my uncle took me. He is a fan of Audrey Hepburn, and the film was called Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Have you seen it, Tommaso?”
“Yes, I have,” replied Kennedy, smiling at her enthusiasm.
They stood outside one of Tiffany’s windows and Maria, lost in the moment, was pointing at one object after another and declaring to Kennedy that each piece was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. She didn’t see his amused responses became something else when he saw her staring at an emerald and diamond bracelet without uttering a word.
“Would you like to go inside?” asked Kennedy, quietly.
“No, Tommaso,” she grinned at him, “I’m afraid I must instead go back to the tower building and find a ladies roo
m.”
“I’ll walk with you,” he responded.
“I’ll be fine,” she told him, touching his hand and feeling the tingle, “You just wait here.”
Maria returned a short time later to rejoin him outside Tiffany’s, and they resumed their stroll back to the car park.
“I’ve enjoyed today, very much, Maria,” said Kennedy as they were finally reunited with their transport, “But my schedule for the next few days is difficult to predict. I regret to hear myself say that I don’t know when I might see you again. Should you wish me to see you, of course.”
Maria waited until they were both inside the car before replying, “I too have enjoyed our time together, Tommaso, and would be happy for us to be together again. You know, of course, that I return to Rome on the 31st.”
“Yes, Maria,” replied Kennedy, quietly, “I know. But before I begin driving under the advised rule of silence towards your hotel, I would like to do two things. The first of those is this,” he leant across the space between them and gently kissed her on the lips, then withdrew to resume speaking before she’d had time to react, “The second thing is, I would like you to have this,” he declared, producing from his jacket pocket an object which he placed on her lap. He then started the car and drove them out of the car park.
Maria could still taste him on her lips as she looked down at the object wrapped in the same kind of blue paper she had last seen in the film called Breakfast at Tiffany’s. The midnight blue wrapping bore the Tiffany’s crest embossed in gold lettering, and she slowly unwrapped the packaging to uncover the slim box. Inside the box, was an emerald and diamond bracelet.
“Tommaso, Tommaso, penso che[1]... Scusi... I think it is even more beautiful than it was when I saw it in the window. As was your thought, Tommaso, that I should have it. But I cannot... it is too....”
“It’s a no-strings-attached gift, which makes it quite rare. So please accept it.”