He got out of bed and crossed the room to his window. Unlatching the shutters, he looked out into the night, and found his eyes drawn to the house where she was staying. In a room behind one of those windows, she was sleeping.
He went back to the other side of the room and flicked the light switch. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust, but when they did he saw that the night sky was clear. He looked up, losing himself in the blackness and the fields of stars. He could make out a few constellations, but did not know their names, apart from Sagittarius, the Bowman, which he thought he could distinguish. He left the shutters open, enjoying the cool air that now came into the room. He returned to his bed and tried to think of his work. He had to finish the book, and it would not do to become involved in some short-term holiday romance—if she were to be interested, of course, which was by no means clear. What was the point? She would go back to the United States in a few weeks and he to Scotland. There was nothing to be gained by making himself miserable in the way in which sixteen-year-old boys tormented themselves over girls. He was beyond all that. He wanted to settle down. He wanted somebody with whom to have a family. He wanted stability, predictability, and, yes, loyalty—the last of these being something that Becky so obviously did not have. Becky…He closed his eyes. He did not want to think about her. The personal trainer was welcome to her. No, he was not. He would take her back if she came to him; he would take her back immediately, and without question. He stopped himself. No, he would not do that. It was just sex that he was thinking of. That was all. There was nothing that he wanted to say to Becky, whereas there was so much that he wanted to say to Anna. He wanted to tell her everything.
The sleepless night meant that he was late in waking up, and was disturbed by the sound of the chambermaid vacuuming the corridor outside. The Fiore served a light breakfast, but he had missed that, and so he went instead to the Fiaschetteria, where he read the paper over a steaming cup of coffee and a salami roll. He was beginning to recognise some of the locals now, and even exchanged morning greetings with one or two of the people he saw going about their business in the Piazza del Popolo. Acceptance in a place like Montalcino would come at different levels, and at a different pace depending on what sort of acceptance was involved. To be fully accepted was impossible, unless one were a Montalcinese, born and brought up in one of the villages, and even then there was a deeper form of acceptance that required more than one generation to have lived there. A child born in Montalcino, but to parents from somewhere else, would obviously feel at home, but would never have quite the same entitlement as a child whose grandparents were Montalcinesi. Such a child would always be half something else: half a southerner, half a Roman, half a Florentine.
Day visitors were too numerous and too transitory to have any role, other than a useful economic one, but those who stayed a few days or, even more so, a few weeks would be the object of interest. Paul had already seen that in Onesto’s awareness of his visit to Tonio. This interest would be expressed in looks and nods, in the exchange of a few words about the news of the day or the weather, but that would be all. Anything more would require years.
Paul returned to his work after breakfast, and made good progress, in spite of his distraction. By lunchtime, though, he was tired, and took a siesta that became an hour or so of deep sleep. When he woke up, he looked at his watch and worked out that in four hours’ time he would be seeing Anna again. He wondered how he would pass the time until then, and decided to make a complete circuit of the village, carefully avoiding the street on which she was staying—he did not want her to think he was looking for her. At the same time, though, he rather hoped that he might meet her; that they might talk for a while and then she might suggest that they should meet a bit early in order to have an aperitif in the Fiaschetteria before going on to the restaurant. But they did not meet, and when he returned to the hotel there were still several hours to wait.
He decided to check his e-mails. He had looked earlier on in the day, when he had switched on his computer, but had not seen anything worth bothering about. There were a few routine matters, but nothing that could not wait for a bit before eliciting a response. But now there was something worth bothering about.
He saw her name at the top of the list of messages. Beside it was a red exclamation mark, signifying urgency. He hesitated; the delete button was only a finger away, and it would be so easy to send the message, unread, into whatever black hole consumed such spurned messages—a vast galactic soup of pharmaceutical offers, enticing news of unexpected and apocryphal legacies, of advance warnings as to the imminent collapse of the world’s banking system, of unanswered appeals from forgotten almae matres. But he did not; it occurred to him that Becky might be in some sort of trouble, and his conscience would not allow him to ignore her.
He clicked the message open. Paul, Hope this finds you well. I know you’re in Italy, because Harry told me. I need to talk to you—I really do. I tried your mobile, but it was switched off. Please, Paul—we really need to talk. I’m coming out to see you. I’ve booked my flight, to Rome and will come up to Siena by train. Harry told me you’re staying in a place called Mont-something or other. I made a note of it. I’ll make my own way there—is that OK? I won’t stay long—just three or four days.
He read the message through with growing despair. Then he read it again, groaning as he did so. At least try to put her off, even if he only managed to contact her at the airport.
He found his mobile and brought up her number, although he could still call it to mind, as he could do with so many details of their long relationship—her computer password, the PIN of her bank accounts. These were the equivalent of the mementoes that in the past lovers kept, preserved and cherished—folded love letters, locks of hair, dried flowers pressed between the pages of an album, love tokens of every sort. There were no flowers or letters any more, just the telegraphese of electronic mail, the faded leaves of the virtual world. In the delay as the system connected, he thought of what he would say. He would be kind to her, but he had to be resolute—that was the only way. If you left the door open after a split-up, then you would never be able to bring things to an end. You had to be clear about it; no ifs or buts—it was over. And after all, it was not his fault; she had done it; she was the one who had left—he had no reason to reproach himself.
He heard a click, and then the announcement that the number was unavailable. This told him that she had turned the phone off, and that, in turn, meant that she was somewhere where mobiles were disallowed—a cinema, a concert hall, an aeroplane…
He tried her landline and this time was answered with a recording inviting him to leave a message. He hesitated before beginning: It’s just me. (He had always said that to her; another relic of their past together.) I’ve had your e-mail and, look, it’s not a brilliant idea to come over here. In fact, I would prefer it if you didn’t. I don’t want to be unfriendly…don’t think that, but just don’t come. Please. And with that he signed off. Then he wrote a response to her e-mail. This is not a good idea, Becky. I’m sorry, but I really don’t think you should come. I don’t want you here—I’m sorry if that sounds unfriendly, but it’s the way I feel. So…please don’t come. Love, Paul. Going back over it, he deleted the word Love, and inserted Best wishes. He thought: I have deleted the word love…it could be the beginning of a poem. It was ready to send, and he did so before he considered any other changes to the wording.
—
By the time he went to meet Anna, he had recovered his composure. He had decided that the only way in which he could enjoy the evening was to put Becky’s message out of his mind. He had always been rather good at suppression—as a young boy, when for several months he had attracted the attention of the school bully, he had succeeded in concealing the fact from his parents by the simple technique of pretending that it was not happening; it was only when his mother noticed the bruises that the matter came to light. He employed the tactic later on, to greater or lesser ex
tent, as a means of denying unpleasant reality, and as a result acquired a reputation for stoicism. Such an approach to life could be problematic, of course, as denial dulls pain even if it fails to remove its causes. But it was useful that evening; Becky might have been imminent, but for the few hours of his date with Anna, she would not succeed in dampening his spirits.
They made their way to the restaurant slowly, aware of the early evening parade of others around the main piazza and through the town’s main street, aware of the fact that they, like everyone else, were being watched.
“La bella figura,” said Paul. “That’s what this is all about.”
Anna had heard the expression, but was not quite sure about it.
“It’s at the heart of Italian life,” Paul explained. “At the absolute heart. It’s about making an impression. It’s about doing things beautifully.”
“Doing what?”
He gestured towards a couple walking arm in arm about the piazza. “Them, for instance. They’re going for a walk before their dinner, but they aren’t walking for the sake of walking—not as exercise. They’re walking to show off their clothes. They’re walking around to show that they know how to behave stylishly. La bella figura. And when they get home and she puts the meal on the table, she’ll do so with a flourish. More bella figura.”
Anna said that it sounded like a whole philosophy of life.
“Yes, it is,” said Paul. “Acting with an eye to how things look.”
A small flock of pigeons—no more than half a dozen—that had been pecking at something on the road now rose in a flutter to sanctuary on the rooftops.
“Even the pigeons,” observed Paul. “Even the way they fly is elegant.”
“Come on!”
“No, it’s true. I know it sounds ridiculous, but have you ever seen the pigeons in Siena? In that gorgeous shell-shaped piazza? Have you seen them fly up to the bell tower? It’s so beautiful—the birds against those red bricks and the sky. La bella figura. It’s about everything in this country—everything.”
“Even driving a bulldozer?”
He laughed. “Even driving a bulldozer…You see, if an Italian were to drive a bulldozer, he’d do it much more elegantly than I do—with more panache.”
“He’d drive it…theatrically?”
It was just the right word. “Yes, theatrically. This whole country is theatrical—even the way bulldozers are driven—it’s one great big theatre. And there’s a role for everybody—nobody’s left out.”
A woman walking past them in the opposite direction greeted him formally. For a few moments he did not recognise her, but then, as she went past them, he remembered.
“She knows you?” asked Anna.
“She runs a shop I’ve been going into,” said Paul. “It’s an alimentari. I went there to buy some grapes and I became rather involved in a discussion about cheese. I see her most days, and she’s taken to greeting me in the street.”
“I adore cheese,” said Anna. “I’ve already gorged myself. I bought a whole chunk of Parmesan yesterday, and I somehow seem to have got through half of it without really trying.”
“It’s my favourite too,” said Paul. “I know it doesn’t sound very imaginative, but I think it’s hard to beat Parmesan when it’s just the right age. The problem is that many people outside Italy eat it when it’s either too young or when it’s dried out. Those cartons of Parmesan you used to be able to buy—you know, the ones with the little plastic spouts—I always felt the cheese they contained tasted liked powdered cardboard.”
“But there are plenty of others, aren’t there? From right around here?”
“Tuscany has its cheeses,” said Paul. “Are you adventurous?”
“I like to think I am.”
“Then I can ask them in the restaurant to produce some of their pecorino nero. We can eat it with honey.”
She smiled. “Is that adventurous?”
“Pecorino nero’s rare. It’s made from the milk of black-fleeced sheep. And it’s adventurous because not everybody likes the idea of eating sheep’s milk cheese.”
“I’m up for it.”
“Good. And then there’s pecorino Senese, which is pecorino rubbed in olive oil, tomato paste, and, in the place we’re going to, with ashes. We can add honey to the mix if we like.”
They reached the restaurant, which was just beginning to get busy. He studied the menu and spotted the wild boar. He asked her whether she had had it before, and she had not. Nor had she tried artichoke soup drizzled with truffle oil.
“I know so little about food,” she said. “I eat it, and I cook when I need to, but that’s about it.” She paused, before adding, “Unlike you.”
“I know less than you think,” he said modestly. “It’s not hard to write a book about food and wine, you know. It’s all been written before—somewhere. You just have to know where to find it. Then you dress it up.”
She affected shock. “You don’t mean you plagiarise?”
“No, I don’t mean that. That’s the biggest sin in academia, isn’t it?”
“Probably,” she said. “It’s a big problem for students these days because they can’t remember where they found the information for their essays. It’s all there—all online—they just have to search for it. But even if they take notes—which they do—they may find they’re using the words they’ve read on the screen. Then somebody checks up and finds it’s repeated verbatim in their essay. Plagiarism.”
“And what about their professors?”
“Do they plagiarise? Is that what you’re asking?”
He nodded.
She replied that sometimes they did. And sometimes it was intentional. “If you’re a professor without tenure, you’re under tremendous pressure to publish. But what if you’ve got nothing to say?”
“Then perhaps you’re in the wrong job.”
“Perhaps, but you probably won’t think that. And you may be a brilliant teacher, but nobody’s going to pay much attention to that. That’s not going to get you tenure. You have to show that you’re a scholar.”
“You’re not justifying it, are you?”
She was not. “All I’m saying is that you can see why people do it.”
He said that you could say that about anything. “You can see why people steal things. You can see why they commit murder. But I’m not sure if that takes us any further…” He suddenly thought of Occhidilupo. Could he see why Occhidilupo was as he was? Of course he could. A mean, brutal upbringing in a desolate southern landscape. A father who was violent in the home, a low-ranking member of the Camorra or the ’Ndrangheta. A conviction, instilled at an early age, that you had to battle for anything you had; needed to fight and bite and scratch to get anywhere, because for most people around you that was exactly what they had to do if they were not to be left to fester where they started. And you could trust nobody, of course, because they were all looking out for themselves and they saw no reason to do anything to help.
The waiter appeared and offered to recite the evening’s specials.
“I don’t know what to choose,” said Anna. “I’d probably order the wrong thing.”
He made a few suggestions that she seized upon with relief. Paul ordered sparkling wine for both of them. They touched glasses.
“To the success of your research,” he said.
“And yours,” she responded.
“In my case, this meal counts as research.”
She looked surprised. “You’ll write about it?”
“Possibly. We’ll see.”
He asked her about her plans to get to Siena. “There’s a regular bus service,” he said, “which would be better—even if you had a car.”
“Or a bulldozer?”
“Yes, or a bulldozer.”
Then she said, “My friend will have a car.”
He had picked up the menu as she spoke. He gazed at it, his eyes unfocused. Her friend. “You know somebody here?” he asked, his voice strained.
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br /> “No, it’s somebody who’s coming to see me. In a couple of days’ time.”
He tried to look unfazed. “Coming from where?”
“From the States. He’s only got a week—or slightly over, but the flights will take up a bit of it.”
He thought of the straws he might clutch. The friend was a childhood acquaintance—somebody she had kept up with over the years. Or he was the boyfriend of a cousin of hers; the cousin was in Singapore and he was breaking his journey in Italy on his way to see her because he had business in Rome. It was an easy add-on to get up to Tuscany. Or the friend was gay, and they spent a lot of time together, and he had always wanted to see Italy, so she said I’m going to be there for a month, so why don’t you drop by and stay with me…
She was looking at him. “I hope he copes with Italian driving. He’s never been here before.”
“It’s different.”
She was still looking at him. “Are you all right?” she asked.
He was quick to reassure her. “Perfectly. I was just thinking about…” He waved a hand carelessly. “About artichoke soup.”
“I like the sound of it,” she said.
“Your friend,” he blurted out. “What does he do?”
“Finance,” she said. “He manages funds. He works in Boston. It’s not ideal.”
“Working in Boston?”
She smiled. “No, it’s not the work—it’s the fact that he has to live there and I’m a bit out of the city. Near a place called Concord—you may have heard of it. It’s very important historically.”
He had not. “We have different histories,” he said. It was now quite clear. There was no other interpretation.
“The college I work at is not far from Concord. I have an apartment there. It’s in the basement of a retired couple. It’s great—they’re very quiet and it’s rather nice having them upstairs. She’s a keen baker and makes me cookies. I have to pretend to eat them, but I actually give them away because she makes so many I’d put on pounds and pounds. But I don’t want to offend her.”
My Italian Bulldozer Page 13