“Of course not.”
“So I give them to my students. They like them. Students will eat anything.”
“And drink anything too.”
“He—that is, Mr. Ellis upstairs—he makes model ships that he puts in bottles. You see them in antique stores but I never thought anybody still actually made them.”
He said, “What’s your friend’s name?”
“Andrew.”
There was silence for a few moments. Then he asked, “Have you been together long?”
“Forever.”
He tried to smile. “Ah! A long time.” He paused. “You must be looking forward to seeing him. When does he arrive?”
“In a few days. He hasn’t yet told me exactly when.”
“So if you go to Siena before then, you’ll take the bus?”
“I guess so.”
She seemed reluctant to say more about Andrew. For his part, Paul was struggling with his disappointment, so for a few moments both looked down at the tablecloth with studied intensity. Paul’s dismay was profound: the affair he had been hoping for was thwarted at the very outset. She was spoken for—it was as simple as that. And of course she would be; after all, she was an extremely attractive young woman, intelligent, vivacious, witty; of course there would be somebody—there always was in such cases.
He swallowed hard. He would be adult about this. “I’m pleased that you have somebody coming to share this place with you.” As he spoke, he thought: You have no idea that what I feel is exactly the opposite of what I’m saying.
She looked up. “Well, thank you. It’s always nicer to have somebody to enjoy a place with—to have the right company.”
He thought: Me, me, me!
“And what about you?” she asked.
In his misery he did not hear what she said.
“And you?” she repeated.
“Me? Well, no…I mean, I’m just here. Just me.”
The look she gave him was a searching one. Noticing it, he saw that she was wanting to ask things that she did not want to spell out. He would make it easy.
“I was with somebody,” he said. “I was with somebody for the last four years. Now it’s over.”
He realised that he had not entirely answered her question. Somebody could be anybody—male or female.
“She went off with somebody else, you see.”
Again there was not enough information. Somebody else could also be anybody. Women left men for men or for women, just as men left women for other women or for men.
“For a man,” he added. “She left me for her personal trainer.”
This elicited a reaction. Anna’s eyes—her flecked-green eyes, he noticed again—widened at the disclosure. “Really? A personal trainer?”
“Yes. He was…” Paul struggled. He did not want to appear bitter; those who are left, if bitter, can seem pathetic. He did not want that. But then again, why should he not tell her how he felt? Even if she was not going to be a lover, she could at least be a friend to whom he could speak openly. Who else did he have to speak to about such things while he was here? Onesto? Tonio? Neither of these seemed likely confidants.
“He was pretty awful,” said Paul. “It’s not that personal trainers, in themselves, are awful—they aren’t…”
She interrupted him. “But a lot of them are. They’re so energetic and keen. They run on the spot when they talk to you. They make you feel guilty. They inflict pain…” She smiled. “I’m exaggerating, of course, but I would never go off with a personal trainer. Never.”
Her smile lifted his mood. “No, I’m sure you wouldn’t. There are those who would run off with a personal trainer…And one would run, wouldn’t one, when going off with a personal trainer? One wouldn’t walk.”
She laughed. “They must be so exhausting. And going out for dinner with your personal trainer, you’d have to be so careful not to choose anything calorific. It would be salads every time.”
He entered into the spirit of it. He became reckless. “And think of the physical side of the relationship. It would be so tiring…” He stopped himself. He had not meant to say it; he had meant to do no more than think it.
And now he could see that he had embarrassed her, as she glanced away.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “That slipped out.”
He felt bathed by her smile. It was like a soft light. “You don’t have to say you’re sorry. I was thinking the same thing myself.”
“I think we should change the subject,” he said. He felt better now; she would be just a friend; he would satisfy himself with that. And you can’t go falling for every woman you meet on your bulldozer, he said to himself. He smiled at the thought.
“I’m going to Siena tomorrow,” she said. “I’m taking the early bus.”
They talked about Siena. Had she ever seen the Palio, the horse race round the main piazza that engaged passions for months and was over in a few hectic seconds? She had seen it on film, she said; she was not particularly interested in horse-racing.
“But it’s not about horses,” Paul said. “It’s about local rivalries. It’s the same thing here in Montalcino. They have an archery competition. And that’s not really about archery. Each quarter has its bowmen who practise like nobody’s business for months and months. They provide an outlet for how people feel about their quartiere. That’s what it’s really about.”
She looked thoughtful. “You could say that about a lot of sports, couldn’t you? The actual game is about the place you live in, the people you’re loyal to, and so on. It’s not about throwing or kicking a ball or doing whatever it is you do to a ball.”
The waiter came back with their first course—Pappa al Pomodoro—a tomato dish reeking of garlic, served with stale bread.
“The bread’s meant to be like this,” said Paul. “Fresh bread would be all wrong.”
He had ordered a coastal white wine to accompany this course, and it was now served. He raised his glass to her, and she responded. As he sipped at the wine, he looked down into the straw-coloured liquid and thought: She likes me. The way she’s looking at me proves she likes me. And then he allowed himself the thought: What if she decided that she prefers me to this Andrew of hers? What if…He stopped himself. There was no point in even beginning to think that. The fact that Andrew was coming all the way from Boston just to spend a week with her in Italy made it clear that he—and she, of course—was committed.
The conversation moved on to her artists. One of them, she said, had come from a village near Montalcino and had studied in Florence with Ghirlandaio. “The father, that is—Domenico Ghirlandaio. He had a son, Ridolfo, who was also a painter. Domenico did that famous picture in the Louvre—you may know it—of the man with the bulbous nose looking down on his grandson, who’s looking up at him.”
Paul knew it. “An Old Man and His Grandson,” he said.
“Yes. Anyway, he studied with him and then came back to Siena. He had a patron there, and he did a series of paintings for him. They’re not considered particularly good, but I like them. I’ve written something about them.”
Paul watched her as she spoke. You can always tell when people love their subject, he thought; their faces light up when they talk about it. And that was happening now. Mind you, he said to himself, her face did not light up when she talked about Andrew. Perhaps she was not looking forward to his visit as much as one might expect.
He was considering that possibility when she suddenly asked him, “Have you found somebody else?”
He had started his answer when she cut him off.
“Because if you haven’t, have you been online? That’s how people do it these days.”
He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
She was solicitous. “You mustn’t allow yourself to mope.”
“I won’t.”
He felt a trickle of liquid tomato run down his chin, and dabbed at it with his table napkin. “Oh, well,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “I
t’s hard.”
“Life?”
“Yes, life, but love in particular—that’s the hard bit.”
She picked up a piece of the stale bread and dipped it in the tomato stew. “Most people get through it somehow, don’t they?”
They made their way through the courses. The conversation was light without being superficial. She told him about her parents, who had moved to Florida. He told her about how he had started writing books on food. And then, towards the end, they came to the pecorino nero and its trickle of honey.
“Even the honey has its complexities,” said Paul. “They have a honey festival here each year.”
“In Montalcino?”
“Honey producers from all over Italy come and sell their honey. If you want acacia honey, you can get it. If you want rose-scented honey, you can get that too. It’s a whole world of its own.”
She licked the honey off her fingers. “That cheese was fantastic,” she said.
“I’ll get hold of some for you.”
“You mustn’t bother.” She smiled. “You’re spoiling me. You’ve already rescued me from the roadside. You’ve arranged this dinner. And now you’re going to go and find some black-fleeced sheep…”
He found that he wanted to do it for her; she was going to be no more than a friend, but he wanted to please her.
She suddenly seemed to remember something. “Your bulldozer,” she said.
“Yes, my bulldozer.”
“Where have you parked it?”
He was surprised by the question. “The usual place. Where I put it when I brought you back here.”
She frowned. “But it wasn’t there this afternoon. I went for a walk. I was down there and I looked for it.”
“But it must be. You must have been at another car park.”
She was adamant. “No, I was definitely in the right place.”
He drew in his breath, and then exhaled slowly. “Are you absolutely sure?”
“Yes.”
He let out a sigh. “Then it’s been stolen.”
“But who would steal a bulldozer?”
He shrugged. “I have no idea. I suppose I’ll have to go and take a look.”
“Right now?”
The evening, he thought, was going to end on a low note. “Would you mind? You see, I’ll have to go to the police and report it. It’s a rented bulldozer, and I’ll need to get in touch with the people in Pisa.”
She was apologetic. “I’m sorry to bring it up. It’s just that…”
Paul had second thoughts. “I suppose we could do dessert. It’s not going to make any difference.” He had also suddenly realised that the bulldozer had probably been towed away for illegal parking. That was far more likely—and far less complicated. But he still wanted to see for himself—and perhaps there was a notice left where he had parked it: This vehicle has been towed away by the authorities for illegal parking.
“No. You can’t sit there wondering what’s happened. We should go.”
He signalled to the waiter. “Change of plan,” he said. “Sorry. No dessert.”
The waiter looked at him reproachfully, but then, glancing at Anna, reached his conclusion. It was not unheard of for people to fall out at the table and for parties to break up before the end of the meal. People were unpredictable, he thought; that’s one thing you learned as a waiter. He inclined his head, and went off to fetch the bill.
A Very Famous Pincher of Women
In the Fiaschetteria the next morning Onesto listened intently, his copy of La Nazione set aside, as Paul related the events of the previous evening.
“Gone?” he said. “Not there?”
“So my friend said. She was absolutely certain.”
“And yet…and yet it was there? Where you had left it?”
“Exactly where I had left it. In its place. I saw it with my own eyes when we left the restaurant and looked down onto the car park. There’s a streetlight down there—right next to where the bulldozer’s parked—and so I couldn’t have been mistaken.”
Onesto raised an eyebrow. “And she saw it too? This lady saw it too?”
“Yes. We both did.”
Onesto started to smile. “She must have been imagining things. Women can be funny about bulldozers…”
“She accepted that it was there. She agreed that it was definitely there when we looked, but that didn’t change her mind about its absence before. She said that when she was down there in the afternoon it wasn’t there. She looked for it, but it was gone.”
Onesto sat back in his chair and stared out of the door. In the piazza, two young boys were taunting a small dog tied by its leash to a railing. The dog was frantically looking round for its owner while at the same time defending itself from the boys’ prodding.
“Those two,” muttered Onesto, pointing. “You see them? The older one is called Carlo and that’s his cousin, Alfredo. We never went in for beating children in quite the same way as they did in England, but if we had, then those two would have been top of my list.”
Paul followed his gaze. “You teach them?” he asked.
“I try to. But they come from very ignorant homes and it’s difficult. The older one is very greedy and all he ever thinks about is eating. The younger one likes to look up the girls’ skirts. I’m very worried about him.” He sighed. “But then you look at his father, and you realise where it comes from. He was a very famous pincher of women before it started to be frowned upon in Italy. He used to travel down to Buonconvento on the bus just in order to pinch women as they walked past him to get to their seat. Then he’d come back on the same bus, and do exactly the same thing. It was his hobby.” He shook his head. “Fortunately, Italy has changed since those days, at least up here. Women can still experience some of this nonsense down in the south.”
There was a sudden shout from the piazza. The dog, prodded once too often by the older boy, had succeeded in nipping him on the ankle. The boy was about to retaliate with a kick when the dog’s owner returned and directed loud invective at his pet’s tormentors.
“Good,” said Onesto. “That lady is the chemist’s cousin. She has three sons of her own, and she knows how to deal with boys.” He turned to face Paul again. “I think this friend of yours, this lady…”
“Anna.”
“This Anna may have been right after all. I think your bulldozer was used by somebody. It happens. People help themselves round here. They take the view that if something isn’t being used, then there’s no harm in borrowing it for a while. I think that may have happened to your bulldozer.” He paused. “And I assume it’s all right—nothing damaged?”
Paul explained that he had gone down to check up that all was well, and there was no sign of any damage. “But why would somebody borrow a bulldozer?”
Onesto shrugged. “To dig a ditch, perhaps? People are always digging ditches.” He smiled. “I always say, We have enough ditches, but people say, Oh no, we need more. You know how it is. There are people who simply want more ditches.”
Paul finished his coffee. “I remain puzzled,” he said.
Onesto had more to say. “Yes, it is a bit puzzling. Of course, it’s always possible…” He broke off and seemed to play with an idea. “Perhaps.”
“Perhaps what?”
“Perhaps some task of destruction. You see, bulldozers are good for knocking things down. Perhaps somebody wants to knock something down—there are plenty of people who would like to see some things knocked down. I have my own list. Perhaps that’s what your bulldozer has been used for.”
“But you can’t go about knocking things down.”
Onesto made a dismissive sound. “Pah! You can do anything in this country. Rome is so weak. They’re busy fighting with one another down there while all over the place there are people using European Union money to build things we don’t need, and then other people come along and knock them down. This happens all the time.”
Paul looked at his watch. “I have to get to work.”<
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Onesto reached for his paper. “And I must return to this.” He pointed to a headline, and shook his head sadly. “I could have told them this would happen. But did they ask me? They did not.”
“They never do,” said Paul. “They never ask us.”
This anodyne remark seemed to resonate with Onesto. “You’d think they’d learn.”
Paul paid for his coffee and said goodbye to Onesto. Then he turned to leave the Fiaschetteria and walked straight into Becky, who was standing outside, admiring the café’s elaborate fin de siècle sign.
She opened her arms. “Darling,” she said. “Paulie…”
He grimaced. He hated being called Paulie.
She had taken a step forward, ready to embrace him, but stopped herself. “You are pleased to see me? Please tell me you’re pleased to see me.”
He struggled to control himself. “Did you get my message?”
She made a dismissive gesture. “Oh that…I saw something, but I’d already arrived in Rome. I could hardly go back. All I want to do is talk to you.”
He cast about him in desperation. He could hardly run away, and now he found that he did not want to. He looked at her and realised that it was not as easy to forget as he had imagined. He had wanted to forget her, but here she was, and for a moment he saw himself with her, in her embrace, and he remembered how it was.
He closed his eyes.
She reached out to touch his arm; she was aware of her power over him. “Aren’t you going to buy me a cup of coffee? Surely that?”
There were seats free at one of the outside tables. He gestured towards them, almost helplessly.
“We’ve got so much to talk about,” she said as they sat down.
“Becky…”
She put a finger to her lips. “Not now, though. All I want to say now is one word. Sorry.” She paused. She was looking at him with unrelenting intensity. “There, I’ve said it, and I’ll say it again: Sorry.” There was a further pause, and then, “See?”
Paul sighed. “You don’t have to say sorry.”
My Italian Bulldozer Page 14