My Italian Bulldozer

by Alexander McCall Smith

  “Possible,” said Paul. “But I assure you, we’re not.”

  Ella looked embarrassed. “She said that she would only be needing Room Four for one night. Now she wants to have it for four, but she can’t, and I can’t give her another one. Everything’s booked up. There’s somebody coming tomorrow. The room will be needed.”

  For a moment Paul was uncertain what to say. Ella was looking at him strangely—not so much with an air of disapproval as of puzzlement.

  He wiped his forehead without thinking, but a great deal can be said with the hands in Italy, and the message this conveyed was the right one.

  Ella’s tone became sympathetic. “I can see that you’re in some difficulty,” she said. “This lady…I think she’s pursuing you.”

  Paul nodded gratefully. “I don’t think so. I think she’s a bit confused.” He paused before continuing. “We used to be together and then…”

  He was not sure whether he should say anything further. He did not wish to burden Ella with his emotional entanglements, and yet he felt that here was an understanding ear—and a useful ally.

  “May I tell you about it?” he asked.

  He need not have been concerned; she was ready to hear what he had to say. And when his explanation drew to a close, he could tell from her expression that she had understood.

  “It’s not always the man,” she mused. “It’s often the woman. I’ve seen that so many times.”

  “Oh yes?”

  “Yes. In my profession, you know, one sees all of human nature.” She raised a finger to emphasise the point. “All. There are no secrets that an innkeeper does not know; there is no human behaviour—none—that would surprise us.”

  Paul’s eyes widened. For a brief moment he imagined the discoveries made in rooms after people had vacated them, the conversations overheard, the demands made, the things left behind…

  “And when it comes to bad behaviour,” Ella continued, “it’s equally split—in my view. Fifty-fifty between men and women.”

  “As it should be,” said Paul.

  “You see,” Ella continued, “there are many women who assume that it is always the man who acts badly. If there is any problem between a man and a woman, they think, Ah yes, this will be another example of bad behaviour by men. But it’s not that simple. Yes, there are men who behave badly, who will get rid of a woman when somebody better turns up, who throw women aside without so much as…”

  Not me, thought Paul. I didn’t.

  “…without so much as a thought for the feelings of the poor woman. And then you get women who do exactly the same thing to men. Or who make the life of the man unbearable with jealousy and reproach. Or who come between him and the things that any man likes to do. Or who work out all their anger on him. Oh yes, there are many women who behave every bit as badly as men do.”

  “I’m sure there are,” said Paul. “Becky—this lady—she’s not like that. She did go off with somebody—as I told you—but she’s not what we would call a shrew.”

  Ella was interested in the term. “A shrew? One of those little creatures like a field-mouse?”

  “Yes. Perhaps it’s unfair to shrews, but people call very forceful women shrews. Or used to.”

  “But you just did.”

  “No, I didn’t really mean it. I meant…what other people would call a shrew.” He thought of Shakespeare. “Shakespeare for example. One of his plays is all about that, and the shrew in that is a difficult woman. Commedia dell’arte. Same thing.”

  “So this lady—this Signora Becky—is not a mouse?”

  “Shrew. No. She’s not.”

  “But she is still somebody you would rather avoid?”

  Paul took a deep breath. “It’s not a question of avoiding her. As I said, I don’t want to be unkind to her. I just want to get on with my life.”

  This brought vigorous agreement from Ella. “Which is all that most of us want to do. We want to get on with our lives—without interference from Rome, or from Brussels.” She paused, as if to mull over an idea. “I can make arrangements, I think.”

  Paul looked at her with interest. “For Becky?”

  “Yes. There is a place down the road, the Pensione Garibaldi. They take overflow from us from time to time, and the other way round. They’ve never failed to find a room for somebody when I’ve asked them. We’re on very good terms.”

  Paul brightened. “So they’ll be able to take Becky?”

  Ella said that she thought they would.

  “Then that solves that.”

  Ella smiled. “I’m sorry that you are having all this difficulty, Paolo. You come here for peace and quiet, on your bulldozer, and you find yourself running away from a woman. It’s very unfortunate.”

  Paul wondered how she knew about the bulldozer, but did not ask. It was obvious to him now that Montalcino was not a place in which secrets of any sort would survive for long. He looked at his watch: Gloria could arrive at any time.

  “There’s one further thing, Ella. I’m expecting a colleague this afternoon. I am going to be in my room.”

  Ella was briskly efficient. “I shall refer him to you immediately.”

  “Her. It’s a lady.”

  Paul could tell what she was thinking. “It’s not what you imagine,” he said. “This lady is my editor.”

  “Your editor?” The word was uttered in inverted commas.

  “I assure you she is,” said Paul. “She’s here because she heard that the other lady had followed me.”

  Ella hesitated, and Paul realised that her quandary now was that of deciding in which of the fifty per cents to place him. But then she broke into a smile and he knew that he was believed.

  “You know, we do not expect the English to have such interesting lives. We expect it of the Spanish and the French, perhaps, but not the English.”

  “Scottish.”

  “Yes, Scottish. It seems very strange.” She closed her register. “But don’t worry. I shall speak to nobody about this. The important thing is that you should be able to get on with your work.”

  He thanked her and went back upstairs to his room, passing Room Four on the way, treading softly as he made his way along the corridor in case Becky might have returned. I don’t have to do any of this, he thought. I shouldn’t have to creep around like a criminal. And then he thought of Occhidilupo. He pictured him skulking around the woods, his dark eyes watchful and wary. What if Occhidilupo were to surface in the Fiore, or even in the Fiaschetteria, brooding over a cup of coffee, scanning La Nazione for the latest reports of sightings of himself? Nothing would surprise him in Italy—even that. Commedia dell’arte, he thought.

  —

  Paul had dozed off when Ella knocked on his door. “Your colleague,” she said, placing heavy emphasis on the word, “is downstairs. Shall I bring her up?”

  He decided to meet her downstairs and went down to find Gloria sitting in the reception hall’s single chair, a small valise by her side. She sprang to her feet and rushed towards him. Ella, glancing briefly at Paul, went off to busy herself with some task in her office.

  The first thing that Gloria said was, “You’re not cross with me, are you?”

  “Cross?”

  “For coming here?”

  He drew back from her embrace. “Not really.” He paused. “You heard about…” Involuntarily he glanced upstairs, and Gloria intercepted his look.

  “Is she there?”

  He shook his head. “Not at the moment, but I’d prefer for us to go somewhere else. There’s a place called the Fiaschetteria—you’ll like it.”

  Gloria looked down at her luggage. “May I leave my bag?”

  “Of course,” said Paul. “I can put it in my room.”

  He reached for the bag and began to make for the stairs. She followed him.

  “Do you mind if I come and see?” she asked. “I’ve been trying to imagine the place you’re working in.”

  He led her along the corridor. “That’s her
room,” he whispered, as they passed Room Four.

  Gloria gave the doorway a disapproving glance. “Shameless!” she whispered back, smiling conspiratorially. “She’s a stalker, that’s what she is.”

  “No,” said Paul. “She isn’t. And actually, I feel a bit sorry for her.”

  “Because she’s stuck with Mr. Universe? Is that why?”

  “No, not that.” He struggled to think of how he could explain. “Because she’s…well, lonely, I suppose.”

  “You can bring loneliness on yourself,” said Gloria. “And she’s terribly mixed up.”

  “Aren’t we all?” said Paul. “In a way?”

  They had reached Paul’s door, and he admitted them to the room. Gloria looked around, and then crossed to the open window. “Look at that,” she exclaimed. “That could be a Renaissance painting. Oh, beautiful, beautiful country!” She turned to Paul. “Why didn’t we have the good luck to be born Italian, Paul? Is it something we did in a previous life? Something that led to bad karma?”

  “I think a lot of people would like to be something else,” said Paul. “Even Italians.”

  She pointed out of the window. “That sky…And the cypress trees. And the birds flying below us, Paul—below us.”

  He followed her gaze out of the window. Because the land fell away so steeply, and because the Fiore—and the village—were on a spine of high ground, there were birds down below them, darting swallows in pursuit of insects. In the distance, rising from the floor of the Val d’Orcia, was a column of white smoke, as thin from this distance as the smoke of a snuffed-out candle. For a few moments he found himself reflecting on what it would be like to have a less complicated life; what it would be like to be the farmer burning brushwood, not caring about what was happening in the wider world, and not having to juggle social commitments and deadlines, not having to cope with former lovers with a vague agenda of forgiveness and friendship—or possibly more, as the lonely hearts columns put it—and protective editors.

  Gloria looked around the room again. She noticed the twin beds, one of which Paul had occupied, the other being undisturbed.

  She smiled at him. “An awkward question—but I feel I know you well enough.”

  “Yes?” He was hesitant.

  “I haven’t actually got anywhere to stay tonight. Tomorrow, yes, I’ve got a room here, but not tonight.” She glanced at the spare bed. “Do you think I could? Just as a friend, of course. Chinese walls.”

  He drew in his breath. It had not occurred to him that she was the person who had telephoned to book the room to be vacated by Becky. “Isn’t there anywhere else…” He stopped himself. Gloria had come all this way because she thought he needed help; he could not turn her down. “No,” he continued. “I mean, yes. Yes, you can stay here.”

  “I shall behave myself impeccably,” said Gloria. “I don’t snore or talk in my sleep.”

  She moved across to the spare bed and drew it further away from the other bed. “There,” she said. “Plenty of blue sea between us.”

  Paul pointed towards his work table. “You see what a good boy I’m being. I’m keeping strictly to my timetable.”

  Gloria laughed. “I wouldn’t have imagined otherwise. But I was worried that…that your ex was going to derail everything.”

  Ex? He had never thought of Becky as his ex.

  “That’s a strange term,” he said. “I’m not sure if it suits her.”

  “Well, that’s what she is—she’s an ex. The problem is, though, that sometimes an ex can be difficult.”

  “I’m all right,” said Paul. “I appreciate your concern, but I think everything’s going to be all right.”

  Gloria was staring at him intently. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, more or less.”

  Gloria reached out to touch him lightly on the arm. “You have to be careful, Paul. She probably doesn’t know what she wants. But you don’t really owe her anything. I know you, Paul—you’re so kind and considerate that you’ll probably let yourself be dragooned back into a relationship—if that’s what she’s really after. And she may be, for all we know. But that’s not what you want, is it?”

  He looked down at the floor. “Oh, Gloria, I don’t know—I really don’t. There’s a bit of me that says yes, why not? If she were to ask me to come back.”

  She shook her head vigorously. “No, Paul, no. Don’t listen to that bit.”

  Paul moved over to the window. The column of smoke down in the valley had disappeared. “But there’s something else—something I haven’t told you.”

  Gloria frowned. “She’s not pregnant, is she?”

  “No, not to my knowledge.”

  Gloria’s eyes widened. She had thought of something. Of course. Of course. “She could be, you know. Let’s say that Mr. Universe…”

  “He’s called Tommy.”

  “Of course he’s called Tommy—it’s a very good name for a personal trainer. So Tommy gets her pregnant and then we don’t see him for dust—not part of the plan. She looks around and thinks—somebody’s going to have to provide for the child and so she decides…”

  He interrupted her. “That’s not a problem these days. She doesn’t have to have the baby.”

  “No, that’s true. But let’s say that she wants it. The biological clock and so on.”

  “Well, she could just go ahead and have it. She wouldn’t need me.”

  But Gloria thought she would. “Being a single mother isn’t everybody’s idea of bliss, Paul.”

  “I don’t think she’s pregnant. She was always very careful about that.”

  Gloria seemed unconvinced. “All right, we’ll leave that to one side.” She paused. “So what did you want to tell me?”

  Paul moved away from the window to sit down on his bed. “I think I’m in love.”

  For a few moments she said nothing, the set of her mouth demonstrating her dismay. “With her? With Becky?”

  He looked up in astonishment. “No, of course not.”

  “Who then?”

  He told her of his meeting with Anna. “I can’t get her out of my mind,” he said. “I hardly know her, and yet…well, I’m smitten—that’s all there is to it. I’m completely smitten.”

  She sat down next to him. “Just think about this very, very carefully,” she said. “You’re on the rebound from Becky. It may not be the best time.”

  “And there’s another thing. She already has somebody.”

  This was greeted with silence. Eventually Gloria spoke. “Well, that settles that, then. You’re going to have to forget her. You don’t have much choice, do you?”

  “I know. But I can’t—I just can’t.”

  Gloria sighed. When she spoke, she sounded like a patient teacher, explaining to a child how the world is. “Listen, Paul—we all go through this at some stage in life. We fall for somebody we can’t have. The lesson you learn from it is quite simple. You have to put the other person out of your mind. You have to accept it’s not to be.”

  “I know that.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes, I do. But it hasn’t stopped me feeling the way I feel.” He paused, struggling to describe how he felt. “I feel raw. Do you know that feeling? As if I’m somehow exposed. Raw.”

  She took his hand. “Love hurts. That’s what they say, isn’t it? Love hurts.”

  “Yes, it does. It hurts a lot.”

  She stroked his hand gently. He found the gesture comforting.

  “Do you want to come home?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He nodded. “Definitely. I’ll be all right. I’ll get over it.”

  Gloria gave his hand a squeeze. “We all do. We get over it. I’ve had to do that twice. I’ve…” But she stopped. It was as if she had said too much.

  He realised that he knew nothing of Gloria’s emotional life. It seemed strange to him that she should even bother about such things: sensible, in-control Gloria, whose job it was to lo
ok after other people and not go off and get herself into emotional entanglements. He looked at her with new eyes. “You? Twice?”

  She looked away. “You seem so surprised.”

  He was flustered. “I’m sorry. I don’t think of you in that light, you see.”

  There was a forced briskness in her voice. “The first time,” she said, “was when I was about sixteen. There was a boy at school who seemed to me to be just the most wonderful creature ever. He had dark hair and blue eyes—you know that combination—and I couldn’t take my eyes off him. But he didn’t so much as notice me. I tried everything, but it seemed as if I didn’t exist. I think he didn’t have much time for girls.”

  Paul sympathised. “I think most of us have had that experience.”

  “Yes. But it doesn’t get any easier, does it?”

  She let go of his hand; so simple to do, but so hard.

  You Shouldn’t Underestimate Hens

  It was only his third time at the restaurant, but they treated him like a regular. Word had got out that he was a famous food critic; he wrote for The New York Times, it was whispered by some; he was a Michelin inspector, others said; and yet others reported that he was writing a book that would declare Montalcino to be the culinary capital of Italy and that already a new hotel was being planned to deal with the expected influx of visitors. This hotel was to be built and run by the Swedes, the rumour went, but nobody was able to say why this should be so. In the midst of all this wild speculation, Paul was now given new and elaborate respect, particularly on his entry to the Stracotto, where the exchange of knowing glances indicated that even if it were to be true that he was a Michelin inspector, there was nothing here with which he could find fault.

  Gloria sniffed at the air. “You wouldn’t even have to eat anything,” she said. “The cooking smells would be enough.”

  “That’s the truffled lasagne,” said Paul. “Some people find the smell of truffles a little bit overpowering.”

  “They’re wrong,” said Gloria firmly. “They’re simply wrong.”

  It was a favourite expression of hers, and Paul, recognising it, smiled. There had been many occasions when he had heard her bringing some meandering or fruitless discussion to an end by saying, You’re simply wrong. It was hard to argue with such a position, although he had occasionally retorted, You’re the one who’s wrong, but this had never worked.