At the End of a Dull Day (6 page)

The whole room burst into laughter and I took advantage of the hubbub to sneak out with Martina. We walked arm-in-arm down the porticoes, idly looking at the show windows.

“Women's boots aren't much to look at this year,” I said with conviction, parroting a comment I'd heard one of my female customers utter as I walked by her table. That was something I often did when I didn't know what to talk about.

“The truth is that you have very traditional tastes.” She pointed to a pair of knee-high boots. “For instance, I could only wear those in private.”

“You can bet on that. I'd never let you leave the house with those monstrosities on your feet.”

We continued to joke around once we got to the pizzeria. The proprietor came over to our table and thanked me for honoring his restaurant with my patronage. In a voice loud enough to be heard by the other tables I told him that he made the best pizza in town. After we'd finished exchanging amiable compliments, he sent out a sampling of mozzarella di bufala produced by his Uncle Alfonso and sun-dried tomatoes made by some other relative of his.

Martina ordered a beer. “We're not eating German sausage and potatoes,”
I pointed out under my breath. “A Fiano d'Avellino is really the best accompaniment for both the mozzarella and the calzone alla ricotta that you ordered.”

“Your wife ordered wisely,” broke in the waiter, who had a strong Neapolitan accent and sharp ears. “The pizza is first-rate here but the wine selection is limited . . . and after all most of our customers don't order wine.”

“Fine, have the beer,” I gave in. I looked around to see if there were any well known faces from the local wine and food circuit. I hated to be seen in public breaking the golden rules of good wine and fine cuisine.

I was updating Martina on the latest developments concerning the vicious attack in the Brianese home when she suddenly burst out with unexpected news.

“I quarreled with Gemma. She's not really sick at all.”

“What did you fight about?”

“She's in love with you.”

“Did she tell you that?”

“Yes. I've had my suspicions for a while but yesterday afternoon, on the phone, I forced her to admit it.”

I took her hand. “And you got mad.”

“That's not all. I'm feeling sad, too. She was my best friend.”

“Why do you say ‘was'?”

“I can't see her anymore,” she told me. “I couldn't take the tension of being in constant contact with a woman who wants to steal my husband away from me.”

I flashed her a smirk of astonishment.

“What?” she asked in annoyance.

“Look, can you imagine me fucking Gemma?” I asked with a laugh. “It's not nice of you to show such a low opinion of my tastes in women.”

She bit her lower lip. I took advantage of the chance to double down. “You're a genuinely lovely, desirable woman. Gemma, well, isn't.”

“I'm sorry. I'm being insecure, as usual.”

I changed tone. “That's right. And I'd like you to think for a minute about how deeply offensive you've been to me with this complete lack of trust. Do you really think all someone needs to do is let me get a whiff of pussy and I'll start cheating on my wife? Do you have any idea how many beautiful women come into La Nena?”

She started to mumble excuses and sail off into tangled and senseless explanations. When I saw she was on the verge of tears I laid my silverware in my plate and looked her straight in the eye.

“I love you and I have no intention whatsoever of giving you up. Make peace with Gemma. It makes no sense to break up such a fine and lasting friendship for a passing crisis of insecurity.”

“You're right,” she stammered. “It's a good thing we talked it over. I'm so relieved.”

And so was I. I needed to keep Gemma as my accomplice.

When I headed back to my restaurant, after my wife said goodbye and gave me a kiss on the lips, reminding me not to stay out late, I called that idiot friend of hers.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?”

“Why don't you come over and I'll show you?”

I hung up. She was drunk. A good sign. Then she'd be smitten with remorse, there would be streams of tears and useless words and everything would go back the way it was. Between the two of them. The real problem was that now I saw Gemma in a new light. I'd always been attracted by women in their forties afflicted with chronic fragility. In my other life, before my relationship with Martina, who represented the summit of perfection from that point of view, I'd broken into the personal lives of countless women, playing relentlessly unfair with their weaknesses and dragging them down into the abyss with me, leaving behind me nothing but smoking ruins or wreckage silent with the chill of death. With my boyish good looks and my old school gentlemanly manners, I was a past master at lying and acting out extended scripts. That kind of woman only figures things out long after the point of no return. To avoid temptation I'd set myself some rigorous rules: never to fraternize with the female clients and the waitresses in the restaurant. I'd always turned down the numerous offers of sexual relations. The monthly blowjob I let Nicoletta give me was just a reiteration of roles between business partners, but I'd never have dreamed of embarking on an affair with her. Among other things, she wasn't my type; she basically devoured her men and then spit out the few remaining bones. But now Gemma's emotional fragility had been served up on a silver platter and I had to do my best to rein in my imagination. I focused on my work. But it wasn't easy.

 

Three days later, when Sante Brianese walked into La Nena with his usual brisk, energetic stride, he was accorded a hero's welcome. He'd been so skillful at exploiting the situation that he'd managed to appear on all the news broadcasts, and especially on the afternoon shows, which were the ones with the highest viewership among his average voters. The tearjerking story of the poor Moldavian women with a disfigured face, and the way that he had reached into his own savings to ensure she received the best possible medical care, had stirred the hearts of all Italy. He'd made sure he was photographed and filmed at her bedside in the hospital. After all, years of delivering summations in court and political speeches on the campaign trail had honed his rhetorical skills to a gleaming edge.

I waited for the cluster of customers swirling around him to thin out, then I came out from behind the counter. I threw my arms around him in a transport of emotion and I whispered into his ear: “So there never really was a Dubai deal at all. It's a bad thing to cheat your friends, Counselor.”

I felt his whole body stiffen. I pulled back just long enough to stare into his eyes round with shock and then I slipped the maid's white cloth tiara into the pocket of his overcoat. I walked back to the counter. By the time I turned around Brianese was slipping out the front door. He'd be back soon. I felt sure of it.

A few minutes later Martina poked her head in the door and waved for me to join her outside.

“What is it?”

“That fool Gemma is ashamed to come in,” she explained, pointing to her.

Gemma was half-hidden behind the pillar of a portico. She was moving her feet as if she were dancing out of time to some unheard music, and she was greedily sucking down lungsful of tobacco smoke.

I walked over to her. “Look, I really don't know what . . . ” she mumbled.

“Starting tomorrow morning, you quit smoking.”

“Excuse me?”

“Didn't you say you were in love with me?” I replied in a harsh tone of voice. “I wouldn't deign to consider a woman who reeks of tobacco smoke. If you want to put yourself on the market you're going to have to straighten up and fly right.”

I turned around and returned to Martina's side. “Every­thing's fine now, darling,” I reassured her. “Your table's the one in the corner. You're going to have to eat in the company of a prosciutto producer from Montagnana and his wife, but they're lovely people, you'll both like them.”

Gemma avoided my eyes all evening. Her mind had been turned inside out. The next move was up to her. On the one hand, I hoped that she'd throw the door open to me, so I could take control of her life and pillage her self-respect. On the other hand, part of me hoped she wouldn't do it. That would be the last thing I needed, now that I'd opened a hotline with Brianese on the matter of the two million euros.

 

I would have bet anything that the Counselor would come back in person but instead he sent Ylenia, his faithful secretary. She adjusted her designer glasses on the bridge of her nose. “The Honorable Brianese would like to speak with you,” she announced. “But he has a meeting and he won't be able to come by until very late this evening. He begs you to wait for him.”

“For Counselor Brianese I'm always available,” I replied in the same pompous tone.

She turned to go, stamping her heels ever so slightly. It annoyed her that I hadn't used the term of respect “Honor­able” to refer to Brianese, but there was no way I could get the phrase out of my mouth without seeming irreverent.

It was an evening packed with exciting new developments. Martina waved me over to their table and proudly announced that Gemma had decided to quit smoking.

“It's not an easy thing to do,” I commented as if she weren't sitting right there. “I know lots of people who tried but couldn't do it.”

“Don't be so negative,” she scolded me. “You ought to encourage her, not discourage her.”

“No, he's right,” said the smoker in question, rising to my defense. “But I'm going to do my level best to quit.”

Next it was the turn of the proprietor of a well known
enoteca
. He took a seat at the counter and ordered an
amaro
. The bartender reached around to grab the bottle but I stopped him. I pulled out a bottle of cognac from my personal stock and poured a couple of snifters. His eyes were red, with dark circles of anxiety and exhaustion. He was the picture of a man in trouble. It didn't cost me a thing to be nice to him and see if we could be useful to one another.

“I wouldn't expect you to drink a syrupy concoction like that,” I said, handing him the snifter.

“I've got problems with my shop and I don't know how to get out of this situation,” he muttered in dialect. “Just think, my father started the business as just a humble little wine shop and tavern. Then, when everyone had plenty of money and started putting on airs that they were all wine connoisseurs, and my customers would only drink wine that came out of a bottle with a label and a certification of origin, I changed the sign and took the sommelier course at the Chamber of Commerce . . . ”

“And now you're one of the countless businessmen and shopkeepers hit hard by the downturn, devastated now that the banks have turned off the faucet. You're fifty years old and if you have to shut down your business you don't know how you'll make a living,” I summarized in a flat voice so I wouldn't have to listen to the rest of the story of his life. “What can I do for you?”

He rubbed his face with both hands. “I don't want to have to fold my business,” he answered with tears in his voice.

“Sorry, I don't make unsecured loans,” I told him.

He shook his head and gulped down the cognac. “I'm looking for a partner.”

“I'm not interested, I already have my hands full with La Nena,” I shot back. Then I pointed to a bundle of paper sticking out of his back pocket. “But I could help you clear out your warehouse.”

He unfolded his inventory and laid it flat on the bar. I read through it. First-rate wines and liquor, no question about it. “If I buy it all, what kind of price would you offer?”

He named a figure that was unquestionably fair and advantageous but which I had no intention of paying.

I handed back the inventory. “That's a good price but I can't afford it. Not even on installments.”

His eyes were like an open book. “If I don't pay my suppliers soon no one will be willing to supply me with a single bottle of wine on credit.”

“Then forget about trying to make money on it. You can't afford to.”

He nodded. The new price he named was much more affordable. I managed to clip a little more off the top and we shook hands on it. He turned down my offer of another glassful and walked out of the bar with his head pulled down between his shoulders.

He was just one of many businessmen hunting desperately for a way to keep the family business out of bankruptcy. They were the ones who'd noticed too late that the good times were over and they hadn't run for shelter early enough. More than one of them had wrapped a noose around their neck or run a vacuum cleaner hose from their tailpipe to their car window. The newspapers carried the reports and the politicians even pretended to care. If it weren't for my little ring of whores, La Nena would have dragged me down to the bottom. To keep from winding up like that guy I'd have had to go back to making bank withdrawals with a pistol and a scrawled note. That was just one more reason to make sure that Brianese gave me back my money.

I'd closed out the cash register some time ago and the cooks and waitstaff had already gone home when the Counselor stooped down to enter the restaurant under the half-closed metal roller shutter.

He took a seat on a stool at the bar. “Are we alone?”

“Of course. What are you drinking?”

“Nothing. I'm fine, thanks,” he replied before heading off to the back room.

I poured myself a drink and took my time following him back.

“What the fuck did you think you were going to achieve with that bloodbath in my house?” he launched into me, seething with rage.

“Well, this for starters,” I replied, continuing my show of tranquility. “An open, honest exchange of ideas. I'm not going to say between friends, but at least between two people who respect one another and behave accordingly.”