because Peppino, the broad, dark, rotund boss of the restaurant, had spotted her coming in the door and was already advancing. “Carolina, bella, finally you come with a friend!”
She slipped out of her coat and exchanged a couple of updown-Italian cheek-kisses with him. “I come with friends all the time, Peppino, don’t give me that!”
“Ah, but not one special one. Sir, may I take your coat?”
Caroline was blushing, and astonished that she was blushing. Matiyas slipped out of his coat and handed it to Peppino with a slight bow. “The bar tonight?” Peppino said before he turned away to deal with the coats. “Or the restaurant?”
“Just the bar,” Caroline said. But she smiled at Peppino as they went past him and sat themselves up on the big comfortable seats in front of the dark marble bar.
“’Carolina?’” Matiyas said.
She chuckled. “I know. On the street, I’m a woman: I walk in here and become a state. North or South, I don’t know.”
Carlo the barman came over and smiled at them. “Caroline,” he said. “The usual?”
“Americano,” she said, “absolutely.”
“You, sir?”
“I’ve never had an Americano,” Matiyas said. “What’s it like?”
“Strong,” Caroline said.
“Sounds perfect,” said Matiyas.
The drinks came, tall, cool and deceptively pink-looking. Caroline took a long hit of hers, felt that here-comes-the-alcohol shiver that she saved herself for every Friday evening. Matiyas drank cautiously at first, and his eyes widened. “Well!” he said.
“You like?” Caroline said.
“Very much. They do something like this at Raffles in Singapore.”
She laughed at him. “You’re just showing off, now. Frankfurt, Munich, Singapore— Where haven’t you been?”
“Here,” he said, raising the glass. “Zum wohl.”
“Slainte,” she said, and they banged the glasses together.
They talked casino games, a little, to start with, because considering where they worked, that was common ground—the inherent folly of the concept of a successful roulette system; card-counting and how no one really needs it that much, because most blackjack players play so very badly; whether the House really always rakes off ten percent: game theory, lottery odds, where probability prediction software fails and how it can be made to fail. By then they were both laughing harder than could be blamed on the booze alone. Tension? Caroline thought. Who cares? For by the end of the second round, he was “Matt” and she was “Caro”, and they had moved on to the decline of pinball machine art since Photoshop came in, and the intolerable noisiness of gaming machines in English pubs, and whether British humor was really humor at all (a thesis Matt defended with a truly horrific joke about wounded soldiers, wire brushes and chlorine bleach), and how much British food had improved in the last twenty years, and how insane restaurant prices had become on the West Side lately, and comfort food, and where to get the best pasta, and how spaghetti and meatballs didn’t really exist except in takeaway pizzerias, and how no one really did a decent Bolognese sauce outside of Bologna—
“They do here!” Caroline said.
“ I’ll be the judge of that,” said Matiyas.
“Well, so you shall. Peppino?” Caroline called over her shoulder.
“Right over here,” Peppino said, pulling back a chair from one of the better tables, the one in the corner by the front window.
And then when menus had been perused and the orders given, including for a bottle of wine, the conversation quickly slid away into computer games in general, and why the single-person shooter was or wasn’t dead, and how to sabotage pinball machines without getting caught. And when the first bottle of wine arrived, and the appetizers, the really serious laughter began.
It wasn’t nonstop laughter, of course. Every now and then there had appeared a sort of secret smile on Matiyas’s face, a surprisingly reposeful
She slipped out of her coat and exchanged a couple of updown-Italian cheek-kisses with him. “I come with friends all the time, Peppino, don’t give me that!”
“Ah, but not one special one. Sir, may I take your coat?”
Caroline was blushing, and astonished that she was blushing. Matiyas slipped out of his coat and handed it to Peppino with a slight bow. “The bar tonight?” Peppino said before he turned away to deal with the coats. “Or the restaurant?”
“Just the bar,” Caroline said. But she smiled at Peppino as they went past him and sat themselves up on the big comfortable seats in front of the dark marble bar.
“’Carolina?’” Matiyas said.
She chuckled. “I know. On the street, I’m a woman: I walk in here and become a state. North or South, I don’t know.”
Carlo the barman came over and smiled at them. “Caroline,” he said. “The usual?”
“Americano,” she said, “absolutely.”
“You, sir?”
“I’ve never had an Americano,” Matiyas said. “What’s it like?”
“Strong,” Caroline said.
“Sounds perfect,” said Matiyas.
The drinks came, tall, cool and deceptively pink-looking. Caroline took a long hit of hers, felt that here-comes-the-alcohol shiver that she saved herself for every Friday evening. Matiyas drank cautiously at first, and his eyes widened. “Well!” he said.
“You like?” Caroline said.
“Very much. They do something like this at Raffles in Singapore.”
She laughed at him. “You’re just showing off, now. Frankfurt, Munich, Singapore— Where haven’t you been?”
“Here,” he said, raising the glass. “Zum wohl.”
“Slainte,” she said, and they banged the glasses together.
They talked casino games, a little, to start with, because considering where they worked, that was common ground—the inherent folly of the concept of a successful roulette system; card-counting and how no one really needs it that much, because most blackjack players play so very badly; whether the House really always rakes off ten percent: game theory, lottery odds, where probability prediction software fails and how it can be made to fail. By then they were both laughing harder than could be blamed on the booze alone. Tension? Caroline thought. Who cares? For by the end of the second round, he was “Matt” and she was “Caro”, and they had moved on to the decline of pinball machine art since Photoshop came in, and the intolerable noisiness of gaming machines in English pubs, and whether British humor was really humor at all (a thesis Matt defended with a truly horrific joke about wounded soldiers, wire brushes and chlorine bleach), and how much British food had improved in the last twenty years, and how insane restaurant prices had become on the West Side lately, and comfort food, and where to get the best pasta, and how spaghetti and meatballs didn’t really exist except in takeaway pizzerias, and how no one really did a decent Bolognese sauce outside of Bologna—
“They do here!” Caroline said.
“ I’ll be the judge of that,” said Matiyas.
“Well, so you shall. Peppino?” Caroline called over her shoulder.
“Right over here,” Peppino said, pulling back a chair from one of the better tables, the one in the corner by the front window.
And then when menus had been perused and the orders given, including for a bottle of wine, the conversation quickly slid away into computer games in general, and why the single-person shooter was or wasn’t dead, and how to sabotage pinball machines without getting caught. And when the first bottle of wine arrived, and the appetizers, the really serious laughter began.
It wasn’t nonstop laughter, of course. Every now and then there had appeared a sort of secret smile on Matiyas’s face, a surprisingly reposeful
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