Patricia and Malise by Susanna Johnston

The view must be spectacular but don’t the church bells keep you awake at night?’
    The bells were, indeed, deafening but, since meeting her, he had barely slept – bells or not.
    An evening was arranged and supper insisted on.
    He strode to the local
Alimentari
. ‘Elementari, dear Watson’ he said to himself, pleased with his joke. He knew little of children but planned to be boyish and boisterous with Patricia’s son. A prank or two.
    He had written a list. Tomato soup to start with. He cooked in his head as he shopped. After boiling four large tomatoes, he passed them through a Mouli grinder before adding chopped basil, marjoram, salt and a pinch of sugar – all with a flourish.
    Then lasagne. Surely the unwelcome son ate lasagne. His fantasy, later to be played out, continued as he sprinkled parmesan, breadcrumbs, and a few small nubs of butter onto the top of the dish and baked it until brown and sizzling in a hot oven. Pudding was to be ready-made Neapolitan ice cream – bought at the end of the spree in case of melting. A carafe or two of wine – not straw-covered for fear of looking too keen to be authentic. He remembered his efforts with the Contessa.
    All was bought and heaved up the side of the building in the rustic basket. Perfect. He would show the boy how the system worked and allow him to haul something up himself if necessary. He put his earlier fantasies into practice. Pinches of marjoram and salvia.
    Books on Tuscany, Puccini (in reverence to the city’s famous son) Volterra, Bertrand Russell and other volumes were placed where the scholarly husband of the dazzling creature was certain to see them. An old Baedeker or two filched from his father’s library. A book of jokes (scherzi) he had found at the stationers – to interest the boy.
    The table was tidily laid with plain paper napkins and well shone glasses.
    Canapés on a dish.

 
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    Voices on the stairs. A child counting, crossly and in Italian – sixty-five, sixty-seven and so on. Slow and begrudging. Father encouraging. Mother encouraging. Greetings. Flourishes with canapés. Unnecessary flourishes – even Malise was awake to the fact that he overdid it.
    They were all in his small sitting room. White paint. Necessities in the way of furnishing. Considering it was summer, it was chilly.
    Antonio was small, dark, wiry, polite and very quiet. Patricia disconcertingly alert. More beautiful than before. Her presence unnerved Malise who gave full attention to the husband. He, like his son, was small, wiry and polite.
    All went well at table – the sizzling and serving. Conversation on the sticky side but many exclamations (especially from Antonio) on the standard of the food.
    Malise tried jokes – mostly about language differences – and whirled the plates to and fro to a sink, refusing all offers of help.
    The only trouble was that the meal was over almost before it began. Even the ice cream was finished and the evening still very young.
    Were they all going to leave by eight fifteen?
    Andrea took charge and quizzed Malise about his life, his work and his reasons for living where he did. Patricia pulled a pack of cards from her bag and set up a game with her son.
    Andrea began to enjoy the other’s company. Malise was well educated, had learnt much about
Lucchese
brickwork. His looks were indisputably extraordinary. He managed to hint at patrician forebears. He used the word patrician in the hope that Patricia might look up from the card game – which she did.
    The Mc Hips, (that was the surname, he said, modestly) were members of an ancient clan. He knew much Scottish history and Andrea found it absorbing. Wishing to sound involved in the history of Lucca, Malise embarked on another topic. ‘I have heard the story of your courageous chief of police during the war. I gather he defied Mussolini and lost his life for it.’
    Andrea