Patricia and Malise by Susanna Johnston Page B

only a chef? Were lessons no longer needed? Much spent on exercise books.
    Silence. He broke it.
    â€˜What about Antonio? Might he like a modicum of tuition?’ His voice grew louder still and his language more archaic.
    Before the end of the conversation, however, something was arranged.
    Antonio’s long summer vacation had just started. Andrea spent much time in Pisa and they did not expect to go to the hills for a bit of time yet. Might Malise meet the boy in the town? Talk to him in English?
Conversazione
?
    Was he about to become a child minder?
    Trail a grumpy child around Lucca for hours at a time?
    Unpaid, of course. To be paid by Patricia was unthinkable. He was terrified that she might suggest it. She didn’t and they agreed to meet outside the cathedral on the following morning. There she was, tantalisingly so, to hand the boy over and to leave them to each other for an hour or more.

 
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    It was very warm. Malise, tugging at every stop within him, was determined to amuse and interest the child.
    He wore, after consideration, an old linen jacket, a blue cotton shirt and army surplus trousers.
    It amused him to allow the child to balance himself as he ran along a low wall that bordered a narrow canal near to the centre of the town. He bought him a multi-coloured ice cream; introduced him to the shrivelled remains of the patron saint of serving maids – having mugged up on her fanciful story. She had, he related with exaggeration in voice and manner, been stalked by an ogre (here he pretended to be an ogre) who suspected her of stealing food from his kitchen. On his orders she let fall her gathered apron and out fell a bunch of flowers. The city was brimming with myth and sensation and Malise had done all in his power to plan the walk with precision. Army surplus trousers and all. They stopped outside the orthopedic shop. An entire window was dense with dummies wearing jockstraps designed for hernia sufferers, built-up shoes, false breasts and crepe stockings under a flickering sign
‘
Busti
e
Corsetti

Orto
pidici
.’
    Antonio was entranced by it all. Wide-eyed.
    When they met Patricia at the bar where, once only, she had fallen from her bicycle, she was happy to find her son animated and asking if ‘Sir’ might take him walking every day. Malise, too, had enjoyed it. There was something of the schoolmaster in his make-up and, if it constituted progress towards his goal, he was more than prepared to escort the boy as often as was necessary.
    He suggested that they all stop for a drink or a cup of coffee. Patricia accepted and the boy demanded another ice-cream. Malise, unmanned (or possibly the opposite) in Patricia’s dazzling presence, became daring.
    â€˜Tomorrow. Why don’t you join us on our round?’
    She seemed surprised and pleased but refused the offer. It was clear that she delighted in her new found free time.
    What did she need free time for?
    Her husband was in Pisa.
    The following day they repeated the ritual and, after another successful morning where the two climbed the tall tower with trees on top, they met again with Patricia at the bar. Some ice had been broken. The nine year old was much taken with Malise. The man had nothing whatsoever to do. That made a change with grown-ups who were busy from morning until night.
    â€˜Sir’ was prepared to shop, change routes, allow Antonio to stroke a dog, put a lire or two into the bowl of a beggar. He became a Galahad in the child’s eyes.

 
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    For several days they kept to the same routine – joining Patricia for a drink in the Piazza when the touring round was over. They boy was attentive to Malise who, flaunting boyish suppleness, showed him how to make paper aeroplanes and raced him round the ramparts. Patricia beamed upon him, her sparkling eyes looking into his.
    â€˜What luck that we met. Antonio has seldom enjoyed himself