Page 103 of The Start of Something Wonderful

‘Okay, okay,’ I say, raising my hands in submission. ‘I haven’t been studying Italian lately. Sorry, but come on, Italian and German are worlds apart. I mean, the other day, when I found myself ordering G-nocchi instead ofKnödel, I realised my poor wee brain can’t cope with learning two languages at the same time any more.’

‘Scusi?’ says Francesco, with his famous, whataya-talking-about-hand gesture.

‘G-nocchi. You know, dumplings.Knödel, in German.’

‘Aah!’ he says, teasing me with a small smile. ‘You mean “gnocchi”! Mycara imbecille, the “g” is silent.’ Leaning forward, he removes my glasses and plantsa kiss on my nose. My heart gives a little jolt.

In between sips of bubbly and mouthfuls of dumpling, I tell him about Anna, Mags, Oliver, the play, the opera, the trip to the country. Francesco orders more wine, we eat, I talk some more, and because I’m a little bit squiffy, I divulge the Nigel saga (not, you’ll be relieved to hear, in a bitter, all-men-are-bastards rant, but rather in athings-happen-for-the-best way). All the while he listens intently, shakes his head, and smiles in all the right places.

‘Hey, enough about me, Francesco,’ I say, a voice in my head warning me my chattiness is verging on self-obsessed gabble. ‘Tell me about the restaurant, Luigi, Nonna Maria … I want to know everything.’

‘Zio Luigi and Nonna Maria are well. They sendauguri(good wishes).Every Friday and Saturday we now haveSerata di Opera– how you say? – opera cabaret. Rosalba and Lucio, they perform opera, and the restaurant is so busy you must make a reservation at least two weeks before.Allora, Zio Luigi is a ver-ry happy man.’

‘And Sergio?’ I ask as casually as I can.

‘Bene,’ he says, nodding. ‘He will return to work full-time very soon.’

‘Aah,’ I say, nervousof the answer to my next question. ‘Do you know when exactly?’

‘Mit the compliments of the house,’ says the waiter, delivering two Maria Theresia liqueur coffees.

Francesco turns, raises his glass in thanks to the barman, then says, ‘Look,cara, is your mother and father, over there.’

I lean forward, turn forty-five degrees, and sure enough, deep in conversation, oblivious to the worldaround them, are Oliver and Mags, the light from the candles illuminating their faces. He takes a neatly pressed hankie from the top pocket of his jacket and gently dabs her eyes. I bob my head back, pretending I haven’t seen them.

‘You don’t say hello?’ says Francesco.

‘No … don’t wave,’ I say, grabbing his arm in the nick of time. ‘I don’t say hello because … well, it’s complicated.But trust me, it’s better they don’t know we’re here.’

‘Aah,’ he says with a sigh. ‘Amore,cara, is never simple – even when we are old.’

He then proceeds to tell me how his grandparents were married for sixty years, and at his grandfather’s funeral, his mistress pitched up. It transpired their clandestine affair had been going on for over four decades. Francesco was only eight at thetime, but remembers hiding under the altar table, hands clasped tightly over his ears to block out the caterwauling the arrival of the shamelessstrega(witch) brought to mass that day.

However, the two women eventually became friends and would meet in the piazza, where they would sip limoncello and compare notes about the old man’s flaws and irritating habits. Both agreed they were betteroff without the oldbastardo.

* * *

‘Anna?’ I enquire next morning.

‘Ja, liebling?’ she says, clearing away the breakfast things.

‘I should have thought of this before, but do you know of anywhere that rents bicycles?’

‘Komm’ mit mir,’ she says, wiping her hands on her apron, then leading me down to the basement. There, behind various old rusty garden tools, is an ancient bikewith ‘Schildberger und Söhne’ painted in faded lettering along the crossbar.

‘This bicycle belonged to my man … in English, husband,ja? He worked for his father in theBäckerei, the bakery,’ she says, feeling the tyres. ‘A littleLuft(air),dann ist alles in Ordnung.’

I wiggle along the road, pushing both bikes, unwieldy as supermarket trolleys.

‘Buongiorno, principessa!’ calls Francescofrom Cristina’s balcony, as I weave unsteadily round the corner.

‘Buongiorno!Ho una bicicletta!’

‘Madonna mia!’ He guffaws in disbelief, then smiles and gestures. ‘Eh, whaddya think I am?Il postino? The postman?’

* * *

As we rattle across Herbert von Karajan Square towards the opera house, I can’t help but think what Nigel would have said in Francesco’s shoes: Are you mad? There’sno way I’m riding that heap of metal. We can afford a taxi. Why can’t you be sophisticated? Just once? Then we’d have an argument and he’d storm off. But he just didn’t get it; you see, it has nothing to do with saving on taxi fares or worrying about how you look; it’s about being a little bit wacky and not giving a damn if you might get oil on your designer jeans or mess up your neatly coiffedhair.

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