Evan Hunter - Me and Mr. Stenner

Piazza San Marco means “St. Mark’s Square” in Italian, and it’s this huge square, I would guess about the size of a football field. Or if it isn’t that big it certainly feels that big. And there are outdoor tables on the two long sides of the square — it isn’t really a square, it’s a rectangle — and there I was in the middle of it trying to feed the pigeons, and none of them would eat anything. So I went back to the table just as the waiter was bringing the drinks Mr. Stenner had ordered for all of us. I sipped a little of my Coke, and said, “It’s hot out there, Mr. Stenner. Do you think I could borrow your hat? To keep the sun off?”

“Sure,” he said, and took the cap from his head, and handed it to me. The cap was made of the softest glove leather, with a wide curving bill and a puffed crown. It was maybe three sizes too large for me, but I pulled it over my hair anyway, and went out to try with the pigeons again. Mr. Stenner was sipping at his drink and watching me as I stalked a bird across the square. Then I dropped to one knee, and shook some feed into the palm of my right hand, and held the feed out to the bird. The bird watched me, but didn’t come anywhere near. Patiently, I crouched and waited for him to come to my outstretched hand.

Mr. Stenner later told me it was only his own sense of professionalism that caused him to rise so suddenly; the combination of blond little me with the beige cap pulled down over my long, straight hair, and the gray pigeon waddling toward the feed on my open palm — these were irresistible to his photographer’s eye. I didn’t even see him approaching. I was still crouched, one knee on the ground, the other knee supporting my extended arm. A little Italian girl with close-cropped black hair, wearing a blouse embroidered with a flower design, and a red-and-white-check skirt, and white knee socks, and black high-topped shoes, stopped beside me and watched me and the bird.

The pigeon took two small steps toward my hand, examined the dried green peas and yellow triangles of corn on my palm, and took a timid peck at the feed. I was totally unaware of Mr. Stenner crouched not five feet away from me, his shutter clicking frantically as two, and then three pigeons waddled over to share in the loot. I got to my feet to pour more feed from the rolled newspaper into my hand, and the birds fluttered up toward the cone, one of them perching on its rim, another perching on my shoulder, a third perching on top of my head. I opened my eyes wide in astonishment, and then I began giggling.

The way Mom tells it, she was watching the whole episode from where she sat at the little round table across the square. She saw Mr. Stenner circling me, constantly cocking the shutter, pressing the shutter release, cocking it again, focusing, snapping. In those brief intervals when the camera momentarily left his eye, Mom saw that he was smiling. I was surrounded by a cloud of fluttering, flapping pigeons and grinning from ear to ear when I finally realized he was taking pictures of me. Mom says I turned away in embarrassment and started to say, “Oh, Da...” and cut myself short.

But my excited voice had carried clear across the square to where she was sitting.

I guess the reason he thought we were starting to be such good friends was his hat. I simply refused to take off his hat. He asked me if he might have it back, but I pleaded and begged and cajoled until he promised I could continue wearing it — but only till we got to Rome.

“Why only till Rome?” I asked.

“Because in Rome you’ll have something else to... well, you’ll just have something else.”

“What do you mean? What does he mean, Mom?”

“I don’t know,” Mom said. “Ask him.”

“What, Mr. Stenner?”

“Well, your birthday’s coming,” he said.

“Did you buy me a hat like yours for my birthday?”

“Nope.”

“What did you buy me?”

“Nothing.”

“Then what do you mean, I’ll have something else in Rome?”

“I’m going to buy it when we get to Rome. If I can find it there.”

“But it’s not a hat?”

“Nope.”

“What is it then?”

“A secret.”

“What does it start with?”

“F,” he said.

“F? Nothing starts with F,” I said, and giggled. “Mommy, make him tell me what it is.”

“Then it won’t be a secret anymore,” Mom said.

“If you tell me your secret, I’ll tell you mine,” I said.

“Nope,” he said.

“Don’t you want to know my secret?”

“Sure,” he said.

“Then let’s swap secrets.”

“No, I don’t want to spoil your birthday surprise.”

“Tell me what it is, Mr. Stenner. Please?”

“Nope.”

“Pretty please?”

“Nope.”

“Does it start with F in Italian, or in English?”

“In English.”

“Are you sure? Because if it’s an Italian word, then that’s cheating.”

“It’s an English word.”

“Because I can’t talk Italian very well. Are you sure it’s English?”

“Yes, it’s English.”

“F,” I said.

“F,” he repeated.

“Is it a feather?”

“A feather? Why would I want to buy you a feather?”

“So I can tickle myself,” I said, and giggled. “Is it a feather?”

“No,” he said.

“Thank God!” I said. “Is it flowers? Are you going to get me a bouquet of flowers?”

“No.”

“Then what is it? Is it a frying pan?”

“A frying pan!” he said, and we both burst out laughing.

“Come on, Mr. Stenner, please tell me.”

“You’ll have to wait till the sixteenth,” he said. “That’s forever,” I said.

“That’s right,” he said, and winked at Mom.

I would not let up. I think he was beginning to feel sorry he’d even mentioned the gift, while at the same time dreading the possibility that he might not be able to find it in Rome. Meanwhile, I would not part with the hat. I loved that hat! In the rented car on the way to Rimini, I wore the hat. And in the restaurant where we stopped for lunch, I wore the hat. And at the Rimini hotel, I was still wearing the hat as he and I sat together in the garden, waiting for Mom, who was upstairs dressing for dinner. I asked him to please order me an Italian Shirley Temple, and then we sat sipping our separate drinks in the gathering dusk. The floor of the terrace was paved with white tile, and there were royal blue tablecloths on the round metal tables. Mr. Stenner was never without one or another of his cameras hanging around his neck, and I said to him now, “This would make a good shot from upstairs. From one of our rooms. Looking down at all the blue circles against the white.”

“Yes,” he said, and nodded. “It would.”

“Like the picture you took from the roof of the church in Milan,” I said. “Of the automobiles down below. Do you remember?”

“Yes.”

“That was the day you wouldn’t take my picture,” I said.

“Yes, I remember.”

“Just because I asked you to have some copies made for Daddy.”

“Mm,” he said.

“You don’t have to be so jealous all the time, you know.”

“What?” he said.

“You,” I said. “Of Daddy.”

“What makes you think I’m jealous?”

“Because you are. But you don’t have to be. I know you’re my stepfather.”

“I’m certainly happy to hear that,” he said.

“Oh, sure,” I said. “What do people call their stepfathers, anyway?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Because I feel sort of dumb calling you ‘Mr. Stenner.’ ”

“Why’s that?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said, and shrugged. “In the lobby and all. And when we were in the restaurant. Do you remember when we stopped for lunch on the way here?”