Lucy Gordon: The Wedding Arrangement

But since there was no arguing with a mother’s partiality he didn’t try. They finished the conversation affectionately and he hung up, feeling strangely uneasy again. Something was wrong. He didn’t know what, but he had an uncomfortable sense that the trouble lay with himself.

As always, when something disturbed him, he took refuge in work, pulling out the folder that contained the details of his newly acquired, if unwanted, property.

It was called the Residenza Gallini, a grandiose name that presumably promised more than it delivered, and, from the plan, seemed to be a five-storey building, built around four sides of a courtyard. The heart of the folder was the correspondence with Signora Minerva Pepino, a severe and ferocious lady whose very name was beginning to worry him.

It was easy fighting a man. You could go in with fists flailing. With a woman subtlety was needed, and Luke, who didn’t ‘do’ subtlety any more than he ‘did’ charm, felt at a disadvantage.

She had opened hostilities with a reasonably restrained letter enquiring when he intended to come to Rome and set in motion the vast amount of work that was necessary to bring the property up to the standard essential to her clients, who lived there in conditions that were a disgrace.

He had replied assuring her that he would arrive ‘as soon as was convenient’ and venturing, in the mildest possible way, to suggest that she exaggerated the conditions.

She had treated his mildness with the contempt it deserved, blasting him with a list of necessary repairs and including the probable prices, whose total made him gulp.

But now he felt he was getting her measure. The tradesmen who’d given these estimates were probably friends or relatives, and she was on commission. He began to be offended at the way she clearly thought she could bully him, and repeated his assurance that he would come to Rome when it was convenient.

And so it had gone on, each growing more quellingly polite as their annoyance rose. Luke imagined her as a woman carved out of granite, probably in her fifties, ruling her world with grim efficiency, crushing all disagreement. Even her name was alarming. Minerva was the goddess of wisdom, known for her brilliant intellect but also for being born wearing armour and wielding a spear.

He would visit Rome and act like a responsible landlord. What he would not do was let himself be ordered around.

He put the folder away. Suddenly his room felt too quiet, its very luxury pressing in on him like a stifling blanket. Coming to a sudden decision, he took the cash out of his wallet and put it in his pocket along with the plastic card that was the key to his room. Then he locked the wallet in the wall safe, and headed downstairs.

It was a balmy night and he was warm enough in his shirtsleeves as he walked away from the hotel and hailed a taxi to take him the length of the Via del Corso, with its late-night cafés and glittering shops. At the bottom they swung right, heading for the Garibaldi Bridge over the River Tiber.

‘Here will do,’ he called to the driver when they had crossed the river.

He knew now that he must have reached the part of Rome known as Trastevere, a name which literally meant ‘on the other side of the Tiber’. It was the oldest part of the city, and still the most colourful. The light streamed on to the streets, accompanied by song, laughter and appetising smells of cooking.

He plunged into the nearest bar and was soon enveloped in conviviality. From there he drifted to another bar, relaxed by some of the best local wine he had ever tasted. Three bars later he was beginning to think that this was the way to live.

He wandered out into the cobbled street and stood there, gazing up at the full moon. Then he studied the street, realising that he had no idea where he was.

‘Looking for something?’

Turning, he saw a young man sitting at one of the outside tables. He was little more than a boy, with a charming, mobile face and dark, vivid eyes. When he grinned his teeth flashed with almost startling brilliance.

‘Ciao!’ he said, raising his glass in tipsy fellowship.

‘Ciao!’ Luke answered, coming to sit at the table beside him. ‘I was just realising that I’m lost.’

‘New here?’

‘Just arrived today.’

‘Well, now you’re here, you should stay. Nice place. Nice people.’

Luke signalled to a waiter, who brought two fresh glasses and a full bottle, accepted Luke’s money and departed.

‘ Very nice people,’ the boy repeated.

‘I probably shouldn’t have done that,’ Luke said, suddenly conscience-stricken. ‘I think you’ve already had enough.’

‘If the wine is good, there’s no such thing as enough.’ He filled both glasses. ‘Soon I shall have had too much, and it still won’t be enough.’ A thought struck him. ‘I’m a very wise man. At least, I sound like one.’

‘Well, I guess it makes a kind of sense,’ Luke agreed, tasting the wine and finding it good. ‘I’m Luke, by the way.’

The young man frowned. ‘Luke? Lucio?’

‘Sure, Lucio if you want.’

‘I’m Charlie.’

It was Luke’s turn to frown. An Italian called Charlie?

‘You mean Carlo?’ he asked at last.

‘No, Charlie. It’s short for Charlemagne.’ The boy added confidentially, ‘I don’t tell many people that, only my very best friends.’

‘Thank you,’ Luke said, accepting the honour with a grin. ‘So tell your friend why you were named after the Emperor Charlemagne.’

‘Because I’m descended from him, of course.’

‘But he lived twelve hundred years ago. How can you be sure?’

Charlie looked surprised. ‘My mother told me.’

‘And you believe everything your mother tells you?’

‘What Mamma says, you’d better believe, or you’ll be sorry.’

‘Yes, mine’s that way too,’ Luke said, grinning.

They clinked glasses, and Charlie drained his, then quickly refilled it.

‘I drink to forget,’ he announced gleefully.

‘Forget what?’

‘Something or other. Who cares? Why do you drink?’

‘I’m trying to nerve myself to confront a dragon. Otherwise she might eat me.’

‘Ah, a female dragon. They’re the worst. But you’ll slay her.’

‘I don’t think this lady is easily intimidated.’

‘You just tell her you’re not standing for any nonsense,’ Charlie advised. ‘That’s the way to deal with women.’

So now he had two pieces of advice for dealing with the situation-use his non-existent charm, or try to impose what this naïve boy fondly imagined to be ‘masculine authority’.

They passed on to the next bar, and then the next, until it began to feel like time to go home.

Suddenly they heard a shout from the next street, then the sound of a child crying and an animal squealing and suddenly a crowd of young men came stumbling out of the shadows. The one in front was carrying a puppy that was squirming to escape. With them was a boy of about twelve, who continually tried to rescue his pet, but was thwarted as the lout tossed the puppy to one of the others.

‘Bastardi!’ Charlie exclaimed violently.

‘I couldn’t agree more,’ Luke said.

They moved forward together.

The sight of them made the louts pause just long enough for Charlie to seize the puppy. Two of them tried to snatch it back, but Luke occupied them long enough for Charlie to give the animal to the child, who grabbed it and vanished, leaving him free to concentrate on the fight.

Two against four might seem an unequal conquest, but Charlie was furious and Luke was powerful and they managed to stop them chasing the fleeing child until there were further sounds from the narrow alleys, shouts, sirens, and all six were surrounded and carted off to the nearest police station.