Джеффри Арчер - And Thereby Hangs a Tale

‘Not in my lifetime,’ said Sam as he unwrapped his sandwiches.

‘Don’t be so sure about that, Sam,’ said Rod, taking off his long blue porter’s coat and replacing it with a smart sports jacket. He strolled across the foyer, pushed his way through the swing doors and out on to the pavement. He glanced across the road at the Garter Arms, looking forward to taking his first step on the corporate ladder.

Rod checked to his right as a double-decker bus came to a halt and disgorged several passengers. He spotted a gap in the traffic and stepped out into the road just as a motorcycle courier overtook the bus. The biker threw on his brakes the moment he saw Rod, swerved and tried to avoid him, but he was a fraction of a second too late. The bike hit Rod side-on, dragging him along the road until it finally came to a halt on top of him.

Rod opened his eyes and stared at a package marked URGENT, which had landed in the road by his side: The Chairman’s Medical Report. He looked up to see a man dressed in a smartly tailored dark suit, white silk shirt and thin black tie looking down at him.

‘If only you’d asked me how long the young man had to live, and not what his life expectancy was,’ were the last words Rod heard before departing from this world.

Richard Edmiston climbed off the bus feeling tired and hungry. It had been a long day, and he was looking forward to a meal and a bath, although he wasn’t sure if he could afford both.

He was coming to the end of his holiday, which was a good thing because he was also coming to the end of his money. In fact, he had less than a hundred euros left in his wallet, along with a return train ticket to London.

But he wasn’t complaining. He’d spent an idyllic month in Tuscany, even though Melanie had dropped out at the last minute without offering any explanation. He would have cancelled the whole trip but he’d already bought his ticket and put a deposit down at several small pensioni dotted around the Italian countryside. In any case, he’d been looking forward to exploring northern Italy for the past year, ever since he’d read an article in Time magazine by Robert Hughes which said that half the world’s treasures were to be found in one country. He was finally persuaded to go after he and Melanie had attended a lecture given by John Julius Norwich at the Courtauld, at which the celebrated historian ended with the words, ‘If you were given two lives, you’d spend one of them in Italy.’

Richard may well be ending his holiday penniless, tired and hungry, but he’d quickly discovered just how accurate Hughes and Norwich were after he’d visited Florence, San Gimignano, Cortona, Arezzo, Siena and Lucca, each of which contained masterpieces that in any other country would have been worthy of several pages in the national tourist guides, whereas in Italy were often no more than a footnote.

Richard needed to leave for England the following day because he would start his first job on Monday, as an English teacher at a large comprehensive in the East End of London. His old headmaster at Marlborough had offered him the chance to return and teach English to the lower fifth, but what could he hope to learn by going back to his old school and simply repeating his experiences as a child, even if he did exchange his blazer for a graduates gown?

He adjusted his rucksack and began to trudge slowly up the winding path that led to the ancient village of Monterchi, perched on top of the hill. He’d saved Monterchi until last because it possessed the Madonna del Parto, a fresco of the Virgin Mary breastfeeding the infant Jesus by Piero della Francesca. It was considered by scholars to be one of the artist’s finest works, which was why many pilgrims and lovers of the Renaissance period came from all parts of the world to admire it.

Richard’s rucksack felt heavier with each step he took, while the view of the valley below became more spectacular, dominated by the River Arno winding its way through vineyards, olive groves and green-sculpted hills. But even this paled into insignificance when he reached the top of the hill and saw Monterchi in all its glory for the first time.

The fourteenth-century village had been stranded in a backwater of history and clearly did not approve of anything modern. There were no traffic lights, no signposts, no double yellow lines and not a McDonald’s in sight. As Richard strolled into the market square, the town hall clock struck nine times. Despite the hour, the evening was warm enough to allow the natives and an occasional interloper to dine al fresco. Richard spotted a restaurant shaded by ancient olive trees and walked across to study the menu. He reluctantly accepted that it might have suited his palate, but sadly not his purse, unless he was willing to sleep in a field that night before walking the ninety kilometres back to Florence.

He noticed a smaller establishment tucked away on the far side of the square, where the tables didn’t have spotless white cloths and the waiters weren’t wearing smart linen jackets. He took a seat in the corner and thought about Melanie, who should have been sitting opposite him. He’d planned to spend a month with her so they could finally decide if they should move in together once they’d both settled in London, she as a barrister, he as a teacher. Melanie clearly hadn’t felt she needed another month to make up her mind.

For the past couple of weeks, whenever Richard had studied a menu, he’d always checked the prices rather than the dishes before he came to a decision. He selected the one dish he could afford before rummaging around in his rucksack and pulling out the book of short stories that had been recommended to him by his tutor. He’d advised Richard to ignore the sacred cows of Indian literature and instead enjoy the genius of R. K. Narayan. Richard soon became so engrossed by the problems of a tax collector living in a small village on the other side of the world that he didn’t notice when a waitress appeared with a pitcher of water in one hand, and a basket of freshly baked bread and a small bowl of olives in the other. She placed them on the table and asked if he was ready to order.

‘ Spaghetti all’ Amatriciana ,’ he said, looking up, ‘ e un vetro di vino rosso .’ He wondered how many kilos he’d put on since crossing the Channel; not that it mattered, because once he began the new job he would return to his old routine of running five miles a day, which he’d managed even when he was taking his exams.

He’d only read a few more pages of Malgudi Days when the waitress reappeared and placed a large bowl of spaghetti and a glass of red wine in front of him.

‘ Grazie ,’ he said, looking up briefly from his book.

He became so involved in the story that he continued to read as he forked up his food until he suddenly realized his plate was empty. He put the book down and mopped up the remains of the thick tomato sauce with his last piece of bread, before devouring what remained of the olives. The waitress returned and removed his empty plate before handing him the menu.

‘Would you like anything else?’ she asked in English.

‘I can’t afford anything else,’ he admitted without guile, not even opening the menu for fear it might tempt him. ‘ Il conto, per favore ,’ he added, giving her a warm smile.

He was preparing to leave when the waitress reappeared carrying a large portion of tiramisu and an espresso. ‘But I didn’t order—’ he began, but she put a finger to her lips and hurried away before he could thank her. Melanie had once told him it was his boyish charm which made women want to mother him — a charm which clearly no longer worked on Melanie.