Эд Макбейн - Mothers and Daughters

Renato smiled his slow smile. In Italian, he said, “You spoke our language very well earlier. It would be a shame, now that you are in Italy, if you returned home exactly as you arrived.”

“How do you mean?” Julia asked in English.

“It might be good to practice your Italian,” Renato said. He would not speak English now. He spoke Italian, slowly, deliberately, carefully, so that she would understand him. But he would not speak English, and she sensed a challenge in his choice of language, and she responded to the challenge by answering him in English, refusing to give ground.

“I’ll have ample opportunity to practice my Italian,” she said.

“Why not begin now?” he asked in Italian. “You could learn very easily. You understand me perfectly well, do you not?”

“Yes,” Julia said in English. “I understand you very well.”

“Then why won’t you answer me in Italian?”

“Why won’t you ask me in English?”

“I am the man,” he said simply.

She looked into his eyes suddenly. His face was very serious. All at once, she was frightened. She put her hand to her mouth, and then looked away. Renato smiled.

In deliberate Italian, he said, “Your Italian is very good. I have lived here in Italy all my life. I am, after all, an expert on the Italian language. I say your Italian is quite good.” He paused. “Do you agree?”

“No,” she said, still not looking at him.

“But yes.”

“All right then, yes,” she said in English, an annoyed tone in her voice. She turned to look at him again. “My Italian is very good, all right? Yes.”

He stopped suddenly. The border official kept walking, unaware that Renato had stopped, unaware that Julia had stopped beside him.

“Would it pain you to say ‘yes’ in Italian?” he asked quietly.

“No. I suppose not.”

“Then say it.”

“Yes,” Julia said. In Italian.

Renato smiled. “Good. We will speak only Italian from now on. It will be easier for us.”

“Please, please hurry!” the border man said impatiently. He stood in the center of the street waiting for them, his hands on his hips. “I have other things to do.”

They caught up to him and walked the rest of the way in silence. Julia was suddenly aware that the top button of her blouse was unfastened. She moved her hand to it surreptitiously, buttoned it, and then glanced at Renato to see if he had noticed. The street seemed very hot all at once. When they reached the Automobile Club, an old man was out front, rolling down a corrugated-metal door upon which were painted the letters RACI.

“What are you doing?” Renato asked him.

“I am going home,” the man said. “Today is a feast day. I have stayed open later than I should have.”

“This lady needs a carnet,” Renato said.

“She will have to come back tomorrow.”

“She cannot come back tomorrow. She is leaving here this afternoon.”

“That is impossible,” the Automobile Club man said. “She cannot leave Domodossola without a carnet, therefore she cannot leave this afternoon, therefore she will come back tomorrow.”

“No,” Renato said. “Open your door, professor. You will give the lady her carnet now.”

The Automobile Club man looked at the border official. The border official shrugged.

“I must go to the post office to mail a letter,” the old man said. “I will come back in a half hour. I should go home. This is a feast day. You soldiers are all brigands. You will not let a man enjoy his feast day.”

“The lady is in Italy on holiday.”

“No one asked her to come to Italy without a carnet,” the old man said, “on holiday or otherwise. This is my holiday. There are few enough feast days.”

“Yes, professor, but you are a kind man who would not turn away a lady so beautiful as this one.”

The old man studied Julia with a practiced eye. For a moment, she thought she would blush. The border official looked at her, too. Renato stood by with an air of proprietorship, like a cattle breeder exhibiting a choice head of beef. She was somewhat annoyed by his attitude. The men continued to study her solemnly, as though her beauty or lack of it would be the deciding factor in whether or not she got the carnet.

“Well, she is pretty,” the old man said grudgingly. “I’ll go to the post office and return. It will be a half hour. If you wish to wait, fine. If not, tell me, and I’ll go home to my family and enjoy a well-deserved rest on this scarce feast day.”

“We’ll wait,” Renato said.

“Will you take care of the lady?” the border official asked him.

“Yes. I’ll take care of the lady,” Renato said.

“Very well. When you have the carnet, please return to the office.”

“I will,” Julia said. “Would you please tell my sister I’ll be a little while?”

“Yes, madam,” the border official said. He nodded curtly and walked away.

“I’ll be back,” the old man said. He tested the padlock on the rolled-down metal door, and shuffled off up the street.

“Well,” Renato said, and he began laughing. “Welcome to Italy!”

His teeth were very white. When he laughed, his lips pulled back to reveal them, adding visual impetus to the laugh, inviting contagion. She found herself laughing with him.

“Is it always this way?” she asked. “How do you get anything done?”

“Oh, we get things done,” Renato said, and he shrugged. “It’s hot today. Do you find it hot?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Would you like some ices? Do you like ices?”

“I’d love some, thank you.”

They walked to the cart. “Two lemons,” he said to the ices man. “Do you like lemon? Of course you like lemon. That is the only kind of ices to have on a hot day.”

“Yes, I like lemon,” she said softly.

“Good. How old are you?”

“What?”

“How old are you?”

“Why do you ask?”

He shrugged. “Why, because I want to know.”

“I’m thirty-five,” she said unflinchingly.

“That’s good.” He nodded.

“Why?”

“Is it not good?” he asked. He opened his eyes wide in surprise.

“Well, thirty is better. And seventeen is even better than that.”

“Thirty is a bridge,” Renato said, “and seventeen is a cradle. You are a good age.”

“Thank you.”

“Here. Be careful, the cup sometimes drips. You would not want to stain your pretty blouse,” he said, and from the way he glanced at her she knew he’d noticed the unfastened button earlier.

“How old are you? ” she asked.

“Thirty-three.” He grinned. “I’m a boy yet.”

“Yes, you are.”

“But not too young for il Duce’s magnificent army, eh?”

“I take it you don’t like the army.”

“Oh, I love the army,” he said broadly. “How else would I be able to afford travel? They send me all over Europe with important secret dispatches. I climb onto my motorbike and deliver messages to generals of all nations. Very important documents. I carried one to Switzerland that said, ‘I will meet you for a drink in Geneva on Tuesday.’ Highly important, highly official, very secret.”

Julia laughed. “Where are you stationed?” she asked.

“Rome. Isn’t everyone? Rome is where il Duce is. He likes to look out over his balcony and see uniforms, many uniforms. So that’s where I’m stationed.”

“And where do you live?”

“I live nowhere,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“I was born in Naples, but my father took me from there when I was very young because he wanted to farm, and he had heard of a strip of land just outside Rome. It is rare for Italians to leave the town of their birth, but my father wanted to go, so we went. When my parents died, my sister and I sold the farm. I suppose I live with her now, in Rome.”