Jonathan Levi - Septimania

“For you.” The Brazilian wife of the proprietor — Malory had let her twins crawl on the pedals on the organ during several of his tunings — set a cup of tea and a plate of scones in front of him.

“Thank you,” Malory said, “but I only have a shilling.”

“A gift,” the Brazilian said.

“But—”

“Not from me,” she added, and turned back to the till. But the red-bearded American was gone. The Brazilian matron, too, moved away from Malory to clear the remains of what looked like an extensive three-bottle celebratory luncheon.

The parcel, the tea, Malory thought. And above all Louiza. Three gifts in one strange day. One was in his Kit Bag, one was quickly disappearing down his gullet, and one may have vanished forever.

He chewed, he swallowed.

Antonella, he thought. Antonella would know. Antonella would be at the Maths Faculty at the Sidgwick Site. Antonella would do anything for Malory, even search in the records and find clues to lead him to Louiza. Although Malory preferred cycling along the footpath by the river, March was a month of mud, and he was in a hurry. Though Antonella seemed to live at the office, Malory knew that even lonely Italian girls had their limits and he had better hurry.

The favor was not an issue. Antonella was clearly disposed — had been disposed for the better part of the three years she had worked as departmental secretary — to do more than just about anything for Malory. While Malory was only vaguely aware of his power over Antonella, he did know that in the Kingdom of Mathematicians, he as a Historian of Science, with his Beatle hair and bell-bottomed trousers, bestrode the River Cam with the charisma and stature of a Colossus. He couldn’t fail to notice her at the occasions where he was called upon to speak about Newton — at an introductory lecture for promising students or a social for curious old-age pensioners. Antonella was all copper curls and Botticelli bosom packed into a bit of Laura Ashley smocking — impossible to ignore, particularly at the departmental teas when Antonella with her biscuit tin was at her most solicitous. It was Rix, the Head Porter at Trinity — and therefore privy to the dozens of invitations to teas and coffees and esoteric mathematical functions that Antonella delivered by hand — who had first noticed Antonella’s interest.

“Mr. Malory,” he said one severely rainy afternoon, “you’ll forgive my saying so, but there is a new film by Bertolucci at the Arts Cinema. He’s Italian,” Rix added when Malory stared up at him blankly from the crumbling foam of the Senior Common Room sofa. “As such, it might interest a certain young Italian lady.”

“Ah,” Malory said, comprehension swimming to the surface of his embarrassment. “Antonella, you mean?”

“I believe that is the young lady’s name, yes,” Rix answered. “Although I have difficulty with Italian names.”

Malory’s embarrassment disappointed Rix, disappointed Antonella, and failed Bertolucci entirely. Nevertheless, he was sufficiently sussed to know that if Antonella was still at her desk at 4 p.m. of a March evening, he could ask her to search for Louiza in the files of the Maths Department, and she would give him another cup of tea — undoubtedly with two biscuits. But when Malory locked his bicycle and unclipped his trouser cuffs by the red-brick and glass optimism of the Sidgwick Site and ran two flights up the concrete and veneer stairwell to the Maths Faculty, he found Antonella weeping in the corona of a battered black-and-white television set.

“Oh, Malory!” She jumped up and ran to him, shaking in spasms that Malory quickly realized meant he might get neither his answers nor his tea as quickly as he had hoped.

“Antonella!” Malory said, trying to pat helpfulness into her expansive shoulders. “What happened?”

“ Guarda !” she sobbed and pointed at the TV. The large-lipped, puppy-faced Anna Ford, whom Malory had always wanted to invite to High Table at Trinity if only to listen to her voice, was just turning to the camera.

“Good evening,” she said. Antonella pulled Malory down onto the edge of her desk, dislodging a stapler and a stack of pencils. “Former Italian prime minister Aldo Moro has been kidnapped in Rome.”

“ Capisci? ” Antonella turned her eyes, freshly teary to Malory. But Malory didn’t capisce a bit. He couldn’t even understand how he had ever been attracted to the newsreader, no matter how doe-eyed or thick-lipped. He had been pierced by Louiza’s i = u and that was it.

“Mr. Moro’s escort of five police bodyguards were killed,” Anna Ford continued, “when he was snatched at gunpoint from a car near a cafe in the morning rush hour.”

“What is this all about?” Malory asked.

“This morning,” Antonella sobbed anew. “Aldo Moro — he is like your John F. Kennedy.”

Not my John F. Kennedy, Malory wanted to say but let her continue.

“They took him. Kidnapped.”

“They?” Malory asked.

“I do not know,” Antonella said. “Terrorists, Brigate Rosse , Red Brigade. Or maybe not. Maybe just politicians, maybe even the Americans.”

“Americans?” Malory asked. The only American he could picture at the moment, besides John F. Kennedy, was the red-bearded giant at the till of the Orchard.

“There is a war, Malory,” Antonella said. “In my Rome, a war.” She took his left hand in both of hers.

“Ah,” Malory said, with as much sincerity as he could muster. Her eyes really were very pretty, magnified by the lens of tears. And he would have liked to make her feel better, independent of his own need to scan the departmental records. But the best he could say was, “Sorry, I’ve never been to Rome.”

“But I am the one who is sorry!” Antonella jiggled off the edge of the desk and wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands. “You came to see your Antonella, and she is crying.”

Malory reached into what he hoped was the cleaner of the pockets of his corduroy jacket and handed her a handkerchief.

“Antonella,” he said. “I know this is a bad moment. But there is a bit of information. It really would be most helpful.”

“ Ma guarda, tesoro ,” Antonella said and ran to the bookshelf next to the television. “I am forgetting my Malory.” She flipped on the electric teakettle and reached up to the cupboard for mug, sugar bowl, and biscuit tin in such a way that Malory momentarily forgot what he was so delicately preparing to ask.

“I’m not bothering you?”

“ Figurati! ” Antonella said, swishing the hot water around the bottom of the teapot in a way that suggested an infinity of other activities. “The old men are all meeting an American. They think he is about to win the Fields Medal and are giving him some sherry. I was about to go home when I thought just a peek at the news, and I saw …” And she shook against Malory as the tea steeped.

“Antonella.” They were now seated comfortably, knee to knee, or rather knees interlocked like the inlay on a backgammon board, Malory biting into a semi-molten chocolate digestive biscuit. “I am looking for—” He began again. “I need to get in touch with one of the faculty’s PhD candidates. Just passed the viva today.”

“Today?” Antonella said. “What is his name?”

“Her,” Malory said. “Her name, actually. She’s a woman. A girl, really. Very young.”

“Oh, Malory!” Antonella laughed and offered the biscuit tin again. “ Scherzi! You are playing games with your Antonella.”

“Games?” Malory stopped, biscuit halfway to mouth. “Why games?”

“Because Antonella is the only girl, the only female in the Department of Mathematics. You know that!”