No.
That’s Signora Mimmi. She recognised you straight away. She and her husband opened the door to you during wartime. It was their kitchen you went through to get onto the roof.
I did?
Massimo nodded and raised the cigarette to his lips. Her husband died not long after, apparently. Next to her is the elderly contessa. They were all here, you know. When you were up there – Massimo pointed to the roof – Michele led the chants to release the gun. And that priest over there. He prayed. Look at these people, Ulisse. The postman. The baker. Her husband. They all knew you before you knew them. You may not feel it, but you have a place here. Let things settle. A little more time before the telephone.
When I call you, everyone listens.
Massimo laughed. That’s how information is passed on. How people get to know you. It’s integral to this society. I told you.
Someone asked me about your mother’s kidney stones.
Did you tell them they’ve come out?
That’s not the point, Massimo. And I have to call England. I’d like a bit of privacy.
Come to the office whenever you want.
Giulia placed their drinks on the table.
Grazie, signora, said Ulysses. He couldn’t look at her.
Prego, Signor Temper.
Ulysses smiled. He liked the way she said Temper. The way she rolled her r. What? said Ulysses. Why’re you looking at me like that?
Privacy is for the confessional, said Massimo.
Salute! They clinked glasses.
So, said Massimo, that brings me to the other question everyone is asking. Church.
Church? said Ulysses, laughing. No way, and he stood up and went towards the café.
Inside, he and Michele greeted one another. Ulysses asked for a pack of Camels and Michele lobbed them across the marble counter. Ulysses left a scattering of coins and turned away. He lifted his hat to wipe his forehead, the heat intense already, the overhead fan on strike again. He pushed through the stink of garlic and men and the fresh air hit him like a punch.
I’m an idiot, Ulisse! said Massimo, reaching into his jacket pocket. I’m so sorry! A letter. Arrived at the office this morning. Here …
Ulysses looked at the envelope, hoping it was from Peg. The writing wasn’t hers, though, and the envelope carried a strong whiff of cigarettes.
Dear Temps,
I’m living in the pub after I got flooded out by my upstairs neighbour. Poor bloke died. Three times, as it happened. Col said you can’t die three times and I said he’s the proof: the bloke had a heart attack in the bath, reached for the ledge, got electrocuted by the heater, shot back into the water and drowned. If there’s a God – and I’m by no means suggesting there is – I thought that was a bit heavy-handed. Bloke had only moved in for a new start. Big funeral, though. Nice touch with the trumpet player.
Yesterday, Col sent me up the ladder with a paintbrush and the pub’s back to The Stoat. But Gwyneth threw out the stoat while she was redecorating and didn’t tell Col. She bought a few bright cushions for the place, though she calls them soft furnishings. Col shouts, How can we be called The Stoat if we don’t have a bloody stoat? How about we call it The Queen’s Head? says Gwyneth. How about The Queen’s Legs? says Col. Open all hours. You disgust me, Colin Formiloe, she says. Out! shouts Col. And take the fucking cushions. And she does, you know, Temps. Loads them into her arms one by one. Even took one out from under Mrs Belten, and everyone knows she has that sore.
And if that wasn’t enough, Peg came in that night. I could see on her face something was up. Straight over to the piano and I’m thinking, Uh-oh – One word, she says: Gershwin. By God, Temps. There’s no one like her. Three bars in and there’s not a dry eye in the house. And then Ted’s wife walks in. Peg don’t stop singing, she just ups the ante. You could’ve heard a pin drop in Luton. And the wife – get this – the wife starts to cry. And then Ted walks in. Wife turns to Ted – and here’s the most extraordinary thing – the look on her face says, You win, I’m done. And out she goes. Peg finishes her song and she’s all shoulders back and starlight. Peg reaches for her drink and Ted comes up to her and she says, Don’t you dare. Then she turns to me and says, You ready to take me home, Pete? Course I am, I say.
It was one of them rare summer nights when England ain’t so bad. Her and me down by the canal singing ‘My Heart Cries for You’。 But mine was crying for her. That Eddie bloke. He did something to her, Temps. I know it’s awkward talking to you about him, but something broke in her when he didn’t come back. That bridge to happiness gone.