Ulysses reached for the book and scanned the pages.
A cockney landlady ran a boarding house in Florence fifty-odd years back and that’s all we need to know. We could be that story, too, said Cress. Put the rooms to use. Get a bit of purpose.
And money, said kid.
A pensione! said Massimo. What a wonderful idea!
I’m in, said the kid.
Temps? What do you think?
What’s to think? he said. Let’s do it.
Massimo said he’d contact a colleague after Ferragosto to talk about licensing and registration and Cress channelled the god of hospitality. He couldn’t write ideas down quick enough – locks on the doors, more linen, towels, soap, laundry service – maybe get a washing machine? Too soon for a washing machine, Massimo? Massimo said he’d head back and listen out for the word on the street. Back to the bathhouse with you! said the kid and Massimo blushed and reached for his hair – which, of course, wasn’t there.
They went out that afternoon, to forage for figs and apricots and caper berries, and Ulysses happened to say in passing that he always found a communal bowl of fruit welcoming.
Nice touch, said Massimo.
Cress wrote down bowl of fruit.
And flowers, said Massimo.
Flowers, wrote Cress.
What about a help yourself to drinks trolley?
Help yourself! scoffed Claude, who was starting to sound a bit like Col.
Easy, Claude, said Ulysses. We’re not like that here, and Claude apologised and felt ashamed.
And what about advertising? said Massimo.
Cress whistled at the enormity of the word. Couldn’t we just wait at the railway station with a sign and meet the trains as they come in? Drive ’em back in the Jowett?
That’s what I could do, said the kid. Who’s gonna say no to a cute kid and a parrot?
No one, said Massimo. No one at all. And do you intend to feed them, your guests?
Cress looked daunted. Feed ’em what?
In the kitchen in a haze of steam. Massimo said, If I teach you nothing else in your lifetime, it must be this. Learning the correct ratio of boiling water to salt to pasta. When to add the salt – lots of it. When to take the pasta off the heat. Get it right and you’ll always eat like a king.
Get it wrong, said the kid, and we’ll end up with that mess called pappa al pomodoro. Right, Cress?
Massimo said, A simple addition of garlic and olive oil and chilli – here, try this. You feel the resistance of the spaghetti? That is what you aim for every time.
Cress and Ulysses stood back and made notes. Kid just ate.
You two up for this? she said.
Maybe we could just give guests vouchers to use at Michele’s? said Cress.
Now you’re thinking, said Claude.
Night fell across the terrace. In the distance, the passenger ferry cut across the dark sea in a steady sweep of light. Us tomorrow, said the kid, still high from diving amongst sea urchins. Ulysses brought a candle to his face and lit a cigarette. On the table, a scattering of nutshells and empty salad plates. Massimo poured out the wine and Claude thought about saying a few words, but the moment passed.
A moon and bats and the pulse of a docile sea and friendship and the start of a new venture. Nothing more to say.
Except—
You’ll need a name, said Claude, chewing on a piece of watermelon.
What about the Bertolini? said the kid. If it ain’t broke?
They all laughed, and the kid felt a million bucks and a little bit tired.
So that was how the Pensione Bertolini （mark two） came to pass. Cress would eventually tell that story to every guest who wanted to listen. Bit of history for them to take away. A bit of him, really.
He went to bed fizzing that night. So bright you could’ve seen him from space.
They came back to the city refreshed. The island had done its best. Had grounded them and introduced them to a way of life they would aspire to and return to. Cress fixed the overhead fan in Michele’s and when that strong current of air moved steadily through the bar, everybody cheered. Michele lifted Cress off the ground and to those watching it was like the smothering of a small goat by a bear. Ulysses went to Palazzo Castellani, the Institute of the History of Science, and spent time with Coronelli’s globes. They were more beautiful than he’d imagined, and he thought about the worlds his father had created, brightly coloured spheres with pink for the Empire. He’d paint the world differently, naturally. Green for forests, white for ice, brown for land and blue for sea. He’d readjust the borders and give countries back their names.
And then bang on the kid’s birthday, three letters arrived from Peg, of all people. In the letter dated June, Peg had written her new telephone number at the bottom of the page and Ulysses and the kid ran to Massimo’s office. Un momento, said the young woman who connected the call.