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Authors: Timothy Williams
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inauguration in March? I remember reading about it in the paper.”
“By the Bishop of Milan—he’s an old boy of the college.” When she smiled, she revealed a straight line of false teeth. Her face was softly wrinkled with the lines of a lifetime’s work. “And my son, too.”
“He’s a bishop?”
She put a hand to her mouth to hide the silent laughter. “Of course not, Dottore. My son is a student at the Sant’Antonio and he’s only got three more exams to sit and his thesis before he graduates. He’s on a scholarship, of course—for we are poor people. But he’s a clever boy—though I say it myself—and I think the dean of the college has taken a shine to him.” She lowered her voice. “That’s how I got the job.”
“What job?”
“For seventeen years I was in a school canteen.” She gestured towards the marble floor, the dark wooden fittings and the jute blinds. “It’s a lot nicer here and I’m my own boss. My husband is already beyond retirement age.” She tapped her ample chest. “I’m the concierge.”
Trotti tried not to smile; she pronounced the word according to Italian orthography, con-cherdge.
“Of course he has to help me with the housework—making the young gentlemen’s beds and the sweeping. I’m not as young as I once used to be and I’ve got my troubles. I have to go to the hospital, you know. Dr. Gallese—he’s very good.” She added, somewhat ominously, “Women’s troubles.”
Trotti nodded sympathetically.
“You’d care to sit down?” She nodded towards a couple of low armchairs isolated in the empty hall; their reflection was caught by the polished marble. “You lecture at the university, Dottore?”
“No.”
There was an awkward silence. The woman looked at him expectantly but her smile, deformed by the double scar on her chin, was nervous. She was slightly ill at ease, Trotti thought, as though she expected him to break bad news—as though she expected all strangers to break bad news.
“Where’s your husband?”
“He’s in the garden—Giovanni’s in the garden with the lettuces. We have a little patch for ourselves, radishes and salad and runner beans. Sometimes I think Giovanni would be happier married to a lettuce patch and then”—the pale skin blushed—“I don’t think he would.” She smiled. “We had four children but only one is still alive. Giovanni is a good husband.” She stopped short and gave Trotti a searching look. “Has Giovanni done … Has he …?”
Trotti laughed. “Nothing, signora, nothing.”
“Sometimes he likes the ladies too much—even at his age.”
Trotti placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. He spoke in the dialect: “You are from the hills?”
“O, dio mio!” The false teeth slipped out of place. “How can you tell?”
“An accent you can cut with a knife, signora. San Michele in Collina?”
“Santa Maria,” she said and gave him a proud smile.
Trotti laughed.
“You know it?” Her eyebrows were raised in astonishment.
“Do you know my Aunt Anastasia? And Uncle Vincenzo?”
“Vincenzo Trotti—Tino—who worked in the post office until he won the football pools?”
“He now lives in a large villa on the edge of the town and plays dominoes with all the old men while he waits for his own contemporaries to retire.”
“And a wife, Anastasia, who spends all her time in churchlighting candles and then spreads scandal behind your back—a pious old hypocrite.” The mouth snapped shut. “Oh, forgive me.”
“Nothing to forgive. It’s quite true.”
They both laughed; then, brusquely, she took him by the arm and saying, “Come, come,” she pulled him into her little apartment.
It was a couple of small rooms off the luxurious hall; by comparison, everything was tawdry. Something was cooking on the gas stove and the windows were steamed up. The floor was of bare concrete and the furnishings were old and inelegant.
She pushed him into the kitchen and set him down on a
“By the Bishop of Milan—he’s an old boy of the college.” When she smiled, she revealed a straight line of false teeth. Her face was softly wrinkled with the lines of a lifetime’s work. “And my son, too.”
“He’s a bishop?”
She put a hand to her mouth to hide the silent laughter. “Of course not, Dottore. My son is a student at the Sant’Antonio and he’s only got three more exams to sit and his thesis before he graduates. He’s on a scholarship, of course—for we are poor people. But he’s a clever boy—though I say it myself—and I think the dean of the college has taken a shine to him.” She lowered her voice. “That’s how I got the job.”
“What job?”
“For seventeen years I was in a school canteen.” She gestured towards the marble floor, the dark wooden fittings and the jute blinds. “It’s a lot nicer here and I’m my own boss. My husband is already beyond retirement age.” She tapped her ample chest. “I’m the concierge.”
Trotti tried not to smile; she pronounced the word according to Italian orthography, con-cherdge.
“Of course he has to help me with the housework—making the young gentlemen’s beds and the sweeping. I’m not as young as I once used to be and I’ve got my troubles. I have to go to the hospital, you know. Dr. Gallese—he’s very good.” She added, somewhat ominously, “Women’s troubles.”
Trotti nodded sympathetically.
“You’d care to sit down?” She nodded towards a couple of low armchairs isolated in the empty hall; their reflection was caught by the polished marble. “You lecture at the university, Dottore?”
“No.”
There was an awkward silence. The woman looked at him expectantly but her smile, deformed by the double scar on her chin, was nervous. She was slightly ill at ease, Trotti thought, as though she expected him to break bad news—as though she expected all strangers to break bad news.
“Where’s your husband?”
“He’s in the garden—Giovanni’s in the garden with the lettuces. We have a little patch for ourselves, radishes and salad and runner beans. Sometimes I think Giovanni would be happier married to a lettuce patch and then”—the pale skin blushed—“I don’t think he would.” She smiled. “We had four children but only one is still alive. Giovanni is a good husband.” She stopped short and gave Trotti a searching look. “Has Giovanni done … Has he …?”
Trotti laughed. “Nothing, signora, nothing.”
“Sometimes he likes the ladies too much—even at his age.”
Trotti placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. He spoke in the dialect: “You are from the hills?”
“O, dio mio!” The false teeth slipped out of place. “How can you tell?”
“An accent you can cut with a knife, signora. San Michele in Collina?”
“Santa Maria,” she said and gave him a proud smile.
Trotti laughed.
“You know it?” Her eyebrows were raised in astonishment.
“Do you know my Aunt Anastasia? And Uncle Vincenzo?”
“Vincenzo Trotti—Tino—who worked in the post office until he won the football pools?”
“He now lives in a large villa on the edge of the town and plays dominoes with all the old men while he waits for his own contemporaries to retire.”
“And a wife, Anastasia, who spends all her time in churchlighting candles and then spreads scandal behind your back—a pious old hypocrite.” The mouth snapped shut. “Oh, forgive me.”
“Nothing to forgive. It’s quite true.”
They both laughed; then, brusquely, she took him by the arm and saying, “Come, come,” she pulled him into her little apartment.
It was a couple of small rooms off the luxurious hall; by comparison, everything was tawdry. Something was cooking on the gas stove and the windows were steamed up. The floor was of bare concrete and the furnishings were old and inelegant.
She pushed him into the kitchen and set him down on a
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