Read Online Electrico W by Herve Le Tellier - Free Book Online

hadn’t seen Antonio, and because he was sitting facing the sun, he couldn’t have seen her. I stood up, the car was already driving away. Antonio also turned, too late. The Fiat had disappeared behind a warehouse.
    “What is it, Vincent? You’re still very pale.”
    “I—I thought I recognized someone …”
    “Your Lena Palmer? You see her everywhere … not a good sign. You’ve got it bad.”
    I shook my head.
    “No, it’s nothing. I must have been wrong …”
    Our enthusiastic imp was back already with a bottle and a kindly smile. He uncapped it and handed it to me.
    “Here, drink that,” he said and winked as he added, “it’s the real thing, you know, I make it myself.”
    He stood up and found two more chairs for Antonio and himself. Then he suddenly looked worried.
    “Hey, are you sure you don’t want to call a doctor?”
    “No thanks, I’m feeling better already.”
    “All right. Well, that’s a relief, because I do have a phone here, but it’s out of order.”
    He watched me for a moment, suspiciously, while I drank the sparkling too sugary drink and he ran his hand over his sweating head.
    “If you want my opinion, it’s because of the heat. You don’t really notice, but it’s very hot already, isn’t it?”
    Antonio nodded in silence. “Are you Italian?” he asked, pointing at the sign.
    “No, I’m from Porto, like my father. But my mother, now
she’
s from Milezza in Sicily. That’s why I called the restaurant Stromboli’s. And I have an Italian name too. Leopoldo. Well, Leo. But I thought Stromboli’s sounded better than Leo’s. Don’t you think?”
    There was a warm westerly breeze heavy with salt blowing off the sea.
    “There’s
always
a bit of wind in this part of the port. It even carried off one of my parasols once.”
    I don’t know whether I owed it to Leopoldo’s remedy, but I was feeling better. I took a step toward the footbridge, reached for my wallet.
    “You must be joking!” the little man said indignantly, shaking our hands. “But you have to come and eat here, you will, won’t you? I’ll make
penne all’arrabiata
for you. It’s the house specialty, lots of chili, lots of garlic, lots of olive oil. And two or three pieces of penne, well, you have to. So, do you promise?”
    We promised and left the barge. I would have liked to follow the route taken by the Fiat, perhaps it wasn’t that far away, but Antonio insisted on heading toward the streets he had known as a child.
    We climbed up a narrow street toward Bairro Alto.
    “You see there, Vincent, where there’s an electrical store, there used to be a hardware store, maybe it’s the old owner’s son who’s now selling Walkmans. He always used to hang things outside, dish racks and plastic bowls in sky blue, bright yellow, every color. When he opened in the morning he hung bunches of them from the awning, like Chinese lanterns. The candy was kept inside in glass jars, with lids to stop thieving fingers. He had hard candy, caramel, red and green barley sugar …”
    “Did you come here with Duck?”
    “I don’t remember. When I was with her I didn’t feel much like eating candy.”
    “Where did she live?”
    He tilted his chin toward one of the ten-story buildings at the top of the street. It was built in the sixties and had about a hundred peeling balconies, all laden with parched potted plants, broken old toys, bicycles, and laundry dryers.
    “Do you remember which apartment it was?”
    “No, just that it was on the other side of the building. On the seventh or eighth floor, I can’t remember. From her bedroom you could see the April 25 Bridge and the statue of Christ the King.”
    Antonio looked away and we slowed imperceptibly.
    We walked toward Eduardo VII Park, toward the clammy heat of Estufa Fria. Antonio couldn’t wait to rediscover the smell of the tropical hothouses, and he bought two tickets.
    A slatted wooden canopy softened the sun’s rays. We wandered among the ferns