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He refilled his glass with a double Bell’s and realized she was looking at him again. Perhaps it was because he was the only man around she could talk to in Italian: she couldn’t find him attractive—he was forty-five, the oldest of them all. Yet her English was good. With an accent, of course, but an amiable one. As amiable as she was.
She was still looking at him, now smiling broadly. A real cutie, in that delicate mauve jersey top over the amaranthine polo neck. It suited her dark hair and oval face. How come at first he couldn’t stand her? Well, he’d found it flattering to see her coming to him. All the same, there was something that didn’t square with her chic. Yep, the way she’d introduced herself. The cheap way, Mamma used to call it. Ciao, mi chiamo Paola Giusti...
Rudy walked toward her. The CD player was playing a slow rhythm. Typical of Gordon’s parties—he’d play one even at the Old Bailey. As a matter of fact, Gordon also had a Sinatra song in the background when he entertained the London recorder for dinner last week. The only guy in his thirties in London mad for the twentieth century’s ‘Voice’.
“Shall we dance?” said Rudy to her, repeating in Italian, “Balliamo?”
“Have you known Gordon long?” she asked as they started to dance.
He nodded. What other original question would come next? “Very long, we’re old pals.”
Old pals...they did their pupillages in the same chamber, but now Gordon worked at the legal department of the Treasury and poor old Rudy was merely an employed barrister at the damn Earls Court Legal Advice Centre. But Gordon was English by birth, and Oxbridge, while poor old Rudy happened to be a British naturalized citizen of mixed tie and Somali origin with a London external degree, gained at thirty-one to boot.
What could he ask her? “Sei molto bella,” he said on impulse.
She grinned, tossing back her head. “You should see me in the sunlight.”
All right, he’d been wrong: she’d rather talk English than Italian, perhaps judging his Italian not as good as her English—like many foreign speakers of a language, she might overrate her knowledge of it.
“Let’s dance the night away then, so I’ll see you at sunrise,” he said.
She laughed, holding him tighter. They shuffled cheek-to-cheek, in silence. She was almost as tall as he was, but wore heels, surely—must be five foot nine or so barefoot. Pity she sported a long flared skirt: he had just to imagine what her legs looked like. Long and well shaped, if they matched the boobs he felt against his chest.
The music changed. It was a fast rhythm now. Everybody was dressed casually—men as well as women. As usual, he was the only one wearing a sports jacket. Most of the men began to dance together in a group. Some of the women did the same. They didn’t seem very pleased, he could tell by their faces. No, he wouldn’t join any groups. A sort of homosexual fad—not his kind of thing.
She danced very well, moving faster and faster. He tried his best to follow suit, but was already getting tired—in spite of his African ancestors, he’d never been a good dancer. She kept pirouetting. He couldn’t do that. Better to go to the movies than bear this ordeal.
As he grinned, pretending it was great fun, it occurred to him that soon he’d have to see Marion about their divorce. What would she say if she saw him now and he proposed a reconciliation? Marion couldn’t avoid being nasty. It was in her nature. Ah, forget about her, think about Paola. If he was Papà, he would already have asked her to come to his place tonight. But he wasn’t Papà, thank God.
This tune was going on forever. She was still pirouetting and he was out of breath, pouring with sweat, his shirt glued to his chest. He couldn’t go on playing the young man—should find the courage to tell her: Let’s sit down and talk.
Talk about what? Girls her age didn’t normally share his interests. They hated talking about social injustice and civil and human rights—still less about literary fiction and the absurdity of life. They preferred to go out with young, successful professionals, successful because they’d entered the profession at twenty-four. OK, why didn’t he talk to her the way a young white high-flyer would? After all, Somalis were white, white with a black skin, and he was also three-quarter Italian. Yes, but what should he say?
The music changed—to a fast rhythm. “Paola, would you care for a drink now?”
“Sure,” she replied, “I’d love one...sorry for tiring you out.”
He led her to another room. As they reached the sofa, she slumped into it, apparently exhausted.
“I’ll get you a drink. What d’you have?” he asked.
“Nothing. Sit down.”
“Didn’t you say you’d love one?”
“I changed my mind. D’you smoke? If you do, please give me a cigarette.”
“I’m afraid Gordon wouldn’t have anybody smoking in here. Sorry.”
“That’s OK.”
“Shall we go to the back garden? We can have a smoke there.”
“No, it’s all right. It’s too chilly outside. So you’re a lawyer, aren’t you?”
“Yes, a barrister, an avvocato. Who told you?” He sat by her.
“Gordon did.”
“Are you friends?”
“In a way.”
“What d’you do in England?”
“Loafing.”
“The best of all occupations.”
“I can only define the best of all occupations negatively.”
“Tell me which one you regard as the worst of all.”
“Being morbidly in love.”
“Are you morbidly in love by any chance?”
She tossed back her head again. “Oh, good Lord, no.”
“How d’you know then?”
She hesitated. “Literature.”
“Give me an example.”
“Ever heard of Il piacere by d’Annunzio?”
“Yes, I read it. As a young man.” He smiled. “Which means many, many years ago.” When he dreamed of becoming a writer.
“Andrea Sperelli was morbidly in love with Elena Muti. It led him nowhere.”
“If you say so. Are you keen on literature?”
She nodded. “English literature, actually. Now that I think of it, I am morbidly in love. With the English language.”
So they shared the same passion. “Why morbidly?”
“Good God, because it’s an obsession that leads me nowhere. I like English more than Italian, and feel I’ll never master it—I’ll never speak and write it like a native. I’ll never be capable of verbal creativity in building up, in English, a character with a flair for satirical social remarks, or one searching for the things that really matter.”
“Give me an example of a thing that really matters.”
“The physical world of nature.”
“Which one is your favourite writer?”
“Can’t you guess?”
He smiled. “Are you morbidly in love with D.H. Lawrence?”
“Perhaps. But I’m not a faithful lover: I may be in love with Lawrence, but at the same time also with Burgess and many others, all different from one another.” She grinned.
“Ever thought of falling morbidly in love with another fascinating mature man?”
Still grinning, she tossed back her head once more. “If by another fascinating mature man you mean you, my answer is, no.”
“Why, don’t you find me fascinating?”
“I don’t find you mature,” she replied, and burst into laughter.
They were both laughing when a voice called her name. “Paola...Paola...telephone.”
She hesitated for a moment as though undecided. Then as the voice called her again, she leapt to her feet. “Excuse me, Rudy. Shall be back very soon.”
***
So once again he had only his thoughts for company. Strangely enough, Gordon kept inviting him to his parties even though he didn’t fit in. The women were all fucking their way to the top. Some of them were solicitors, and knew he wasn’t a choice for a brief. The others were either PR or journalists—the journalists didn’t take a blind bit of notice of him, since he wasn’t a Whitehall hand who could spin, and the PR did the same, reciprocating his sense of alienation from them. Was he being unfair? He was, in a way: they worked very hard. Even so, he had nothing to offer them.
He glanced around, and had a clear mental picture of Miss Queen, the old spinster who coached him for the eleven-plus. How the décor had changed since the sixties. Gordon had refurbished the whole house inside, but Miss Queen looked as she’d been when he was a child and gave him biscuits and chocolates. Dear Miss Queen. At the time Horbury Crescent, Notting Hill Gate was not a fashionable address. Now it was different—that was why Gordon had bought the house. You’ll like it, Rudy, he told him the day after the solicitors exchanged contracts. Of course Rudy would like it. It was next door to the one where he’d spent his best years—the years when his parents lived together.
Why didn’t Paola come back? Couldn’t still be on the telephone. He wouldn’t be surprised if she was dancing with a better dancer than himself. He should go to the other room to check...no, he’d better wait for her here. If she came and didn’t find him, it might look as though he hadn’t enjoyed talking to her. But what about her, did she enjoy talking to him? Well, when she was back he should change register—he must chat her up, tell her they can leave and go to a West End nightspot...
Hey, leave it out, don’t think so big. She was too young for him—could almost be his daughter. Even Marion was too young for him, and in fact had dumped him. What was he saying? Marion dumped him because she couldn’t bear a City life at work and a boho life at home, and so run away with a fat cat. She’d always been a conventional bird—she wanted her man to be a high achiever, and he was a low achiever, and now she’d got what she wanted. But that by no means meant he shouldn’t have a go at a girl who looked everything but conventional...
“Hello, Rudy. How are you?”
He turned and stood up. He’d guessed right—it was Gordon’s sister. “Hello, Nancy. I was pretty sure I’d find you here and am glad I have. How are you?”
“Heavily pregnant, as you can see.”
“Gordon told me it’ll be a boy.”
“That’s right, another macho. What are you doing? I saw you sitting still and staring into the distance like a cat, and thought: Let’s go and cheer him up. Why aren’t you flirting with one of the beautiful girls around?”
“Just waiting for an Italian girl who went to take a call.”
“You mean Paola Giusti? She left in such a hurry.”
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