“Pronto.” Most people answered the phone with an interrogatory inflection, or at least a hint of curiosity, in their voices. Not Isabella; the sound of her voice was enough to inform the caller that he or she was disturbing, and had better make it quick.
“Ciao, Isabella. It’s me, Iris.”
“It’s about time! Where are you, for heaven’s sake?”
“I’m at work,” Iris squinted her eyes and scrunched her shoulders, the way she used to wince as a child, right before she knew her father was going to start yelling.
“Still at the hotel? At this hour, Cara?”
Iris felt the hairs on her bare neck bristle. Over the years, she had come to despise being called “Cara,” even more than she had begun to dislike Gregorio’s “Piccolina.” She had nothing against terms of endearment and knew it was possible that her aversion to people using them in place of her name stemmed from the fact that her father had always insisted that everyone be called by his or her full name, but she didn’t think that was the reason. Maybe it was just that when Isabella called her “dear” it somehow sounded like she meant the opposite.
“Something unexpected came up,” she said. “Is Gregorio there? I’ve tried calling home, but there was no answer.”
Iris could hear the voices of children screeching in the background, and imagined the cozy scene of Franco and the kids in the living room engaging in horseplay, while Cinzia prepared dinner in the kitchen.
“Gregorio is on his way,” Isabella said. “He just called ten minutes ago. He said he couldn’t reach you, either. He sounded rather worried.” Isabella said. “Understandably so.”
“I was in a meeting with the owner,” Iris said.
“But he called the hotel, and no one knew where you were!” In the beginning, Isabella had asked a few perfunctory questions about what exactly Iris’s job entailed, but quickly lost interest; she had no idea how little time Iris actually spent seated at her desk.
“I don’t sit in my office all the time. I move around, especially when I fill in for the manager,” Iris said. No sense mentioning that she had left her pager in her office so as not to be disturbed. “Anyway, I called to say that I won’t be home for dinner.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, sunk her head deep into her jacket, waiting. After a moment of silence, she blinked, pulled herself up tall, took a deep breath. “Hello? Are you still there?” she asked.
“Yes, of course. Where else would I be? I was just trying to understand what exactly you meant by that,” Isabella said.
“I meant that I have to work. I’ll have a bite here,” Iris said, again feeling as though she were a little girl, daring to tell her father that she had decided to stay home and pray instead of attending Sunday Mass with the rest of the family.
“What about Gregorio’s dinner?” Isabella asked.
“There are leftovers in the fridge. Or perhaps he could join the rest of you at Cinzia’s?” Iris suggested.
“Well, I don’t know that he would be very pleased to do that. The little ones are particularly rambunctious this evening.” Isabella lowered her voice and added, “I myself cannot wait to retire upstairs. And you know how Gregorio treasures his quiet time, after the long, stressful hours he puts in.”
Iris looked up and waved at Paolo the Chef and Alberto the Maître d’, who had just walked into the restaurant and flipped on the lights. Back from their dinner break, they would be going over the evening’s reservations. Iris smiled, as Alberto placed a hand over his heart, then blew her a kiss. From the outset, she had perceived the importance of being on good terms with the pair, and now enjoyed the way they were able to joke with each other. She had been painfully aware of her lack of experience when she was hired, but instead of simply relaying the orders dictated by the Direttore, she found herself wanting to understand them, at times even questioning them, and had turned to the Chef and Maître for explanations and advice.
When her boss arrived late for scheduled appointments, leaving her to her own inadequate devices as she dealt with prospective brides and grooms and batteries of future in-laws, or meeting planners in charge of organizing corporate events at the hotel, she invited Paolo and Alberto to attend the meetings. When they were not available, she relied upon her innate resources and acquired skills, bluffing and biding her time as she waded her way through negotiations, taking notes of her clients’ demands, surreptitiously marking the items that required clarification. Could the lemon sorbet between the fish and meat courses be replaced with green apple sorbet? Could a Rossese from Albenga be served with cuttlefish risotto? What was the maximum number of guests for which she could allow tagliatelle as a first course before ruling out noodles in favor of a short form of pasta, and were wild porcini mushrooms available in June? Paolo and Alberto could make life very difficult for her if they so desired, but she knew the door swung both ways. By fielding complaints from restaurant clients who demanded to speak with the manager, she was able to weed out and resolve minor issues, referring only the most grievous problems to his attention. Her aversion for conflict and abhorrence of backstabbing (a popular sport among hotel workers) did not go unnoticed. In time, her knack for diplomacy, her love of the business, and her honest desire to learn earned her their sincere respect and unwavering cooperation.
“Yes, Isabella. I know how much Gregorio needs his quiet evenings.” Iris did not want to sound curt; all she wanted was to end the conversation before Gregorio walked in and forced her to start the discussion all over again. “Could you kindly just give him the message, and tell him to do as he pleases? To eat at home, or eat out, or eat with you, then just go on along to bed? I won’t be late, but I don’t want him waiting up if he is exhausted.”
“Honestly, Iris. I really don’t know what you are doing working in a hotel, anyway. Of all places!” Isabella replied.
“Thank you, Isabella. I really have to go now. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She replaced the receiver in its cradle and stared at the phone, as if it all those words had been uttered by the device, and not her mouth, as she stood by and listened. She could not swear to it, but Iris reckoned that was the first time she had ever hung up without waiting for the person at the other end of the line to end the conversation.
“Buonasera, Chef, buonasera Maître.” Iris looked up and saw Olona approaching the pair, placing a hand on the shoulder of Alberto’s black evening jacket.
“Buonasera, Dottore,” they both replied as they shook hands with the owner. Iris admired the way he came across as genuinely friendly and unequivocally in control at the same time. “Your usual table, Dottore?” Alberto asked.
“Tonight I have the honor of dining with Signora Iris,” he replied. “We would like to sit at that table in the corner, to see how we like the linens.”
Iris walked over to the group; after a long, hot day of rushing around the hotel, her feet were slippery with sweat, and her face and hands felt clammy. She wished she had taken the time to freshen up in the ladies’ room, instead of wasting it on a conversation with her mother-in-law.
“Wonderful,” the Maître said. “I’ll be right with you, so we can get you served before the crowds come in.”
“Take your time, Alberto. We’ll seat ourselves.”
“We’ll be serving some excellent tagliata of tuna this evening, if you’re interested,” the Chef said. “Accompanied by caramelized Tropea onions and balsamic vinegar reduction.”
Much to her dismay, Iris’s stomach spoke out of turn, growling its audible reply. She was famished, having skipped lunch to deal with an American family who had lost their passports at the beach in Monterosso, and seared tuna steak sounded absolutely divine. Her taste buds had been willing pupils over the years as she experimented with new foods, and her palate had evolved considerably since her arrival on the continent.
Olona stepped aside and gestured for Iris to precede him to the table, as he lagged a few steps behind. She felt self-conscious walking in front of him, recalling the fire the sun ha
d thrown into his eyes as they had watched it sink behind the promontory. She imagined them roaming from the chignon pinned to the back of her head, down the nape of her neck to the ticklish spot between her shoulder blades, and descending her spine. She could sense their heat on her backside as his eyes dropped to the slit in her skirt. She could feel her stockings losing their grip again with each step she took, and worried he might notice their lacy tops peeking out, and perhaps even catch a glimpse of her bare thighs.
Olona held a chair out for her, guided it to the table as she sat, then seated himself. Was he being gallant with her, or were impeccable manners just part of his upbringing? Whatever the case may be, the deference and attention in his attitude made her feel as though she were on equal terms with him, as if she were a capable professional or an attractive woman worth spending the evening with. Or possibly both.
The Maître appeared at their table and lit the candle. Iris had repeatedly suggested that the candles at every table be lit, regardless of whether they were reserved, before the restaurant opened for dinner at seven forty-five, but the Direttore objected on the grounds that they might just as well hold ten thousand lira banknotes over a flame, if they were going to waste all that money on wax. Alberto proceeded to uncork a chilled bottle of Prosecco from Conegliano, which made a refreshing if unpretentious aperitif, poured out two glasses, placed the bottle in a silver ice bucket, then turned to hand the pair their dinner menus.
“Tell the Chef we trust him implicitly,” Olona said to Alberto, waving away the menus. “The tuna tagliata sounds excellent,” he continued, glancing at Iris, who nodded her approval, “and to start, I have to say, I happened to catch a glimpse of those scampi from Santa Margherita when they were delivered this morning. So fresh they were still twitching. I think they’ll do for an antipasto.”
Iris ran her fingers up and down the fine crystal stem of her glass, watching the bubbles float to the surface and burst. It had been an arduous day, and she was yearning to reward herself with a sip of the cold wine, but whenever she drank bubbly she felt it was bad luck not to raise her glass in a toast and look at the people she was sharing it with straight in the eye. Unless of course the other person was Gregorio, and the liquid in his glass was water. She couldn’t imagine what she could possibly propose a toast to in this situation.
“To revelations,” Olona said, as if he had read her mind, raising his glass before Iris could give the matter further thought.
Iris lifted her glass and smiled politely as the rims of the two flutes struck a delicate, high-pitched note. “To revelations,” she repeated. She wondered to what he was referring exactly, and hoped to God it didn’t have anything to do with her sagging stockings; she vowed to toss them in the rubbish as soon as she took them off. At the first sip from her glass, the bubbles tickling her tongue and the roof of her mouth distracted her from all other thoughts. Savoring the crisp flavor of the wine, she realized she was enjoying the moment immensely, and that it was the first time she would dine alone with a man since marrying Gregorio. Actually, if one were a stickler for exactitude, the truth was that it was the first time she would dine alone with any man other than Gregorio; with any man who did not abhor candles or turn up his nose at bubbly wines. She felt slightly disloyal thinking such thoughts, but it wasn’t as though she was being unfairly critical; she was simply acknowledging opinions that Gregorio himself had openly expressed over and over (and over) to whomever would listen. Thinking of Gregorio reminded her that he would probably be home by now, and might try to call her on that mobile phone he had given her, which sat in her office. She just couldn’t get used to carrying the thing with her; it was bulky, and she couldn’t see the need, since the only places she ever went were home and work. She hoped he wouldn’t be too irritated if she didn’t answer. After all, she never called him when he was in the operating room, did she?
She glanced around the restaurant nervously, half expecting her husband to materialize right before her eyes, stomp over to her table, grab her by an arm, and drag her home. But the only people moving about were the dinner guests, who had begun to trickle in, suntanned and smiling, as Alberto greeted them, and a waiter seated them at their tables. The gentlemen smiled indulgently as the ladies gasped at the view of the satin sea and velvet sky, and the coast sprinkled with shimmering lights. She thought of the fish and chips and steak-and-kidney pies and wiener schnitzel and T-bone steaks they must eat at home, and felt proud to work in an establishment where the food was as divine as the view, and where she could play a role in making fairytale vacations become a reality.
“Iris,” Olona said, as he lifted the dripping bottle from the ice bucket, serviette wrapped around its neck, and refreshed their drinks. He poured the Prosecco to just the right level, stopping precisely before the foam could overflow, with the practiced hand of a man who has filled many a flute. “You don’t mind if I call you Iris, do you? Without the Signora?”
“No, not at all,” Iris replied.
“Very well. As I was saying, Iris, don’t think I haven’t noticed.”
“Noticed what, Dottore?” Iris asked, her voice catching on the nervousness that was darting around in her throat, blocking the way of her words as they tried to pass. What could he possibly be accusing her of?
“Please, Iris. Do call me Claudio,” he said, smiling, their eyes locking. “Let’s do it the American way.”
“Va bene, Dottore.” Iris had never once heard Parodini call him Claudio, even when referring to him in his absence, and he was her boss. It was always, the Dottore wants this, what would the Dottore think of that. She didn’t know whether to be honored or alarmed.
“As I was saying, don’t think I haven’t noticed what an excellent job you’ve been doing here at the Stella. You were an invaluable asset to us during the World Cup, dealing with those vulgar superstar soccer players and dreadful media delegations. And I also spoke recently to the owner of the Eventi Eccetera agency in Milan - he’s a member of the club where I play racquetball. He had nothing but praise for the way you handled that car launch last February. He commended your organizational skills, and your creativity at adapting the leisure activities planned for the trade press to a solid week of pouring rain. Then there’s my chiropractor, who was on the scientific committee of a seminar back in March, and was astonished at how quickly you resolved the problems of some of the foreign speakers who were having trouble projecting their presentations. He’ll be coming back to see you, to make arrangements for his daughter’s wedding.”
“Thank you,” Iris said, stopping herself before adding “Dottore,” yet unable to go a step further and pronounce his first name. “I like to make sure I’m around, just in case something goes awry at the last minute. I hate to risk a flop, after all the planning and investment people pour into an event.”
“Yes, it’s that pragmatic, hands-on, American attitude that I simply adore. I don’t need a number-crunching Direttore managing my hotel. We have the Ragioniere for that. A necessary evil, but God knows one is more than enough.”
The Ragioniere was a figure that both depressed and annoyed Iris. The title was awarded to those students devoid of any specific inclination or driving ambition, who opted to attend a vocational high school, from which they would emerge with sufficient accounting skills to land secure positions as bookkeepers or bank clerks. The Ragioniere at the Stella di Levante had been overseeing its administration for twenty years, and by virtue of diligence, devotion and non-delegation had attained a remarkable level of indispensability.
“Scampi di Santa Margherita,” announced Alberto, who appeared at Iris’s side to place a covered dish in front of her, and one in front of Claudio Olona. As he lifted the two silver domes simultaneously, the aroma of the grilled seafood banished all thoughts of the dreadful world of accountants from Iris’s mind. “May I suggest another wine to accompany the scampi, Dottore?”
“No, thank you, Alberto. This is so pleasant. And don’t be coming to check on us every
five minutes. You’ve got a full house, and we can take care of ourselves.” Alberto withdrew from the table with a smile and a little bow. Iris was impressed that the owner put his clients’ need ahead of his own; that was the way it should be, that was true hospitality. “Buon appetito, Iris,” he said.
“Buon appetito,” Iris replied, pleased that he had said it first. She recalled the time Isabella had invited the whole family to dinner at the Splendido in Portofino to celebrate her retirement, and berated Iris for wishing everyone a “good appetite” as their meal was served, on the grounds that it was not proper to recognize that one ate out of carnal pleasure. Iris had never thought of it that way, but added the expression to the list of things not to say in certain circles. Although it had become apparent over the years that Isabella could be a tad too stiff, Iris’s consistent efforts to emulate her impeccable behavior had been worth the investment. Even now, for example, she was in a position to approach the crustaceans before her with the proper cutlery and manners. She pinned one down with the tines of her fork, adeptly peeling back its thin pink shell with her fish knife to reveal the plump morsel of white meat inside.
“You’re an incredibly quick learner, Iris,” Claudio Olona said, peeling his own prawn.
“It’s not all that complicated, if you’re patient enough,” she said, half offended, half embarrassed that he could be so darn sure that the Capotostis had not been raised on scampi.
“I’m talking about the job, Iris,” he said. Her cheeks burned, but she was relieved to detect no hints of condescension in his tone of voice or expression. If anything, his eyes conveyed appreciation, and a hint of amusement.
“You know, Iris, there is a difference between delegating, and slacking off. The Direttore has settled into a very comfortable routine since your arrival. You are the one the staff looks to for direction, you are the one the clients call when they need an urgent proposal. You have the brains to know what needs to be done, and the ability to get people to do it.”
The Complete Series Page 79
