The Man Who Understood Women
Page 23
Snapping open the napkin he had earlier fashioned into a crisp white fan, Alfredo, the waiter, laid it reverently across William’s well-pressed chinos, and unconsciously humming a few bars of the popular Italian love song, ‘O Sole Mio’, handed him the menu.
‘Carrots cream soup …’ ‘Grilled sliced sodfish …’ ‘Goffredo potatoes …’
Looking round the familiar dining room as Alfredo went in search of the wine into which he had made inroads the previous evening, William took surreptitious stock of his dining companions. The table next to his was usually occupied by two English women, a frail mother and her suntanned, widowed (according to Alfredo) daughter of indeterminate age who had been visiting the Hotel Bella Vista for at least as long as he. Tonight, to his surprise, the younger woman was on her own. Acknowledging her presence with a courteous nod – William considered cross-table gossip to be ill mannered – he wondered whether, dinner being over and in the absence of her mother who usually accompanied her, she would make her way to the nightly passeggiata, joining the strolling crowds to gaze in the windows of the silver shops with their enticing trinkets.
Pouring the purple Bardolino into his glass with as much panache as if it had been a vintage claret, Alfredo, with whom William had become friendly over the years, followed his glance to the vacant place at the adjacent table.
‘The signora is sick,’ he confided.
Averting his gaze hurriedly and looking out at the limpid lake, at the sailboats and the car ferry, which plied its regular way to the terracotta roofs, the steeple and the gentle cypresses of the opposite shore, William ordered the ‘carrots cream soup’ followed by the ‘sodfish’ and reviewed his existence, which once had been suffused not so much with the precious metals of the beguiling silver shops, but with the golden aura of love. After five years, while still unable to come to terms with the fact that no one, not even his children who led their own frenetic lives, really needed him, he had learned to live with it.
His annual two weeks in Bellagio, where the tranquillity was food for the soul, and the beauty of the surroundings a panacea for the heartache that had become part and parcel of his existence, were a godsend. All winter, as the white aconites were replaced by sweet-smelling jonquils and finally by the roses that bloomed around their cottage and which Helen had loved to dead-head – he could see her now with her Sussex trug – he looked forward to the simple comforts of the white bedroom, with its diaphanous curtains and faded watercolours of the lake, from the window of which he could see the landing stage with its curved awning and its glass visitor information booth with its timetables and its clock. The mornings, after a leisurely breakfast, taken on his minuscule balcony amid the familiar noises of slammed doors, running taps and laughter provoked by shared intimacies from which he was excluded, were reserved for sightseeing. They were the forerunners, the antipasti, of his day.
Taking the ferry with the sturdy backpackers, the families with young children and the oblivious lovers, he allowed himself to be transported to ancient islands with their monasteries, their classical gardens and spectacular parks which – although there was no longer anyone to share them with – never failed to delight. While the nearby attractions disposed of the morning hours, each one to be dissipated, the magic of the sights and sounds, the natural splendour of the surroundings, were decimated by the dull ache of his isolation.
‘How was the fish, signore?’
Dragged back from his daydreams, William regarded his empty plate. ‘Excellent! The fish was excellent.’
Smiling as happily as if he had caught the ‘sodfish’ himself, Alfredo removed his plate and brushed the tablecloth, as if his life depended upon the removal of every last crumb, before setting before him the hotel’s signature dish of home-made pannacotta topped with a giant strawberry.
On his way out of the dining room William intercepted with a pang an unmistakably passionate glance that passed between a honeymoon couple in the centre of the room. Remembering things past, he tried not to dwell too closely on the innuendoes implicit in the look. It was too painful. Averting his gaze, he stared straight ahead to where Alfredo stood to attention at the door of the dining room.
‘Buona notte, signore,’ there were beads of perspiration from his evening exertions on Alfredo’s forehead.
‘Buona notte, signora.’
Glancing round, William saw that the widow from the next table who had finished her dinner at the same time as he, was covering her bare shoulders with a gossamer stole and making for the street and the passeggiata.
‘Buona notte, Alfredo.’
Hesitating only for a moment, William realised that although Alfredo had gone into his familiar rendering of ‘O Sole Mio’, the words that he put urgently to the tune were Elvis Presley’s: ‘It’s now or never … Come hold me tight … Kiss me my darling … Be mine tonight …’
Their eyes met only for a moment as William, straightening his shoulders and summoning up his resolve, followed the bobbing blond ponytail and the clacking heels of the widow from the next table through the glass doors of the Hotel Bella Vista and out into the street.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Rosemary Friedman has published 21 novels – which have been widely translated and serialised by the BBC – three works of non-fiction and two children’s books. Her short stories have been syndicated worldwide and she has judged many literary prizes. She has written commissioned screenplays and television scripts in the UK and the US. Her stage plays Home Truths, Change of Heart and An Eligible Man toured major UK venues following their London premières. She lives in London with her husband, psychiatrist and author Dennis Friedman.
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
Fiction
No White Coat
Love on my List
We All Fall Down
Patients of a Saint
The Fraternity
The Commonplace Day
The General Practice
Practice Makes Perfect
The Life Situation
The Long Hot Summer
Proofs of Affection
A Loving Mistress
Rose of Jericho
A Second Wife
To Live in Peace
An Eligible Man
Golden Boy
Vintage
Intensive Care
Paris Summer
Non-Fiction
The Writing Game
A Writer’s Commonplace Book
Life Is a Joke: A Writer’s Memoir
Juvenile
Aristide
Aristide In Paris
Copyright
Arcadia Books Ltd
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www.arcadiabooks.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by Arcadia Books 2013
This Ebook edition published by Arcadia Books 2013
Copyright © Rosemary Friedman 2013
Rosemary Friedman has asserted her moral right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publishers.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978–1–909807–26–6
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