The Mister

by James, E L

  “Trevethick. It’s a small village just over the hill. Popular with tourists.”

  Alessia falls into step beside him.

  “The photographs in your apartment, are they from here?” she asks.

  “The landscapes. Yes. Yes, they are.” Maxim beams. “You’re observant,” he adds, and from his raised brows Alessia can tell he’s impressed. She gives him a shy smile, and he takes her gloved hand.

  They emerge from the path onto a lane too narrow to have sidewalks. The hedgerows on either side are high but cut back from the road. The brambles and bare-twigged bushes are orderly and trimmed, and here and there they are covered in clumps of snow. They walk down and around a sweeping corner, and the village of Trevethick appears at the bottom of the lane. The stone and whitewashed houses are like nothing Alessia’s seen before. They look small and old, but charming nonetheless. The place is quaint—pristine—with no trash anywhere. Where she comes from, there is garbage and construction debris in the streets, and most of the buildings are built from concrete.

  At the waterfront two stone quays stretch out to embrace the harbor where three large fishing boats are moored. Around the waterfront are a few shops—a couple of boutiques, a convenience store, a small art gallery—and two pubs. One called The Watering Hole, the other, The Two-Headed Eagle. A sign hangs outside, bearing a shield Alessia recognizes. “Look!” She points at the emblem. “Your tattoo.”

  Maxim winks at her. “You hungry?”

  “Yes,” she replies. “That was a long walk.”

  “Good day, milord.” An elderly man in a black scarf, a green waxed coat, and a flat cap is leaving The Two-Headed Eagle. He is followed by a shaggy dog of indeterminate breed wearing a red coat with the name BORIS embroidered in gold across the back.

  “Father Trewin.” Maxim shakes his hand.

  “How are you bearing up, young man?” He pats Maxim on the arm.

  “Good, thank you.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it. And who is this fine young lady?”

  “Father Trewin, our vicar, may I introduce Alessia Demachi, my…friend, visiting from overseas.”

  “Good afternoon, my dear.” Trewin holds out his hand.

  “Good afternoon,” she says, shaking his hand, surprised and pleased that he would address her directly.

  “And how are you enjoying Cornwall?”

  “It is lovely here.”

  Trewin gives her a benign smile and turns to Maxim. “I suppose it’s too much to hope that we’ll see you at Sunday service tomorrow?”

  “We’ll see, Father.”

  “We lead by example, my son. Remember that.”

  “I know. I know.” Maxim sounds resigned.

  “Brisk day!” Father Trewin exclaims, moving on from that subject.

  “Indeed.”

  Trewin whistles to Boris, who has sat patiently waiting for their pleasantries to cease. “In case you’ve forgotten, service starts at ten sharp.” He gives them both a nod and heads on up the lane.

  “Vicar is the priest, yes?” Alessia asks as Maxim opens the door to the pub and ushers her into the warmth.

  “Yes. Are you religious?” he asks, surprising her.

  “N—”

  “Good afternoon, milord,” says a large man with red hair and a complexion to match, interrupting their conversation. He stands behind an impressive bar that is hung with decorative jugs and pint glasses. There’s a burning log fire at one end of the pub and several wooden high-backed benches on either side of a line of tables, most of which are occupied by men and women who could be locals or tourists, Alessia doesn’t know. From the ceiling hang fishermen’s ropes, nets, and tackle. The atmosphere is warm and friendly. There’s even a young couple kissing at the back. Embarrassed, Alessia looks away and sticks close to Mister Maxim.

  * * *

  “Hi, Jago,” I say to the barman. “Table for two for lunch?”

  “Megan will sort you out.” Jago points to the far corner.

  “Megan?”

  Shit.

  “Yeah, she’s working here now.”

  Fuck.

  I give Alessia a sideways glance and she looks puzzled. “Are you sure you’re hungry?”

  “Yes,” Alessia replies.

  “Doom Bar?” Jago asks, staring with overt appreciation at Alessia.

  “Yes, please.” I try not to glare at him.

  “And for the lady?” Jago’s voice softens, his eyes still on Alessia.

  “What would you like to drink?” I ask.

  She peels off her hat, releasing her hair. Her cheeks are flushed from the cold. “The beer I had yesterday?” she says. With her loose, dark curls falling almost to her waist, her shining eyes, and her radiant smile, she is an exotic beauty. I’m beguiled. Totally and utterly beguiled. I can’t blame Jago for staring. “Half a pale ale for the lady,” I say without looking at him.

  “What is it?” Alessia asks as she begins to unzip Maryanne’s quilted Barbour jacket. And I know I’ve been gawking at her. I shake my head, and she gives me a shy smile.

  “Hello, Maxim. Or should I say ‘milord’ now?”

  Shit.

  I turn around, and Megan is standing in front of me, her expression as dark as her clothes. “Table for two?” she says with a saccharine tone and a smile to match.

  “Please. And how are you?”

  “Fine,” she snaps, and my heart sinks, my father’s voice ringing in my head.

  Don’t fuck the local girls, boy.

  I stand aside for Alessia to precede me, and we follow in Megan’s dour wake. She leads us to a table in the corner by a window that overlooks the quays. It’s the best table in the establishment. So that’s something.

  “This okay for you?” I ask Alessia, deliberately ignoring Megan.

  “Yes. It is good,” Alessia responds, with a confused look at a moody Megan. I hold out her chair, and she sits. Jago arrives with our drinks, and Megan saunters off, presumably to fetch menus…or a cricket bat.

  “Cheers.” I hold up my pint.

  “Cheers,” Alessia replies. After a sip she says, “I do not think Megan is happy with you.”

  “No, I don’t think so either.” I shrug, brushing off the subject. I really don’t want to discuss Megan with Alessia. “Anyway, you were saying about religion?”

  She eyes me dubiously, as if pondering the Megan Situation, and then she continues, “The Communists banned religion in my country.”

  “You mentioned that in the car yesterday.”

  “Yes.”

  “But you wear a gold cross.”

  “Menus,” Megan interrupts us, and hands us both a laminated card. “I’ll be back to take your order in a minute.” She turns abruptly and heads for the bar.

  I ignore her. “You were saying?”

  Alessia watches Megan’s exit through suspicious eyes but says nothing about her. She continues, “It was my grandmother’s. She was Catholic. She used to pray in secret.” Alessia fondles her gold cross.

  “So there’s no religion in your country?”

  “There is now. Since we became a republic when the Communists fell, but in Albania we don’t make so much of it.”

  “Oh, I thought religion was everything in the Balkans?”

  “Not in Albania. We are a…what is the word? Secular state. Religion is very personal. You know, just between a person and their God. At home we are Catholics. Most people in my town are Muslim. But we do not give it much thought,” she responds with a quizzical look at me. “And you?”

  “Me? Well, I suppose I’m Church of England. But I’m not religious at all.” Father Trewin’s words come back to me.

  We lead by example, my son.

  Bloody hell.

  Maybe I should go to church tomorrow. Kit always
managed to go at least one or two Sundays a month when he was down here.

  Me, not so much.

  That’s another damn duty I have to fulfill.

  “Are the English like you?” Alessia asks, pulling me back into the conversation.

  “With regard to religion? Some are. Some aren’t. The UK is multicultural.”

  “This I know.” She smiles. “When I traveled on the train in London, there were so many different languages spoken.”

  “Do you like it? London?”

  “It is noisy and crowded and very expensive. But it is exciting. I had never been to a big city before.”

  “Not even Tirana?” Thanks to my expensive education, I know the capital of Albania.

  “No. I have never traveled. I had never seen the sea until you brought me here.” Her glance out the window is wistful, but it gives me an opportunity to study her profile: long lashes, pert nose, pouting lips. I shift in my seat, my blood thickening.

  Steady.

  Megan appears with her pinched, angry face and scraped-back hair, and my problem subsides.

  Boy, she is still bitter. It was one summer seven years ago. One fucking summer.

  “Are you ready to order?” she asks, glaring at me. “Catch of the day is cod.” She makes it sound like an insult.

  Alessia frowns and glances quickly at the menu.

  “I’ll have the fish pie, please.” And, irritated, I cock my head, daring Megan to say anything.

  “For me also,” says Alessia.

  “Two fish pies. Any wine?”

  “I’m fine with the beer. Alessia?”

  Megan turns to the lovely Alessia Demachi. “For you?” she snaps.

  “The beer is good for me, too.”

  “Thank you, Megan,” I grunt in warning, and she shoots me a look.

  She’ll probably spit in my food—or, worse, in Alessia’s.

  “Shit,” I murmur under my breath as I watch her march back to the kitchen.

  Alessia studies my reaction.

  “That goes back several years,” I say, and tug at my sweater collar, embarrassed.

  “What does?”

  “Megan and I.”

  “Oh,” Alessia says, her tone flat.

  “She’s ancient history. Tell me about your family. Do you have any siblings?” I ask, desperately trying to move on.

  “No,” she says abruptly, and it’s obvious she’s still considering Megan and me.

  “Parents?”

  “I have a mother and a father. Like all people.” She raises a beautiful, arched eyebrow.

  Oh. The delectable Demachi has teeth.

  “And what are they like?” I ask, stifling my amusement.

  “My mother is…brave.” Her voice becomes soft and wistful.

  “Brave?”

  “Yes.” Her expression turns somber, and she glances out the window once more.

  Okay. This subject is definitely off-limits.

  “And your father?”

  She shakes her head and shrugs. “He is an Albanian man.”

  “And that means?”

  “Well, my father is old-fashioned, and I do not…how do you say? We do not see eye for eye.” Her face falls a little, and her troubled expression tells me this, too, is off-limits.

  “Eye to eye,” I correct her. “Tell me about Albania, then.”

  Her face brightens. “What do you want to know?” She looks up at me through those long dark lashes, and my groin tightens again.

  “Everything,” I whisper.

  I watch and listen to her, enthralled. She is passionate and eloquent, painting a vivid picture of her country and her home. She tells me Albania is a special place where family is at the center of everything. It’s an ancient country, influenced over the centuries by several cultures with differing ideologies. She explains that it’s both Western and Eastern-facing, but more and more her country looks to Europe for inspiration. She’s proud of her hometown. Kukës is a small place in the north near the border with Kosovo, and she enthuses about its spectacular lakes, rivers, and gorges, but most of all the mountains that surround it. She comes alive talking about the landscape, and it’s clear this is what she misses about her homeland.

  “And that is why I like it here,” she says. “From what I have seen, the landscape in Cornwall is also beautiful.”

  We are interrupted by Megan and fish pie. Megan plunks the plates down on the table and leaves without a word. Her face is sour, but the fish pie is warming and delicious, and there’s no sign that anyone spat in it.

  “What does your father do?” I ask cautiously.

  “He has a garage.”

  “Does he sell petrol?”

  “No. He fixes cars. Tires. Mechanical things.”

  “And your mother?”

  “She is at home.”

  I want to ask Alessia why she left Albania, but I know it will remind her of her harrowing journey to the UK.

  “And what did you do in Kukës?”

  “Well, I was studying, but my university closed, and so sometimes I work in a school with the little children. And sometimes I play the piano….” Her voice tails off, and I don’t know if it’s because she’s feeling nostalgic or if it’s for another reason. “Tell me about your work.” It’s clear she wants to change the subject, and because I don’t want to tell her what I do yet, I fill her in on my DJing career.

  “And I’ve done a couple of summers in San Antonio in Ibiza. Now, that’s a real party place.”

  “This is why you have so many records?”

  “Yes,” I answer.

  “And what is your favorite music?”

  “All music. I don’t have a favorite genre. What about you? How old were you when you started playing?”

  “I was four.”

  Wow. Early.

  “Did you study music? I mean, music theory?”

  “No.”

  That’s even more impressive.

  It’s gratifying to see Alessia eat. Her cheeks are rosy, her eyes aglow, and I suspect that after two beers she’s a little tipsy.

  “Would you like anything else?” I ask.

  She shakes her head.

  “Let’s go.”

  It’s Jago who brings over our bill. I suspect Megan has refused or she’s on a break. I settle up and take Alessia’s hand as we leave the pub.

  “I just want to make a quick detour to the shop,” I say.

  “Okay.” Alessia’s lopsided smile makes me grin.

  The shops in Trevethick are owned by the estate and leased to the locals. They do good business from Easter right through to the New Year. The only one that’s actually useful is the general store. We’re miles from the nearest big town, and it carries a huge range of items. A dulcet bell rings as we enter.

  “If there’s anything you need, let me know,” I tell Alessia, who is looking at the magazine display, swaying slightly. I head to the counter.

  “Can I help you?” asks the sales assistant, a tall young woman I don’t recognize.

  “Do you stock night-lights? For kids?”

  She leaves the counter and searches the shelves in a nearby aisle. “These are the only night-lights we have.” She holds up a box with a small plastic dragon inside.

  “I’ll take one.”

  “It’ll need batteries,” the assistant informs me.

  “I’ll take batteries, too.”

  She takes the package and returns to the counter, where I spy condoms.

  Well, I might get lucky.

  I glance around at Alessia, who is leafing through one of the magazines.

  “I’ll have a packet of condoms, too.”

  The young woman blushes, and I’m glad I don’t know her.

  “Which w
ould you prefer?” she asks.

  “Those.” I point to my brand of choice. Hastily she puts the packet into a plastic bag with the night-light.

  Once I’ve paid, I join Alessia at the front of the shop, where she’s now checking out the small display of lipsticks.

  “Is there anything you want?” I ask.

  “No. Thank you.”

  Her refusal doesn’t surprise me. I’ve never seen her wear makeup.

  “Shall we go?”

  She takes my hand, and we walk back to the lane.

  “What is that place?” Alessia points at a distant chimney only partly visible as we walk up the lane toward the old mine. I know it, of course; it stands atop of the west wing of the great house that is Tresyllian Hall. My ancestral home.

  Bugger.

  “That place? It belongs to the Earl of Trevethick.”

  “Oh.” Her brow creases for a moment, and we continue on in silence while I wage an inner war with myself.

  Tell her you’re the fucking Earl of Trevethick.

  No.

  Why not?

  I will. Not yet.

  Why not?

  I want her to know me first.

  Know you?

  Spend time with me.

  “Can we go down to the beach again?” Alessia’s eyes are alight with excitement once more.

  “Of course.”

  * * *

  Alessia is entranced by the sea. She runs with the same uninhibited joy into the shallow surf. The Wellingtons keep her feet dry from the crashing waves.

  She is…effervescent.

  Mister Maxim has given her the sea.

  Overcome with giddy delight, she closes her eyes, stretches out her arms, and breathes in the chilly, salted air. She can’t remember ever feeling this…full. For the first time in a long time, she’s enjoying a small slice of happiness. She has a keen sense of connection to the cold, wild landscape that somehow reminds her of her homeland.

  She feels like she belongs.

  She is complete.

  Turning around, she regards Maxim as he stands on the shoreline with his hands deep in his coat pockets, watching her. The wind ripples his hair, the traces of gold glinting in the sun. His eyes are full of mirth and shine a burning emerald green.