Espresso Tales Read Online Free PDF Page A

there very much? I rather like it.”
    Pat explained that she usually frequented Big Lou’s coffee house slightly further down the hill. It being a Saturday afternoon, Big Lou’s, of course, was closed. And on a Saturday afternoon in the Festival it was very closed, as Big Lou did not approve, in general, of Festival visitors: “Gey pretentious,” Pat had heard her muttering.
    â€œOne must stick to what one knows,” observed Domenica. “I shall try Big Lou’s one day, but this is highly convenient for me and they have a very good range of olive oils. And as for their staff–well, you’ll see what I mean.”
    They found a table at the back–the café was very crowded–and Domenica glanced round at the other customers. A woman at a nearby table inclined her head slightly, and the man she was with nodded curtly in her direction.
    â€œThat couple over there,” whispered Domenica, returning the greeting. “They’re very friendly with that awful woman downstairs, Bertie’s mother. I think that they go to the floatarium together, or at least
she
does. I bumped into her on the stair one day and then I overheard their conversation while I was looking for my key–you know how sound travels on that stair. It was exactly what you would expect. Exactly. All about some plan to start an orchestra for five-year-olds. To be called the Edinburgh Junior Symphony. Can you believe it?
    â€œAnd then, curiously enough, I met him when the two of them went to a talk at Ottakar’s Bookshop. Willy Dalrymple had just written a new book about India and was talking about it. It was wonderful stuff, and he told a marvellously funny story about a misunderstanding he had had with an official somewhere in India or Pakistan about the pronunciation of the name of that English cricketer, Mr Botham. The official pronounced this ‘bottom’, and this led to difficulties. Terribly funny.”
    Domenica stopped, and for a moment there was a silence. Then she leaned forward and whispered to Pat, “I mentioned the staff here. Look at them. Look at this young man who’s coming to serve us. Look at him. Doesn’t he look like Rupert Brooke? They’re all so tall–so willowy. But shh! Here he is.”
    Pat felt embarrassed–the young man might so easily have heard what Domenica was saying; not, Pat thought, that Domenica would care too much about that. But she–Pat–did.
    The waiter leaned forward to take their order, and Domenica smiled up at him.
    â€œWe’re probably going to be really rather unadventurous and just order a couple of coffees,” she said. “Although some of those quiches over there look very tempting. Do you make them yourselves?”
    The young man smiled. He glanced at Pat. “I don’t. I just work here part-time. Someone else makes them in the kitchen back there.”
    â€œYou’re a student?” asked Domenica brightly. “No, let me guess! You’re a student of…No, you defeat me! You’re going to have to help me. What are you a student of?”
    The young man laughed. “English,” he said.
    â€œI see,” said Domenica. “I should have guessed that. You see, I thought that you bore an uncanny resemblance to Rupert Brooke, the poet. I don’t suppose anybody studies him any more. Too light. You’ve heard of him, of course?”
    â€œYes,” said the young man. “I’ve heard of him. I’ve not read him, though.”
    â€œWell, let me lend you one of his books,” said Domenica quickly. “Come round and have dinner with us some time and I’ll give you one. We live just round the corner–Scotland Street. You know it?”
    For a moment the young man hesitated. He looked quickly at Pat, who lowered her eyes, and blushed.
    â€œYes, I know it. I live in Cumberland Street, you see.”
    â€œPerfect!” said Domenica.