The Italian Romance Read Online Free PDF Page A

secretly at me. I attempt to dissuade her with a narrowing of my eyes – she has it wrong.
    And the bell rings for the final time. My hands begin to shake, and I hope to God no one notices. ‘Excuse me,’ I say, ‘that will beFrancesca.’ Even the saying of her name surely gives me away. My breath is behind it, and the tug of my raised palate and at last the teeth coming together just before the release, the sigh.
    I hurry to the intercom. ‘Is that you, Francesca?’ I say briskly.
    â€˜I got lost,’ she says.
    â€˜Ask the portiere to show you the way.’
    I put my door on the latch. I can’t stand here waiting so I open the door to the roof terrace. It’s actually a bit cold. The bats have settled on the vine pergola; they particularly enjoy the passion-fruit, but they’re a bit early for that. One darts across the darkness to my neighbour’s roof garden as if she suddenly remembered something she forgot to do there.
    â€˜Cool evening,’ I say as I make myself turn to the room, for the truth is that I completely forgot about the rest of them. Perhaps they didn’t notice.
    â€˜We were just saying that.’ Dora’s voice is almost lost in the traffic sound, still so raucous even eight storeys up. ‘Spring is quite cool this year, don’t you think?’
    I find myself walking outside on to the terrace. A misplaced chair has beckoned me and I have picked it up before I realise I haven’t answered Dora. There’s not much I can do about it. I tuck the chair in under the garden table. I’ve forgotten about the bats, too. I don’t like them, as a rule, and I’d usually switch on the light, which scatters them.
    â€˜Yes,’ I say as I casually reappear in the doorway. ‘It’s unseasonal, all right. Did she knock?’
    And on cue, she does. ‘Ah, there she is,’ I say.
    I am hidden from them in the lobby. I lean against the door, almost collapse against it. I may cry; I am not sure because the tears are so deep down I don’t know what they are for.
    When I turn the handle, I am myself. ‘Hello, there,’ I say, bright.
    â€˜Not too late, I hope,’ she says, also fairly bright. Maybe she doesn’t get much brighter, how should I know?
    â€˜Well. This is my home.’ I stand back so she may view it. I pretend to us both that she is consumed with curiosity about my lifestyle, as they call it these days.
    I am so stupidly unworthy of her curiosity that the tears almost break through. Her anger towards me, her well-founded resentment, are so startlingly real compared to my little idiocies. How on earth am I going to continue with this performance tonight?
    She hands me her bag and red jacket and simply walks by me into the living room. ‘Hello, there,’ she says to them all.
    The three men rise to their feet. Poor Johnny nearly capsizes his chair.
    I see it then, but I don’t know if they do. They are each registering our resemblance. It’s as clear as day to me. Their senses sniff the answer. I don’t believe it has hit anyone’s cerebral cortex. I move away, breaking the genetic pattern we have set up in front of their eyes. ‘Do you all know Francesca? Johnny, you don’t. You weren’t at the do the other day. Johnny has lived in New York for many years. He thinks he’s a foreigner here himself.’
    Johnny begins his usual protest, delighted to be given the opportunity. As Francesca approaches the table, he bows. She offers her hand, he bends and touches his lips to her fingers. She seems to accept this old-world courtesy quite easily.
    â€˜And Vincenzo and Dora Rinaldi, whom you did meet, I believe, at the ambassador’s. Dora is from Adelaide originally.’
    Dora says, ‘Lovely to see you again, my dear. We were hoping we’d get the chance, weren’t we, Vince?’
    â€˜Absolutely,’ Vincenzo replies. He gestures her to