The Italian Romance Read Online Free PDF Page B

silence behind me. ‘Sorry. Can’t seem to open this can of chickpeas.’
    â€˜Please,’ Johnny says. Though I am not watching him, I can just see the eager face, his awkward rise from the table.
    â€˜Jim,’ I say to the bushman. ‘Would you mind?’
    â€˜Sure.’ He joins me. I have a clove of garlic on the pan, sizzling quietly in olive oil. He takes the can opener from my hand. I don’t think he believes me.
    â€˜Just drain them and throw them in the pan.’
    â€˜Sure,’ he says again. He is over six foot, and ripe for a woman. I hadn’t noticed it before.
    I dry my hands on the tea towel. Dora is engaging her now. Francesca says the name of the small town where I lived many, many years ago. I haven’t heard it spoken in a long time.
    â€˜Isn’t that near where you’re from, Lil?’
    Dora has an inconvenient memory.
    â€˜Down that way, yes,’ I reply. ‘Just turf them into the pan, Jim, that’s the way. Give them a bit of a stir.’
    â€˜Oh,’ Dora says. I’ve railroaded her conversation.
    Vincenzo saves it. ‘And what are you doing in our beautiful city? I hear you are an academic. Are you to teach here?’
    â€˜No, I’m researching for my doctorate. I am here to meet Australian artists who live in Europe. Exile and so on. And different influences.’
    â€˜Ah, you are interviewing our famous writer! Lily, you are too modest as usual. You didn’t tell us.’
    â€˜No,’ Francesca says, firm as a knife. She cuts Vincenzo’s enthusiasm dead. ‘No, I don’t do writers. Visual artists.’
    I throw the steaming pot of pasta into the colander in the sink, and turn to face them as the water drains. Dora is gulping at her wine. She knows something is wrong. I suppose I’ll have to tell her. I might ring her tomorrow.
    Johnny, ever-valiant, wades in. ‘But you can take a diversion, a path off the main road. It might lead you down a rich mine. Or you could do an article, for a magazine.’
    I say, ‘I don’t think so, Johnny.’
    His brown eyes look up at me like a puppy’s. ‘Apart from anything else,’ I say, ‘I was interviewed for some newspaper out there only a few weeks ago. I’m sure you saw it, Francesca.’
    â€˜Yes,’ she says. She won’t take my gaze. ‘I did see it.’
    Well, that’s part of the puzzle solved.
    â€˜Va bene,’ Johnny says. He raises his hands in surrender.
    Jim says quietly to me, ‘What do you want me to do with this?’
    â€˜Oh!’ I have forgotten about him, stirring away at the chickpeas. ‘We sling all of this together in a bowl. And you see the coriander in the glass of water there by the window? Throw in a bit of that, too.’
    â€˜Lily, when you sit down, you must tell us about your new novel,’ Vincenzo says. ‘More wine, my dear?’ It is Francesca’s glass he hovers the bottle over.
    â€˜She doesn’t like to do that, Vin. Do you, Lil? You’d rather not talk about it,’ Dora says.
    â€˜Ah, a little hint, that’s all we want. We do not want your secrets,’ Vincenzo says.
    Jim places the pasta bowl on the breadboard I had earlier put on the table for that purpose. I didn’t even have to tell him. I carry over the salad.
    â€˜Now, sit and relax,’ Vincenzo orders. ‘We will help ourselves. Tell us what it is about, this new masterpiece.’
    â€˜Oh.’ I am truly sighing. I decide it is probably better to speak than not to speak. I gesture with my hand toward the food. Jim pulls out his chair as if to sit, but says to Francesca, ‘May I help you?’ He takes up strings of pasta between two serving spoons, all I have for the purpose these days, and she drives her plate across the table to meet it.
    I catch Vincenzo’s eye. He eagerly awaits my next word, or so he would have me believe. ‘Well,