Evening Class (54 page)

She walked up and down the streets around Termini. Small hotels, cheap accommodation suitable for the people who got off trains at the huge station. But no jolly restaurant like the one she had planned. Biting her lip she went towards a place with the name Catania. It must be Sicilian. Was this a good omen? Could she throw herself on their mercy and explain that in an hour and a half, forty-two Irish people were expecting a huge inexpensive meal? She could but try.

‘
Buona sera
,’ she said.

The square young man with dark hair looked up. ‘
Signora
?’ he said. Then he looked at her again in disbelief. ‘
Signora
?’ he said again, his face working. ‘
Non e possibile, Signora
,’ he said coming towards her with hands stretched out. It was Alfredo, the eldest son of Mario and Gabriella. She had walked into his restaurant by accident. He kissed her on both cheeks. ‘
E un miracolo
,’ he said, and pulled out a chair.

Signora sat down. She felt a great dizziness come over her; she gripped the table in case she fell.

‘
Stock Ottanto Quattro
,’ he said and poured her a great glass of the strong sweet Italian brandy.

‘
No grazie
…’ she held it to her mouth, and she sipped. ‘Is this your restaurant, Alfredo?’ she asked.

‘No, no, Signora, I work here, I work here to make money…’

‘But your own hotel. Your mother’s hotel. Why do you not work there?’

‘My mother is dead, Signora. She died six months ago. Her brothers, my uncles, they try to interfere, to make decisions… they know nothing. There is nothing for us to do. Enrico is there, but he is still a child, my brother in America will not come home. I came here to Rome to learn more.’

‘Your mother dead? Poor Gabriella. What happened to her?’

‘It was cancer, very, very quick. She went to the doctor only a month after my father was killed.’

‘I am so sorry,’ Signora said. ‘I can’t tell you how sorry I am.’ And suddenly it was all too much for her. Gabriella to die now instead of years ago, the hot brandy in her throat, no place for dinner tonight, Mario in his grave near Annunziata. She cried and cried while Mario’s son stroked her head.

In her bedroom Connie lay on her bed, each foot wrapped in a face cloth wrung through in cold water. Why had she not brought some foot balm with her, or those soft leather walking shoes that were like gloves? She had not wanted to unpack a spongebag full of luxury cosmetics in front of the unworldly Signora, that was probably it. But who would have known that her soft shoes had cost what none of her companions would have been able to earn in three weeks? She should have taken them, she was paying the penalty now. Tomorrow she might slip away to the Via Veneto and buy herself some beautiful Italian shoes as a treat. Nobody would notice, and if they did what the hell? These weren’t people obsessed by wealth and differences in standards of living. Not everyone thought about the whole business of wealth. They weren’t all like Harry Kane.

How strange to be able to think about him without emotion. He would be out of gaol by the end of the year. She had heard from old Mr Murphy that he intended to go to England. Some friends would look after him. Would Siobhan Casey go with him? she had enquired, almost as you ask after strangers who have no meaning to you, or characters in a television series. Oh no, hadn’t she heard, there had been a definite cooling of relationships there. He had refused to see Miss Casey when she went to visit him in prison. He blamed her for everything that had happened, apparently.

It had given Connie Kane no huge pleasure to hear this. In a way it might have been easier to think of him in a new life with a woman he had been involved with for ever. She wondered had they ever come here together, the two of them, Siobhan and Harry. And had they felt touched by this beautiful city, the way everyone did whether or not they were in love? It was something she would never know now, and it was of no importance really.

She heard a gentle knock at the door. Signora must be back already. But no, it was the small bustling Signora Buona Sera. ‘A letter for you,’ she said. And she handed her an envelope.

It was written on a plain postcard. It said: ‘You could easily die in the Roman traffic and you would not be missed.’

The leaders were counting heads to go to dinner. Everyone was present and correct except for three, Connie and Laddy and Signora. They assumed Connie and Signora were together and they would be there any moment.

But where was Laddy? Aidan had not been in the room they shared, he had been busy getting his notes together for the tour the next day to the Forum and the Colosseum. Perhaps Laddy had fallen asleep. Aidan ran lightly up the stairs but he was not to be found.

At that moment Signora arrived, pale-faced and with the news that the venue had been changed but the price was the same. She had managed to secure a booking at the Catania. She looked stressed and worried. Aidan didn’t want to tell her about the disappearances. At that moment Connie arrived down the stairs, full of apologies. She too looked pale and worried. Aidan wondered was it all too much for these women, the heat, the noise, the excitement. But then he realised he was being fanciful. It was his job to find Laddy. He would take the address of the restaurant and join them later. Signora gave him a card; her hand was shaking.

‘All right, Nora?’

‘Fine, Aidan,’ she lied to him.

They were gone chattering down the street, and Aidan began the hunt for Laddy. Signor Buona Sera knew Signer Lorenzo, he had offered to clean windows with him. A very nice gentleman, he worked in a hotel in Irlanda too. He had been pleased to hear that there was a visitor for him.

‘A visitor?’

‘Well, somebody had come and left a letter for one of the Irish party. His wife had mentioned it. Signor Lorenzo had said this must be the message he was waiting for and he was very happy.’

‘But was it for him?
Did
he get a message?’

‘No, Signor Dunne, my wife she told him she had given the letter to one of the ladies but Signor Laddy said it was a mistake, it was for him. There was no problem, he said, he knew the address, he would go there.’

‘God Almighty,’ Aidan Dunne said. ‘I left him for twenty bloody minutes to do my notes and he thinks that bloody family have sent for him. Oh Laddy, I’ll swing for you yet, I really will.’

First he had to go to the restaurant where they were all sitting down and then standing up again to take pictures of the banner saying
Benvenuto agli Irlandesi
.

‘I need the Garaldis’ address,’ he hissed to Signora.

‘No. He’s never gone there?’

‘So it would appear.’

Signora looked up at him anxiously. ‘I’d better go.’

‘No, let me. You stay here and look after the dinner.’

‘I’ll go, Aidan. I can speak the language, I’ve written to them.’

‘Let’s both go,’ he suggested.

‘Who will we put in charge? Constanza?’

‘No, there’s something upsetting her. Let’s see. Francesca and Luigi between them.’

The word was out. Signora and Mr Dunne had gone to hunt for Lorenzo and two new people were in command, Francesca and Luigi.

‘Why those?’ someone muttered.

‘Because we were the nearest,’ Fran said, a peacemaker.

‘And the best,’ said Luigi, a man who liked to win.

They got a taxi and they arrived at the house. ‘It’s even smarter than I thought,’ Signora whispered.

‘He never got into a place like this.’ Aidan looked amazed at the big marble entrance hall and the courtyard beyond.

‘
Vorrei parlare con la famiglia Garaldi
.’ Signora spoke with a confidence she didn’t feel to the splendid-looking uniformed commissionaire. He asked her name and business and Aidan marvelled as she told him and stressed the importance of it. The man in the grey and scarlet went to a phone and spoke into it urgently. It seemed to take for ever.

‘I hope they’re managing back in the restaurant,’ Signora said.

‘Of course they are. Weren’t you great to find a place so quickly? They seem very welcoming.’

‘Yes, it was extraordinary.’ She seemed miles away.

‘But everyone’s been so nice everywhere, it’s not really extraordinary,’ Aidan said.

‘No. The waiter, I knew his father. Can you believe that?’

‘Was that in Sicily?’

‘Yes.’

‘And did you know him?’

‘From the day he was born… I saw him going to the church to be baptised.’

The commissionaire returned. ‘Signor Garaldi says he is very confused, he wants to speak to you personally.’

‘We must go in, I can’t explain things on the telephone,’ Signora said. Aidan understood and marvelled at her courage. He felt a little confused by this rediscovering of a Sicilian past.

Soon they were walking through a courtyard and up another wide staircase to a fountain and some large doors. These were seriously wealthy people. Had Laddy really penetrated in here?

There were shown into an entrance hall where a small angry man in a brocade jacket seemed to hurtle out of a room and demand an explanation. Behind him came his wife trying to placate him and inside, wretched and totally at a loss, was poor Laddy sitting on a piano stool.

His face lit up when he saw them. ‘Signora,’ he called. ‘Mr Dunne. Now you can tell them everything. You’ll never believe it but I lost all my Italian. I could only tell them the days and the seasons and order the dish of the day. It’s been terrible.’

‘
Sta calma, Lorenzo
,’ Signora said.

‘They want to know am I O’Donoghue, they keep writing it down for me.’ He had never looked so anxious and disturbed.

‘Please Laddy, I am O’Donoghue, that’s my name, that’s why they thought it was you. That was what I put on my letter.’

‘You’re not O’Donoghue,’ Laddy cried. ‘You’re Signora.’

Aidan put his arm around Laddy’s shaking shoulders and let Signora begin. The explanation, and he could understand most of it, was clear and unflustered. She told of the man who had found their money in Ireland a year ago, a man who had worked hard as a hotel porter and had believed their kind words of gratitude to be an invitation to come to Italy. She described the efforts he had made to learn Italian. She introduced herself and Aidan as people who ran an evening class and how worried they had been that due to some misunderstanding their friend Lorenzo had believed there was a message for him to call. They would all go now, but perhaps out of the kindness of his heart Signor Garaldi and his family might make some affectionate gesture to show they remembered his kindness, and indeed spectacular honesty, in returning a wad of notes to them, money that many a man in many a city including Dublin might not have felt obliged to return.

Aidan stood there, feeling Laddy’s shaking shoulder and wondering about the strange turnings life took. Suppose he had become Principal of Mountainview? That’s what he had wanted so much, not long ago. Now he realised how much he would have hated it, how far better a choice was Tony O’Brien, a man, not evil incarnate as he had once believed, but a genuine achiever, heartbroken in his battle against nicotine and shortly to become Aidan’s son-in-law. Aidan would never have notes for a lecture in the Forum stuck in his pocket, he would never be standing here in this sumptuous Roman townhouse reassuring a nervous hotel porter and looking with pride and admiration at this strange woman who had taken up so much of his life. She had brought clarity and understanding to the face that had so recently been creased with anger and confusion.

‘Lorenzo,’ Signor Garaldi said, and approached Laddy who sat terrified at his approach. ‘
Lorenzo, mio amico
.’ He kissed him on both cheeks.

Laddy didn’t harbour a grudge long. ‘Signor Garaldi,’ he said and grabbed him by the shoulders. ‘
Mio amico
.’

There were quickfire explanations and the rest of the family realised what had happened. Wine was brought, and little Italian biscuits.

Laddy was beaming from ear to ear now. ‘
Giovedi
,’ he kept saying happily.

‘Why does he say that?’ Signor Garaldi was raising his glass and toasting next Thursday, as well but he wanted to know why.

‘I told him that we would be in touch with you then, I wanted to prevent him from coming here on his own. I put that in my letter, that we might call by the house for ten minutes on Thursday. Did you not get it?’

The little man looked ashamed. ‘I have to tell you I get so many begging letters I thought it was something like that, if he came some money would have been given. You have to forgive me but I didn’t read it properly. Now I am so ashamed.’

‘No please, but do you think he could come on Thursday? He is so eager, and maybe I could take his photograph with you and he could show it to people afterwards.’

Signor Garaldi and his wife exchanged glances. ‘Why don’t you all come here on Thursday, for a drink and a celebration?’

‘There are forty-two of us,’ Signora said.

‘These houses were built for gatherings like that,’ he said with a little bow.

A car was called and they were soon crossing Rome to the Catania, in a street where a car like the Garaldis’ had hardly ever driven before. Signora and Aidan looked at each other, as proud as parents who had rescued a child from an awkward situation.

‘I wish my sister could see me now,’ Laddy said suddenly.

‘Would she have been pleased?’ Signora was gentle.

‘Well, she knew it would happen. We went to a fortune teller, you see, and she said she would be married and have a child, and die young, and that I would be great at sport and I would travel across the sea. So it wouldn’t have been a surprise or anything, but it’s a pity she didn’t live to see it.’

‘It is indeed, but maybe she sees now.’ Aidan wanted to be reassuring.

‘I’m not at all sure that there are people in heaven, you know, Mr Dunne,’ said Laddy as they purred through Rome in the chauffeur-driven car.

‘Aren’t you, Laddy? I’m getting more sure of it every day,’ said Aidan.

At the Catania everyone was singing ‘Low Lie the Fields of Athenry’. The waiters stood in an admiring group and clapped mightily when it was over. Any other guests brave enough to dine in the Catania that night had been absorbed into the group, and as the threesome came in there was a huge shout of welcome. Alfredo ran to get the soup.