Calypso of the Appenine Way

Here is the conclusion to the first chapter of my novel.....

The whole conversation with its inevitable lack of transparency was beginning to bore me and I finished up my beer and ordered another one. Mario did the same, this time ordering beer. Eva was less than half way through her orange juice and Sharokh seemed to be deliberately going slow with his small beer.

“What’s the matter with you, Sharokh?” I enquired. “Do you intend to make that small beer last all night?” I understood that the Iranian would be driving Eva home and that he had a responsibility to not drink too much, but this in no way stopped me from taking a little fun; pot shots, at his expense.

“It is the car, John”. Sharokh replied in a matter-of-fact tone. “As you know, it’s only six months since I passed my test and I don’t want to drink too much as it could lead to a preventable accident. “Would you forgive me if we were in an accident and Eva was to be injured?” I looked at Sharokh’s face closely, but could detect no hint of irony on it.

“No, of course not”, I replied seriously. “You are certainly doing the right thing in not drinking too much. “On the other hand, I am unsure as to why you decided to get a house so far away from the centre of Parma. Wouldn’t it have been better to be more central?” At this point, Eva joined in the conversation.

“That question is easily answered, John. We took the apartment in Felino because it was far cheaper than anything we could find in Parma of a similar size and quality.” Of course, I was well aware that this had been the reason for their choice; but I was still in the mood to turn the knife in the wound a little.

“But surely, when you take into consideration the amount you pay for the car and petrol, it would have been cheaper to live in the centre.” Again, I knew that what I was saying was nonsense, but it was amusing to see Sharokh twisting around to explain his present impecuniousness. In the Shah’s Iran, his family had been related to the Royal Family and all of them would have been killed by the revolutionaries if not for their contacts who’d been able to convey them secretly out of the country: Sharokh and his brother to Perugia in Italy and his parents to the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. In Perugia, Sharokh had met Eva who had convinced him to come to Parma with her. Sharokh’s brother remained in Perugia as night watchman in a small hotel.

All this while, Sharokh had been staring at me in some irritation. “Surely, you know better than that, John. You are a driver yourself and you know that while the petrol is expensive, housing is a lot more costly. In Felino, I’d say we have everything we wish. It is a beautiful small village and the people are friendly too. We have already made friends with several couples who live nearby.”

Now it was my turn to get angry. “Oh yes, and who might they be? I must say Sharokh that it seems to me that you are making this drive to Parma on a very regular basis. Felino is an extremely backward place and the people are suspicious of strangers rather than friendly. As for these great ‘friends’ you have made, I’d be glad to know exactly who they are.” At this point, Eva made a hurried interjection.

“Sharokh is exaggerating. There is an Italian couple living in an apartment close to ours who we sometimes meet on Sunday afternoons for a drink and a game of cards in the local bar. There is really nothing to it.” At this point Sharokh interrupted Eva with a tightly constricted voice.

“Is it not true that we have been their guests for lunch and dinner on several occasions? Isn’t it also true that they’ll be coming over to eat with us tomorrow night? Certainly, I have come to regard them as friends and I think that you have too.” I was listening with attention and curiosity as Eva made her reply.

“Sharokh, they are acquaintances. Are we so desperate for friends and general acceptance here that as soon as we see someone a couple of times they are regarded as dear soul mates? Don’t be ridiculous. Of course, we don’t want to spend all our time only with each other: that would be merely boring. However, try to keep things in perspective instead of forever spreading stories about new friends!”

I felt that Eva’s answer pretty much covered all the bases--and I was confirmed in this idea as I watched Sharokh sink into a lugubrious silence, a look of utter hopelessness etched on his features. At this point Mario seemed to wake up from his personal preoccupations and began to speak with Sharokh whom he had always viewed favourably due to the perception that they had both been ill-treated by fate in the same way. Of course, I was aware that the two really shared little in common. Sharokh had nobody but Eva to support him in Italy and the daily job he did in the factory was absolutely essential to his health and well-being. On the other hand, Mario, although his father had frightened him by making him work in a factory for a spell, was the favoured son of a rich engineer who would always make sure he was taken care of. Sharokh was also aware of these discrepancies, but as long as Mario was too naive--or perhaps just too young--to see them, he was happy to play the part of senior big brother on the factory floor who always had a younger colleague’s interests at heart.

“Sharokh, how much was your car?” asked Mario. “I am thinking of buying a second hand Fiat from one of my friends, but I’m not sure how much I should pay.”

“Our car was obtained at a special price through the help of a friend in Perugia”, answered Sharokh. “Tell me Mario, how old is the car you are thinking about buying?” Mario shook his head vaguely.

“I’m not exactly sure, but I’d say it’s probably at least ten years old. It could be more.”

Sharokh looked business-like. “In that case, don’t pay more than three or four million lire. How much is your friend asking?”

“He wants seven million lire”, Mario replied.

“Don’t pay it!” responded Sharokh decisively. “You will undoubtedly have engine problems with a car so old and very likely difficulties in obtaining parts as well. You will be tearing your hair out in a month if you pay such a price--and I can guarantee that you will no longer view this person who is selling you the car, as a friend anymore. Actually, I would advise you not to buy the car at all as it’s at least ten years old. I would advise you, rather, to look carefully for a car that is no more than five years old. You should be able to obtain such a car for no more than five or six million lire. I don’t think your friend is really doing you any favours by offering you his car at such a price.”

Eva and myself kept quiet during this discussion, not having the slightest interest in Mario’s intention to buy himself a second hand car. Personally, I was aware that the price was not of great importance as Mario’s father would pay as long as he was convinced of the necessity for his son to own a car.

“Thanks so much for your help, Sharokh”, responded Mario gratefully. I am sure that I would have foolishly bought that car at my friend’s asking price if not for having had this eye-opening little talk with you.” Sharokh laughed.

“My friend, please don’t think about it at all. Are we not brothers of the factory floor? What would comradely relations be coming to if one factory worker was not able to help another?” At these words Mario laughed and nodded.

“Yes, I still feel myself to be a factory worker. Most of my friends still work there and I have little in common with the people I am now mixing with in the Liceo. Once a worker, always a worker.”

I was fully aware how fatuous these words of Mario’s were--and so was Sharokh. However, we both felt a need to keep silent now. Confronting Mario with the obvious would do neither myself nor Sharokh any good. At this point, Sharokh asked me a loaded question.

“John, how is Eleonora these days? We haven’t seen her for so long. Is she still studying Law at the university during the day and then working in that office by night?” I took a quick glance at Eva’s pallid face before answering.

“Yes, she is fine and continues to study and work. In fact she should be finishing at the office in a few minutes.” Sharokh nodded enthusiastically.

“Why, isn’t the office just around the corner from here? Why don’t you go and get her and bring her here? It would be nice to chat with her after so long.” Eva looked uneasily from Sharokh to myself.

“Probably she is tired and hungry”, the German girl commenced. “We should allow her to eat and sleep.” Sharokh laughed.

“Well, she can eat here--sleep as well if she likes! Do go and get her John. I’d really like to see her.”
I glanced at Eva’s face and saw that it was hard and white. Sharokh was looking at me triumphantly, while Mario had a whimsical look on his face. To tell the truth, I actually wished to see her myself, so I slowly nodded my head.

“Yes indeed, why not. Order another round of drinks and wait for me here. I should be back in about ten or fifteen minutes.” I rose from my seat, thanked Paolo and walked to the door. Through the window I could see that it was now snowing harder than ever.

Dove vai?, enquired Paolo as I pushed open the door and made ready to plunge into the storm tossed night.
Vado per prendere Eleonora I explained to the old Sicilian, who in response gave me a knowing smile. Ah...la bionda?

Si, I responded, suddenly tight and angry inside. Proprio la bionda. A presto. I left the comfort of the birreria and hurried back in the direction from which we had come.

As I walked quickly ahead, I could easily see that the street was now completely covered with a fresh coating of undisturbed snow. What on earth could I say to Eleonora to get her along to the birreria on a terrible night like this? Perhaps the mere knowledge of Eva’s presence there would act as a kind of challenge and make her come. However, I suddenly realised that there were no guarantees. It would be perfectly possible that she would refuse the outing and return to her warm apartment. I glanced at my watch: just coming up to ten. That meant I still had a few minutes. By the time Eleonora had checked everything and was ready to leave the office, the time had usually ticked around to at least five past ten.

At the end of the road, just past the cinema showing the movie about ‘The Doors’, I turned sharply to the left into one of the main thoroughfares of the town: Via Mazzini. Now I was once again protected by the great porticoes. Few people were to be seen traversing the great street--and the few that could be discerned were mostly hurrying along with their heads inclined and their eyes fixed upon their feet. I could find no obvious explanation for their behaviour except to think that perhaps they were minutely examining their shoes for storm damage that might show up in the light of day. Italians, as everybody knew, were neurotic about their shoes.
After about five minutes I ducked into the little boxed-in enclave where the entrance to Eleonora’s office lay and pressed the buzzer. After a wait of about ten seconds a familiar voice came on the intercom.

Si? Chi e’?

Sono Io. Apri la porta.

The door in front of me gave a sudden jerk and opened heavily. I pushed it forward and all the lights along the winding stairway suddenly lit up. For a moment I stood in the vestibule, a sudden feeling of stark fear unmanning me. Finally, however, I began the steep climb up to the first floor where Eleonora’s office lay. I knew that she would, in all likelihood be alone there, as most of the bosses left around nine-thirty, leaving the competent (if crazy) Eleonora to close up.

I wondered why I felt so nervous. When was the last time I’d seen Eleonora? I made a quick calculation and realised that it had already been more than a week. In a certain sense, a little bit of Eleonora went a long way. Nevertheless, most of my waking hours were filled with dreaming about her--and my dreams themselves were simply Eleonora’s: they belonged to her! She knew very well about the complete infatuation she created in men--and she fostered that craving. It might even be said that while her men lived off their infatuation for the beautiful red-haired girl, Eleonora herself got off on being the sole object of their infatuation. Nothing was more likely to end a relationship with Eleonora than the knowledge that a man who was with her was taking an inappropriate interest in another woman. She was Ulysses’s Calypso entrapping a man in her personal space and after that, never permitting him to leave again. Like Ulysses, her man might spend each day weeping on the shore, but the evening belonged to her--and her Queenly charms could never be resisted.

During the time it had taken for these thoughts to formulate in my mind, I’d reached the landing of the first floor and, glancing to the left where I knew the office to lie, I saw the familiar glass door with the painted message on it: Fernando Bertinotti, MD. Through the door, I could see Eleonora sat alone, behind her computer, at the secretarial desk. She was looking towards me and smiled as the temptress Circe might have smiled at Ulysses’s men before inviting them into her castle to become pigs.

I took a deep breath and walked in.