The Mirror's Tale. Christine Hummel
of boldness by miles.
I pushed open the heavy glass door to the famous cafe after taking a deep breath and purposefully strode into the warmly lit interior where many of the local well-heeled business people were treating themselves to Earl Grey or Cappuccino, whichever suited their image. Many were creating work for the vacuum cleaner as they sprinkled crumbs from their crispy croissants or slices of hot-buttered toast, in fallout circles around the small tables. There was little conversation and the general hum of noise was created by the constant rustle of newspapers combined with the coffee machine’s friendly roar as it stoked up to churn out yet another Cappuccino. Was he there? I tried to weigh up all the customers simultaneously without being too obvious about it. I felt a slight flutter of panic on the first scan, as I didn’t see him. It would be so disappointing.
Then I saw him lower his newspaper and look directly at me. Inwardly, I gulped. Outwardly, I blazed a flashing smile at him and approached his table as if we had arranged the meeting. He looked terribly stunned, pulled himself visibly together, and asked with a definite continental splutter ‘ Would you like to join me?’ and then cleared his throat. Several expressions on his face were fighting for supremacy, and amongst them I detected alarm.
I sat down next to him covering my own nervousness by busying myself with removing the large silk scarf, and arranging it carefully over my handbag. The waitress came to my rescue as she skillfully wangled her substantial backside between the small round tables. ‘What can I bring you?’ she asked giving the table a perfunctory wipe though it appeared to be spotless anyway. ‘Er, I think I’ll have a Cappuccino, today’ I said, acting like a regular, which I wasn’t. She hurried away leaving me alone with him and I nervously retrieved my handbag from under the scarf and took out my cigarettes. (In those days one was still allowed to smoke in restaurants and cafes). I had intended not to do this, as I knew smoking divided people along tribal lines and could cause the whole operation to flounder before it had even begun. But I was too nervous to resist and anyway, if this was to go anywhere he would have to know I was a sinner sooner or later. I asked him if it would bother him and he rather too quickly replied, ‘No, no, you go ahead. I smoke myself sometimes, but not this early in the day’.
There was a prolonged pause as both of us tossed various possibilities of continued conversation through our minds before I banaly said, regretting it even whilst I said it, ‘I really like this café. I don’t often have the time to come in here in the mornings. I always have a train to catch.’
‘Yes’, he said in a kindly manner, ‘you always look like you are in a terrible hurry. Where do you go to?’ I named the area where my school was, and added that I taught art at a school there. He looked relieved to have a diversion to talk about.
‘Ah, Art. That is a wonderful subject for a woman to teach,’
This struck me as awfully old-fashioned and sexist, but I put it down to his Italian origins and forgave him for it. Well, almost.
Then, as an afterthought he added, ‘That accounts for your elegance and style. Not many English women have this ability.’ My ego expanded so quickly I almost forgot to breathe. He had noticed! What to say? What to say? I was not so un-British as to be able to take a compliment and accept it gracefully.
‘Oh, normally I look like I’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards’, I muttered in embarrassment, ‘But today, because I have a holiday, I had more time…’ My words trailed off as I ran out of energy. ‘But I see you most mornings, and you always look wonderful’, he responded.
‘No doubt about it, this man is Italian through-and-through’, my sensible bit warned, ‘This is nothing. Dismiss it. He would say this to any woman.’ But Little Miss Teenager in me was not about to have such a feast of ego food stolen from her. This was all going even better than I had dared to hope… but where to? ‘Nice of you to say so, but my job means I can’t dress as I’d like most of the time. I always get covered in charcoal and paint and acrylic paint is a bugger to get off’, I added, rather daringly. He chuckled, recognising my courage but reassuring me that he didn’t mind. Some men could be so puritanical about women, I thought, and he had already struck me as old-fashioned, with his gallantry and sexism.
At this point the waitress turned up with my drink and I paid her then, not wanting to be trapped waiting for the bill if things got tricky.
‘What do you do?’ I asked him being even bolder and seizing the initiative. ‘I am also a teacher, I teach Italian at the University here. You must have noticed that I am not English.’
My turn to chuckle.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘Though you have a very soft accent.’ I decided it was expedient not to mention the Italian attitude to women, or the Italian newspapers I had spied him with.
‘How many years have you been in this country?’
He took a while to respond and then looking inward, he said ‘Oh, just a few, not many’.
Suddenly his face looked guarded, and I thought maybe he had suffered some kind of emotional trauma connected with this. Probably he had been married too, maybe still was. I decided not to go down that road for the time being.
I became aware that the tranquillizer was wearing off. ‘Time for Cinderella to leave the ball before she turns into a pumpkin’, I thought, jollying myself along on the momentum I had built up, but aware of the buried nervousness burrowing its way upwards. I did the obvious and looked at my watch though I didn’t actually register what time it said, as it wasn’t of any real importance to me for once.
‘I must be going’, I said nonchalantly ‘I’ve got lots to do’, I added as a justification, and began collecting my things together and replacing my scarf. I was a bit worried that nothing was going to come of this after all when he, obviously feeling the same, said ‘Can we do this again sometime, or is that impossible whilst you are working’.
‘It would be difficult for me… I wouldn’t have much time...’
‘Would you be able to meet for a drink or dinner in the evening then…?’ I was feeling a bit flustered. Now it was happening I felt very on edge and wanted to get out of there.
‘I expect I could… Though I don’t generally go out that much in the week.’ I said, at the same time realizing this sounded like the stuffy middle-aged woman I had been trying to eradicate, and to save the situation quickly added,
‘But yes. It would be nice. I’ll give you my phone number.’
He ignored this last remark and said in a soft voice.
‘How about Friday?’
Completely taken aback, and not knowing how else to respond I said ‘O.K. Right.’ Then added ‘Do you mean this Friday?’ somewhat incredulously.
‘Yes, I think we should make it soon. I’ll come and pick you up… if you give me your address’, he quickly added.
I told him my address. Significantly, he didn’t seem to need to write it down.
‘Oh, and what’s your name?’ He called after me.
‘Angela’, I muttered reluctantly as I fled for the door.
* * * * *
Later, when I had pulled myself more-or-less together I tried to work out what was going on. I was not sure what had happened to my plan, and how I had suddenly lost control of the situation. Neither was I at all sure whether I was pleased or not with the outcome. Things were certainly moving faster than I had anticipated and now he was coming to my place on Friday evening to pick me up and take me out to dinner. Help! A complete stranger. – What’s more I was still perturbed by the fact that, although he had asked me for my address, I was pretty damn sure that he knew where I lived.
I also realised that all I knew was that his first name was Enzo, that much he had told me, and that he worked at the University. Paranoid as I tended to be, I wasn’t sure I trusted this information. What’s more, there was no way I could contact