Espresso Tales - Alexander Hanchett Smith [46]
What did she have to love now? Pedro was no more, or, at At the Film Theatre
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the most, he was a few scraps of wool in the bottom of a drawer. He would have to be replaced; and Pedro . . . was Peter.
She reached out and turned off the taps. She was tired of being by herself. She did not want to have to go to the Film Theatre with the crowd; she wanted to go with somebody who would give all his attention to her, and her alone; who would take her out for dinner afterwards, or for a drink at the bar, and who would exchange confidences with her. And that, presumably, was the sort of thing that poor Domenica wanted for herself too. They were two lonely women wanting the same thing. And there was Bruce wanting it too, but going about the getting of it in quite the wrong way. Companionship. Tender friendship. Love. None of them had it at present, and time was leaking away, especially for Domenica.
29. At the Film Theatre
Matthew’s crowd, it transpired, consisted of five people, including Matthew himself. With Pat present, there were six of them, all sitting in a row in the half-empty film theatre. This Italian film was an obscure one, made by an obscure director and starring obscure actors, and although the programme notes referred to it as a key example of the Milanese Emptiness School, this distinction was not sufficient to draw the Edinburgh crowds. And to add to the general air of participation in an obscure event, the print was dark and scratchy, as if not enough light could penetrate it, or as if it had been made at dusk, on a cloudy day. The action took place in a small village between Milan and Parma, in the early 1950s. The village was closing, it seemed, through lack of support. The local priest, played by a man with a pronounced limp, had despaired of saving his congregation, which was now reduced to a few aged widows and a young girl who appeared to be developing stigmata. The stigmata which, if genuine, would have revived 94
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the village’s fortunes, turned out to be no more than a rash. All the village men were in Bologna, where they were on strike. The strike had no cause and had no apparent ending. There was nobody to negotiate with, as the bosses had gone to Rome and declined to return. There was a profound crisis. At the end of the film, the crowd had arisen from its seats and made its way through to the bar. Some people remained seated in the theatre, as if waiting for further explanation. Pat walked through with Matthew, and asked him what he thought of the film.
“Well,” he began, and then tailed off. He looked at her; she would have views perhaps; for his part, he had no idea what to say.
“Exactly,” whispered Pat. “And what did the crowd think?”
“The crowd’s not fussy,” said Matthew.
As they entered the bar, Pat looked at the individual members of the crowd. Matthew had introduced them to her before they had gone into the theatre, and now she recalled their names. Ed was the tall one in the black tee-shirt; Jim was the one with the earring; Philly was a blonde with rat’s-tail hair; and Rose had a curious pair of sixties-style glasses. Pat found herself staring at Rose, who caught her eye and smiled at her, hesitantly, Pat thought.
When they reached a table and sat down, Pat sat next to Rose, Ed on her other side. Matthew, who was several places away, looked inquiringly at Pat. He wanted her to move, thought Pat, but she would not: she was with the crowd, not with Matthew.
“You work for Matthew, don’t you?” asked Rose. Her voice was strange; rather high-pitched; not a confident voice.
“Yes,” said Pat. “I’m his assistant.”
Rose looked at her and said: “Lucky.”
“To work for Matthew? Lucky?”
“Yes,” said Rose. “I would love that.” She paused. It seemed to Pat as if she was preparing to ask something awkward, and indeed she was.
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“Do you go out with him a lot?” Rose asked. “Or are you just