Spider - Michael Morley [18]
And even though he’d promised himself he would go back and see the sessions out, right now he was going to banish all those awful home truths with a good dose of trusty Russian vodka.
The first drink didn’t touch the sides.
He ran his finger along the inside of the glass and licked tomato juice off it. Minutes later he took the second to the bed, where he flopped down, kicked off his shoes and called Portinari to find out where she was and decide whether to hold off eating or not. Her phone tripped to a recorded message in Italian which he guessed meant he should leave his name and number. After sinking the second vodka and tomato juice he flicked on CNN and decided to kill time by checking out Nancy’s new book. It contained both the original Italian, on the left side of the page, and a translation on the right. He ploughed past the blurb on Dante, stuff describing him as the founder of the Italian language for the common people, a brief story about his exile from a house not far from Jack’s hotel, and some remarks about the two writers who’d carried out the translation. Eventually he got to the first Canto and read it out loud in an atrocious Italian accent: ‘Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita, mi ritrovai per una selva oscura, ché la diritta via era smarrita.’ Jack couldn’t understand a word of it, but that didn’t stop him enjoying every syllable as the melody of the words swirled as richly around his mouth as a fine Italian brandy. He glanced over to the translation and found it had a personal resonance: ‘Midway upon the journey of our life, I found myself within a forest dark, for the straightforward pathway had been lost.’ Right now, he sure felt that way. He wondered just how his life in the FBI’s elite psychological profiling unit had so quickly changed into a life in Italy helping run a small hotel. Was he here by choice, or because he had been unable to face up to the darkness that had overwhelmed him back in the US?
Another drink chased off his melancholia and the alcohol and the warmth of the room soon lured him into an unplanned doze. He dreamt something nice for once. He was somewhere with Nancy, far off on an undulating Tuscan hillside, the sun shining as brightly as it always did. Zack was running in front of them with a birthday balloon tied to his wrist. As Jack’s eyes fixed on the balloon it exploded, with a bang so loud it made his blood race. He sat upright in bed and realized the noise was someone knocking on his door. He checked his watch and saw he’d been asleep for nearly three hours. ‘Just a minute. Hang on!’ he shouted, rubbing his eyes and giving himself a once-over in a wardrobe mirror, as he walked to the door. Instinctively, he slid back the spy hole cover and checked out the caller. Through his squinted view, he guessed someone from the front desk had a message for him. ‘Signore King?’ asked a dark-haired girl as he opened up. Sure enough, she was carrying an official-looking document case.
‘Hi there,’ he said sleepily, patting his pocket. ‘Hold on one minute, I’ll get a pen.’ He left her hanging, the spring-loaded door virtually banging shut in her face, while he searched for a pen and a few loose euros for a tip.
‘Sorry,’ said Jack, opening up again, the coins clinking in his palm.
The girl seemed bewildered. He took a closer look at her. She reminded him of an Italian Keira Knight-ley, only larger and with maybe a little more muscle than the featherweight film star. ‘You have something for me?’ he said, nodding towards the case. ‘Do I need to sign first?’
‘Signore, I don’t want you to sign anything,’ she announced, holding out her hand. ‘I am Detective Inspector Portinari.’
‘Shit! I’m so sorry,’ said Jack, deftly pocketing the euros he had been about to tip her and shaking her outstretched hand. ‘Please come in. It’s been a long day and I’d almost given up on you coming tonight.’
He held the door this time. As she squeezed past him, she decided that his looks did indeed match up to the strong voice she’d heard on the phone. He was certainly much