The Love of My Youth_ A Novel - Mary Gordon [66]
“Well, let’s go into the shop. The least we can do is let her take some of our money. After all, she’s provided us with so much entertainment.”
The third glass of wine she allowed herself has made her a bit unsteady, and she feels herself almost falling into him. She feels, too, that her stomach is rumbling. It began to rumble as soon as they entered the shop.
“I’m embarrassed. Can you hear the sound my stomach’s making? The smell of this shop is making my mouth water. What would it be like if I got a job here?”
“You’d be fired in a week. You’d be telling people what kind of chocolate they should buy. You’d be warning them not to eat too many sweets: that it will spoil their appetites.”
“I would not be fired, Adam, I’d be very good. I’d engage people in conversation and make sure they were really happy with what they bought. I’d encourage them to buy more than they originally wanted. I’d make a fortune. Then I’d open another store.”
“Then who would work behind the counter at this one? You’d have to get a Vespa so you could go back and forth between the stores.”
“I think I might like a Vespa.”
“I know you would.”
“You don’t like chocolate that much, do you? Or have you developed a sweet tooth since I used to know you?”
“No, I haven’t. But caviar! I have been brought to a cold sweat by the possibility that there might not be enough caviar in the bowl when it’s passed to me. Or that I won’t have the courage to take as much as I really want. Or that I’ll take too much.”
“How much is too much?”
“My mother used to say, ‘Enough is enough.’ ”
“What’s enough? How do we know when we’ve had enough?”
“When we have no more appetite. That’s when we say, ‘I’m full.’ ”
“Well, I am full. And sleepy. Will you get me a taxi, Adam? Is that too self-indulgent?”
“I’m shocked to the core. It will probably be in all the tabloids in the morning.”
He takes her arm and leads her to a taxi rank. “Libero?” he asks the driver.
The driver starts his noisy diesel engine. Miranda gets into the cab; as they drive away, the engine quiets down. Miranda looks out the back window, waves at Adam, closes her eyes, and feels herself drift off to sleep.
Saturday, October 20
THE VILLA BORGHESE
“Money Meant Nothing to Us”
They stop at a café known as La Casina dell’ Orologio in honor of the clock that has, since its construction, never once stopped and never kept anything like the correct time.
“I like it here,” Miranda says. “It’s so exuberant. That enormous brass contraption for making coffee. The musical instruments on the walls. This bugle. This violin. What could they possibly be doing here? And the picture, of course, of Frank Sinatra. With one of his records. Gold: I can’t see which one. Probably My Way.”
“Sometimes I think if I hear ‘My Way’ one more time on the streets of Rome I’m going to throw myself into the Tiber. Or throw whoever is playing it into the Tiber. The street musicians only seem to know two songs: ‘My Way’ and ‘Bésame Mucho.’ ”
“Who’s their target audience? Free market capitalists and lovelorn Spaniards? Do you think they all get together, all the street musicians, have regular meetings, maybe even a newsletter, and vote?”
He isn’t listening to her; he can’t even be temporarily amused by what she imagines he thinks of as a misuse of music. He looks around the café, displeased.
“They charge a ridiculous amount to sit here. I’ll get us two coffees, and we can drink them on the bench just there. It’s warm today.”
“Great. Thanks.”
She closes her eyes and lets the sun penetrate the bones of her skull. She allows herself the pleasure of being tired. She falls asleep for a minute and, waking, is surprised to see him. Adam. Standing in front of her, holding two plastic cups and looking terribly unhappy.
“I’m sorry for this,” he says, “I made a stupid mistake.” He hands her the ugly plastic cup, tan, corrugated, a quarter full of dark espresso.
“It’s not important,” she says, “It’s lovely here. I’m happy in the sun.”
“It is important. It was stupid