The Connoisseur

Chapter 38 - Just Us

The house seemed even quieter than before as Sophia got dressed for the evening.  Almost all her belongings were packed in cases and boxes, ready to be loaded into the car the next morning.  The kitchen was bare.  The living room was empty.  If a building could go into hibernation, this one was doing so.

It was the fifth of September, 2014.  All of Sophia’s friends had packed up and left town, one by one.  For all she knew she was preparing for a night out alone.  She did not know whether Alexander would show or not.  Every rational part of her said she would be fine if he didn’t – she had done everything she could to reach out to him.  Every other part of her was afraid.

She dressed fairly casually, a plain-date look.  She kept the makeup light.  She brushed her hair and little more.  Every effort, every tiny extravagance, felt like artifice.  Take off the masks.  Let him look at you, as you would look at him.  Make it normal.

Taking her coat, she locked the door of the sleeping house and walked away into the twilight.  The town was so quiet, at the student end at least.  There were so few people walking, driving, milling around.  Silent September, when the old life goes out and the new life is yet to come in.

The centre wasn’t much better.  It was a Friday night, but even the favourite haunts of the locals seemed largely empty.  As she approached Mario’s, she wondered if he would be waiting by the door.  He wasn’t.  She waited for a good few minutes, anxiously glancing at her watch.  Eight crept closer.

“Come in, signorina, come in!” said a voice behind her – one of the staff was just coming outside for a cigarette.  “Is cold, he will meet you inside.  Come in, come in!”

The famous Mario’s treatment, thought Sophia, where the waiters press-gang you into entering.  She bristled for a moment at his assumption she was meeting a man, but it passed.  He was right, after all.  She hovered on the doorstep – would he wait for her outside, and miss her? – but a cold gust of wind persuaded her to go in.  She went up the little flight of steps to the restaurant.  That piped-in Italian music greeted her.  The waiter didn’t.

“I’ve got a table for...”

“Uno momento,” said the waiter, wafting off to deal with some unseen problem.  Sophia coughed and tried to compose herself.  They were all so disarmingly rude. 

She smiled.  It was familiar, and normal.  It was real.

Eventually the waiter got her to her table.  A few minutes later she asked for some tap water.  It took an age to arrive.  She checked her watch: it was nearly ten past eight.

He had to have seen the letter.  He had to.  Some of the other diners – there weren’t many of them - glanced over to her, looking away when she caught their eyes.

He had to.  He had to.

It took her a moment to register that he was stood at the entrance in a casual suit.  It was the glasses that did it – angular, thick-rimmed, vintage.  They made him look older.  She caught his eye.

They looked at one another.  His expression was strange, almost blank, but with clues of some emotion beneath the skin.  Her eyes widened.  She felt her heartbeat in her throat, her hands.  Then he began to smile.

“Signor?”

She laughed – the waiter had been trying to talk to Alexander.  The two of them shared a conciliatory word, and then he approached her.  She stood up.

“Hey.”

He took a breath.  “Hello.”

“Nice glasses.”