Chapter 4: Begin the legume

“Okay, so maybe it’s me. I’m on TV, sometimes. I did a movie. Someone made a painting and thought of me. Or they saw an ad or something. This happens to Emma all the time.”

Melody shook her head.

“Except in her case they Photoshop her face onto pornography. That’s her actual face, not a portrait. This is one, and it’s fairly well done. The painter wasn’t very experienced, but certainly talented. I’d say he used a live model, not just one reference picture.”

When Melody says these things, that carries weight. But in this case I took it as evidence against this bizarre story. If I didn’t know any better I’d say I had been set up for a practical joke, but she had me pick the museum earlier today and besides, it’s not something Mel would do. Too weird. Too convoluted. Kate? In a heartbeat, although it wouldn’t have anything to do with a painting. But not Melody.

“Well then there you have it. Can’t have been me. Look, a lot of men look like me! If you describe a younger Bruce Willis or Patrick Stewart or uhmmm ... Jason Statham to a police sketch artist, the result is going to look like me as well! You know, a forty-something white male with advanced male pattern baldness.”

“But ees you,” said the guard.

“No it isn’t! I didn’t look like that fifty years ago. I wasn’t even born yet! Look, how ordinary can a face get? No scars, no facial hair, blue eyes, perfectly normal nose ... I just don’t see it. And besides, she says this painting is fifty years old!”

“At least,” said the lady, who was shamelessly listening in.

“Good. That settles it.”

“Can we have the painting? Buy it, I mean?” asked Melody.

“No, sorry. Eet ees still museum eh ... property. But you can taik picture! Allora, we would laik a picture, too. Ees okay?”

I sighed and had a photo session with a mediocre painting. Both Melody and the curator made me hold it up and took out their phones. Some visitors stopped to watch us and asked the guard who I was supposed to be. That’s a nice thing to hear, by the way, ‘supposed to be’. But the guard just shrugged.

“Televisione Inglese,” he said, which made the tourists look disappointed. That didn’t stop them from trying to taking a picture, but if you’re THAT disinterested I don’t want anything to do with you so I told them to fuck off. The guard apologised on my behalf and shepherded them away.

“Ees vaffanculo,” he said, grinning.

“What is?”

“Fuck off. In Italian. Ees ‘Eh! Vaffanculo!’”

“Don’t encourage him,” said Mel, taking my wrist as if I were a naughty toddler. The curator started to hang the original painting and I learned a neat trick: they put marbles between the back of the painting and the wall! Unless there’s an earthquake the marbles just sit there undisturbed, held up by the weight of the painting, which will always hang slightly forward. But if you try to take the painting off the wall, the marbles will fall to the floor and make an almighty racket. That hopefully stops the odd chancer who tries to walk out with a souvenir in broad daylight, which happens more than you’d think. Mel told me this was a classic low-budget security system and helped the curator out, handling the painting with calm confidence. I enjoyed watching my wife in her natural element.

“Okay, grazie. You have my number, let me know if I can buy it. Arrivederci!”

“Ciao, signora. Ciao, profeta.”

I thought that was it, but now Mel stopped and jerked me back.

“What? What was that?”

“Profeta. Prophet. Ees on the back. See?”

And indeed, in barely legible pencil strokes someone had written ‘profeta’ on the frame. That could have been anyone. But then, the painter could have been anyone, too. Mel snapped a picture of the back of the painting and then we were finally on our way.

“I’m hungry,” I announced, as we made our way to the exit. We still had at least eighty percent of the museum to go, so that would have to wait until tomorrow, at the earliest.

“It’s not even three o’clock.”

“I didn’t have lunch!”

Mel often skips lunch when she has art on her mind. Me, I like a painting as much as the next man, but I like sandwiches too.

We went back the way we came, or we’d have to do the full circuit. That meant we’d never even pass the restaurant. Some museums have pretty decent restaurants nowadays. They’ve discovered it as a great revenue stream, rather than a necessary evil. Some are so good you need a reservation. If you’re ever in the Musée d’Orsay in Paris, have a pistachio millefeuille. It’s probably not made on the premises but it’s lifechangingly delicious. Ought to be, at nine euros. Anyway, I had high hopes for the restaurant in the Galleria Nazionale.

“Can we wait until after we’re back at the hotel? There’s a bakery across the street. I’d rather you didn’t have a full lunch, Martin. That will make you sleepy and I was kinda hoping we could...”

“Could what?”

I knew what she meant. I just get off on women asking me for sex. That just never gets old after half a lifetime of being expected to initiate it. Mel and Kate both know this, so they’re not shy. As soon as we had descended the stairs outside, she pulled me close and whispered:

“We could have sex ... Because, you know ... When in Rome...”

How can you not kiss a woman who looks at you like that when she asks to be fucked? There’s an expression in Dutch that doesn’t translate very well but amounts to ‘eyes that ask for semen’. That woman has eyes that are asking for semen, you might say to a friend. Zaadvragende ogen, in case you’re wondering. It’s a bit of a misnomer, because if women want to convey that emotion they mostly do it by forming their mouths into an ‘o’-shape and licking their lips. Mel did that, too. Combined with her fluttering eyes it was enough to make me kiss her right there, in public. I was so keen that it made her laugh.

“Sorry,” she giggled. “I didn’t think you’d actually kiss me here. Want to find a tree to hide behind?”

I was a bit embarrassed, because who likes to see the woman they’re about to kiss burst out laughing, but Mel hugged me and took my hand, rather than my wrist.

“Come on. Save it for the hotel. You can have a snack with your tea and then you can work up a real appetite for tonight.”

“Sold!”

Mel and I always have fun together. She’s a cheerful person, which balances out my more sombre disposition. Not many people know this, I guess, but I can be a bit cynical, sarcastic even. No, seriously! I come across as a happy go lucky sorta guy, but that’s just the outside. But when I’m with Mel, I just want her to be happy and if at all possible to make her smile. Freud may have something to say about that, about a subconscious need for approval or something, but the alternative is that I don’t make her smile and who wants that? Besides, I’m more of a Jungian: Mel is my opposite in many ways, though I prefer to think of her as the one puzzle piece that fits exactly. This is assuming the existence of some sort of weird, horizontal puzzle that’s only one piece high, where I’m the end piece. Or maybe Kate is the piece that connects on the other side? Look, if you are going to get all hung up on similes, like a ... I dunno, some sort of thing in a ... in another thing, then stop reading smut and get a proper book.

Anyway, Mel and I got lost. It’s a big park, I was teasing her about her newfound obsession with the painting and we got distracted by a picture of Edwin in an outfit we hadn’t provided but that Mel identified as something from Petit Bateau (which is a brand that caters to the sort of parents who buy white Land Rovers), which meant he’d been out shopping with Caroline. He looked very happy regardless and we were also informed of his bowel movements, which is of great interest to young parents. Seriously, you have no idea. Mel once messaged me a picture of a brown pea in a diaper, taken just after Edwin had moved on to solid food. I had never zoomed in on a picture of a miniature turd before. In fact, I hadn’t looked at pictures of faecal matter in my life. Funny, how parenthood changes you.

“Uhm ... This is not where we came in,” said Mel, as we reached the edge of the park. I took out my phone and tried to find us on Google Maps, but the circle covered half the park.

“I think we’re fairly close to where we want to be. Hey, there’s a sandwich shop across the street, do you mind if...”

“Martin, don’t load up on carbs now. We have plans!” Melody pleaded.

I don’t want to be the overweight guy always thinking about food, even though I am and I do. And so I let it go.

“You’re right. Let me look at my map ... Bloody hell, my phone is on GPRS speed now.”

“Mine too,” said Mel. “But we just passed a thing. The Goethe thing.”

“Oh yes, the well known Goethe thing,” I said, mockingly. Sorry, low blood sugar.

“That means we’re close to the exit we want,” said Mel, patiently. “If we just exit the park here, we can probably find our way back.”

“Okay, you’re in charge.”

“I’m always in charge, daddy bear. You just don’t know it.”

Half an hour later we were still lost. I couldn’t help but hum the Teddy Bears’ Picnic tune, while Mel tried to work out where we were. We had left the park and found ourselves in a neighbourhood with narrow streets, none of which were exactly horizontal. Clearly we had been relying on our phones a bit too much, because we simply had no idea where we’d come from and in this area our data connection was almost non-existent. It also didn’t help that Mel found one nice shop after another and was in no particular hurry to get to the hotel. You know women: shopping always trumps sex. I was about to ask a local for help, but it was proving hard to find one who didn’t have a phone glued to their ear, who was young enough to speak English and who wasn’t currently doing fifty miles an hour on a Vespa. Mel asked a lady in a shop that sold fabrics and I asked a greengrocer, but they both looked at me with uncomprehending eyes, as if I’d made up the Via del Babuino as a poor joke. Well, it does mean ‘baboon’. The street got that name after a particularly ugly fountain was installed there in 1581. I guess these Italians just weren’t in the mood to help a tourist dressed as the man from Del Monte and his far too pretty, far too young wife.

“Let’s find a taxi stand and get a ride home,” I suggested, as we turned into yet another narrow, cobbled street that went slightly uphill. It was surprisingly busy there: three priests, or at least men dressed in black cassocks, walked behind a wooden pushcart that held plastic bags filled with vegetables and a massive steel kettle with a lid on it. That would be a sight to behold in, say, Amsterdam or London, but there are nuns and clerics everywhere in Rome. They’re like pigeons. (Hang on, are nuns clerics too? And are all men in cassocks priests? I know nothing of religion.) You’d think they mainly loiter around the Vatican, which was at least two or three miles from here, but there are convents all over town.

God alone knows what these people do all day except bother him with prayer, but this trio seemed to be involved in the catering business. The oldest one, with a massive white head of hair and a nose like an ice pick, was pushing the cart, more of a wheelbarrow really. Then there was one with ridiculously dark sunglasses and the most obvious toupee I’d ever seen and a third one, quite a bit younger than the other two but still easily fifty if he was a day, sporting a very dour expression. He was the only one wearing a hat, which looked like a square fez with a pompom. He also wore a crimson cape that came to his waist. I have no idea of priest hierarchy, but he looked like the most important one.

Two businessmen in cheap suits walked close behind them, chatting quietly while lunatics on scooters tore through this street as if it were a Ferrari test track. The street was curved and the buildings looked to be a bit older than what I’d seen of Rome so far, save for the monuments obviously. I’d put the houses at about eighty years or so, but they might very well be on streets that dated back hundreds of years or more.

“OH! Can I just ... I won’t be a second, promise!” said Mel, as she discovered a shop which sold handmade jewelry. I sighed, but managed to keep my mouth shut while I did it.

“Sure. I’ll go on ahead, there’s a statue...” I said, but she smiled and ducked inside before I could finish my sentence. Then I began to trudge uphill (being Dutch, any slope over five degrees is a hill to me), stepping inside a doorway to let the priests pass. Toupee guy noticed it and smiled. Next were the business men. As they passed I could hear them speaking German with a heavy regional accent. I speak a bit of German, but that’s ‘Hochdeutsch’, the official, classic version. Their accent was to Hochdeutsch what the meanest Texas drawl is to Received Pronunciation, so I couldn’t really understand them, nor did I care. I nodded to them and turned into the street.

After a few metres the hysterical whine of another moped grew louder and louder, so I stepped aside again and watched a young lady on a fancy, red Piaggio turn a corner and drive straight at me. She was driving with one hand and held her phone in the other one, smiling as she looked at the screen. I turned around as she passed and saw Mel coming out of the shop, just as the priest were passing by. There wouldn’t be any room for the moped to pass.

“MEL! WATCH OUT!” I cried. Mel looked up, screamed and stumbled. She fell against the cart, which immediately toppled forward. The priest with the hat jumped out of the way, shielding the other two and clearing a path for the moped, while the Germans tried to steady the elderly men as they stumbled on the cobblestones. Mel pulled her leg out of the way of the moped just in time. Meanwhile, the contents of the cart spilled out into the street.

The girl finally looked up and found herself driving between a small avalanche of bell peppers and onions, carried by a stream of what seemed to be soup. The pan seemed to have been secured to the cart, but now that the cart had toppled over, most of its contents gushed out. Have you ever been to Universal Studios? Did your tram go past the sleepy Mexican village that is suddenly washed away by a flash flood? Picture that, only with onions in the mix.

There was also a big cloud of white dust, which turned out to be flour. The girl slowed down for an instant, then realised the mayhem she had caused and decided she wanted nothing to do with it. Her engine roared and she sped off, disappearing around another corner in an instant.

I ran back, obviously, to help Mel. The old priest seemed to have taken a nasty fall and was speaking to toupee guy while the Germans sat him upright. He was clutching his hand. One of the Germans looked alarmed as I came running, but then he seemed to recognize me from a few seconds earlier and turned his attention to the chaos in front of us. Everyone but Mel was covered in white powder, which came from an industrial sized bag of flour that had been at the bottom of the pushcart. The first onions, peppers and zucchinis were just arriving at the next corner, where most of them neatly disappeared into a storm drain, embedded in the sidewalk. The smell of beef stock wafted through the street.

I helped Mel up once we’d established she only had a few minor scratches on her hands. Then we turned our attention to the Men In Black. Everybody spoke at once, but it was clear the old guy wasn’t going to be playing snooker any time soon. He was clutching his hand. Toupee guy looked very worried, but seemed to be okay. Hat Guy stood aside, as if the whole thing didn’t concern him and he was annoyed about the delay. He kept looking up and down the street.

“I think he needs to go to hospital,” I said to Mel. The old man didn’t seem to understand English, but now Hat Guy piped up and translated my statement into Italian.

“No! Non c’è tempo. Devo cucinare di nuovo!” came the answer.

“I have no time, I have to prepare new food,” repeated Hat Guy in a bored monotone.

“Padre Luigi, dovrebbe fare come dice lui,” pleaded Toupee Guy.

“You should do as they say.”

“You’re a regular old Babelfish, ain’t you?” I couldn’t help but say to Hat Guy. “Well, as long as you’re here, tell him I’ll take him to First Aid. We’ll get a taxi.”

I don’t usually put myself in charge of situations like these, but falling can cause a host of other problems in the elderly and this guy was already turning white. From the tourist book Mel had brought along I had already learned that ambulances in Rome can take a while to get there, unless you happen to have an accident near the Colosseum.

“Ma così non avranno niente da mangiare!”

“But they will have nothing to eat,” echoed Hat Guy to nobody in particular, like he didn’t even know he was doing it.

“Luigi, ci penso io,” said Mr. Toupee.

“I will take care of it,” came the translation.

Mel also noticed the old man slowly turning white as a sheet. Just then, a taxi cab passed on the intersection at the bottom of this street. It was going very slow, there not being much space. Mel stuck two fingers in her mouth and whistled so loudly we were all startled. The cab braked so fast its nose dove down.

“OI! CABBIE! DON’T MOVE!” she yelled. “Okay, Sir, you’re coming with me. I’m taking you to first aid. Martin, bring him over. You can help the other guys. I did this, not you.”

Without waiting for an answer she ran towards the taxi, to stop it from driving off.

“Vi porta lei in ospedale,” translated Hat Guy. Mr. Toupee seemed to approve of that idea and together with one of the Germans he picked up Methuselah and bundled him into the taxi, where Mel was waiting for him in the back seat. When they drove off, me and Mr. Toupee turned round at the same time and surveyed the damage. The street was a mess. The dust had settled, but the cobbled stones were covered in a grey slush of flour and stock.

“Grazie per l’aiuto,” said Rome’s answer to Rip Taylor, as he shook my hand. And then he braced himself, ready to go and pick up the cart.

“Thank you for your help,” said his echo, who now sounded downright depressed.

“Hang on, I’ll help you. I don’t suppose you were going very far, what with using a wheelbarrow.”

“Ci vuole aiutare,” explained Hat Guy. Mr. Toupee insisted that wouldn’t be necessary, but he didn’t keep that up for very long and I ignored him anyway. He was well into his seventies, he was clearly shaken up by the incident and besides, I liked the guy. He was genuinely concerned for his friend, unlike our translator. We picked up the cart and discovered there was still some stock left in the big metal kettle, specifically the meat flakes that always sink to the bottom. Even that was still a good four to five litres.

“You very kaynde,” he said, in a strained accent, as I lifted up the cart. “What ... your nayme?”

“Martin. I’d shake your hand, but...”

I nodded at the cart, which really needed my undivided attention. How that old geezer had managed to guide it downhill, or even pick it up and push, was anyone’s guess.

“Martin. Thank you.”

For some reason he wasn’t going to introduce himself, so I asked. Like I say, I’m not religious. There’s only one person I’ve ever called ‘father’ and that’s usually when I’m taking the piss out of him with Kate. Still, if he introduced himself as Father suchandsuch, I’d have to be polite.

“So what’s your name, if I may ask?”

Hat Guy piped up:

“You may call him...” he began, but Mr. Toupee raised his hand and smiled.

“George. An’ dees ees Father Vincenzo. He ... ees ... my ... assistant.”

Father Vincenzo just nodded curtly. Very conspicuous outfit for an assistant.

“Sorry ... my english ... not good. I can ... eh ... listen ... but not eh...”

That sentence took him at least twenty seconds, so I said:

“Well, as long as he’s here, you can speak Italian. I understand a little. If not, we can ask him,” I said, nodding to Vincenzo. We passed the storm drain and Father George looked down it with a wistful look. He stooped to pick up some vegetables that hadn’t fallen into it, but they were really too far gone for human consumption.

Father George told me it wasn’t very far, which suited me fine. He made small talk with me via Father Vincenzo, which was odd because now it sounded as if he really didn’t give a fuck about the answers.

“So, was that lady your friend?”

“That was my wife. Her name is Melody.”

“Oh, your wife,” repeated Vincenzo, in the most disinterested tone. “She is very beautiful. Has she given you children?”

“Yes, we have a son. He is almost a year old.”

“Wonderful. Any more?”

“Well, we’ve only been married for eight months.”

I could practically hear them doing the sums. Yes, Edwin was conceived and born before we were married. Big fucking deal. I changed the subject:

“So, I guess someone’s ordering pizza tonight?” I said, referring to all the food that was lost.

“Don’t concern yourself with that, please. Left here.”

We turned into another street, just as narrow as the others. Next to an unassuming door was an aluminium shield with the words ‘Rifugio per senzatetto’ stamped in black letters.

“What does that mean?” I asked Vincenzo.

“Homeless shelter.”

“Oh? I thought ... This was for your monastery or something.”

“Monastery? No.”

“Martin, non è un problema tuo. Hai già fatto abbastanza.”

“This is not your problem, you have helped enough.”

I pushed the cart through a narrow gate, which led to a small, tiled storage area like you might find at the back of a restaurant. This was clearly the service entrance.

Father George knocked on a door. A few seconds later it was opened by a young woman wearing a headscarf in a muted shade of blue. That’s probably not the word for it, but even as a layman I could tell that she wasn’t a nun yet, but a novice. From the neck down she was dressed like a waitress, although she also wore a kitchen apron. When she saw Father George she bowed her head and curtsied. Father George smiled and briefly clasped her hands in his.

“Suor Rebecca.”

“Vostra Santità...”

When she looked up, she realised something was wrong.

“Oh! Ma cosa è successo? Dov’è Padre Luigi?”

“Abbiamo avuto un incidente, ma abbiamo anche trovato un nuovo amico.”

“We had an accident, but we have also made a new friend,” murmured Vincenzo behind my back. We all bustled in, because I felt I might lend a hand in putting the almost empty but still rather heavy kettle where it was supposed to be. There was a debate between Sister Rebecca and Father George, of which I understood just about enough to realise they had a big problem.

“Can I help?” I asked. Rebecca turned to me and offered her hand, which surprised me. I shook it, obviously.

“Hello, please excuse my manners. I’m Sister Rebecca. I hear your wife is taking Father Luigi to hospital?”

Her English wasn’t quite flawless, but close.

“Yes. He fell on his hand. My wife stumbled into him when she was nearly run over by a girl on a moped. I’m afraid we also lost most of the soup and the vegetables.”

“And the flour...” she said, inspecting the torn bag that wasn’t even half full yet.

“I’m afraid so. Now, I didn’t catch all of it but am I right in thinking there are people coming over for dinner?”

“Yes. We expect about one hundred and thirty people tonight. There was supposed to be bread and minestrone soup on the menu ... Now I have to figure out what to do.”

“I don’t suppose we can just go to the supermarket and get some soup?”

“For that many people? The supermarkets around here barely have five of anything. They’re corner shops, more than supermarkets. We’d have to go to an ipermercato, like a Carrefour. That’s half an hour from here. Excuse me ... Reverendi Padri, posso prepararvi un caffè?”

Yes, the gentlemen clearly would like some coffee. While Sister Rebecca made sure the old men were out of the way, I inspected the kitchen. This was a professional operation: six gas burners, three wide ovens, all the pots, pans and knives you would want and a selection of oils and condiments. There was a small room with a double sink where you could wash and prepare vegetables, a large restaurant fridge, although that was almost empty and hadn’t been running lately, and there was a rack the size of a small wardrobe closet that held thirty sheet pans. It took me a while to figure out what it was for, but then I understood it was to let dough rise quickly by circulating warm air so the yeast would spring into action. Next to it was a professional mixer, a big metal vat with one of those big kneading hooks.

Everything was clean, but it was clear this kitchen was in daily use. The floor tiles were worn, it smelled of cleaning agent and spices and all the surfaces were dinged. One door lead to a dining hall without windows, that had seven long tables in it, lined with chairs. The décor was a bit bland: just some pictures of Jesus, a woodcarving of him on the cross and some candles. Even so, there was a small bar to serve tea or coffee. It looked like the canteen of a very pious badminton club, except there were no sports trophies. There was an entrance on the other side of the hall, from which there came daylight. Rebecca made coffee for the two priests, who had taken seats near the kitchen.

“Sorry about that. They looked a bit shaken up,” said Rebecca, once she found me in the kitchen. “Can I get you anything? Or do you have to be on your way? Before you go, can I have the number of your wife’s phone? I’d like to know how Father Luigi is doing.”

She had a smartphone in one of the pockets of her apron. I was a bit shocked, to be honest. Because I hardly ever meet clergy I have no real idea of what to expect of them, but of course they drive cars and use email and have smartphones. Maybe not the ones who lock themselves up in a monastery or convent, but the ones who are out there doing good have as much use for WhatsApp and Google Maps as the rest of us.

“Sure. I’ll call her for an update, shall I? But here’s her number. Uhm ... hang on ... Maybe I can text...”

She explained to me (TO ME!) how to transfer a contact via Airdrop and then I called Melody.

“Hi, how are things at your end?”

“Oh, don’t fucking start!” she said. It came from a tiny speaker, but it echoed through the kitchen, which was tiled. Sister Rebecca just smiled as Mel unloaded on me.

“He’s getting a cast now. Complicated fracture of his hand. The cab ride here was enough to drive me insane, then I practically had to kick him into the X-ray machine myself, now he doesn’t believe he’s got a fracture and to top it all off he is going completely mental about some people he’s having over for dinner.”

“Some people? Try one hundred and thirty.”

“WHAT? So that’s what all the food was for! I just thought it was the weekly shop for his convent or whatever.”

“Yeah, no. I’m in a soup kitchen. He was going to bake bread and make soup for the homeless. Hence the flour.”

Mel sighed.

“No he’s not. He’s not even going to be stirring his Bovril any time soon, Martin. They’re keeping him here. The old fucker’s got a raging case of diabetes! Blue toes and everything! Never been treated.”

Sister Rebecca could hear her word for word. Her face cycled through a range of expressions, from suppressed giggling to concern for Father Luigi.

“Mel, you wanna tone it down a little? People can hear.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry. I’m just upset. Am I on speakerphone?”

“No, but they can hear all the same. I’m here with Sister Rebecca. I’ve given her your number, so she may call for more news if this takes a while.”

“Yeah, it’s gonna take a while. We’re not going to be ... doing ... the thing we planned on doing.”

“I gathered. Okay, so I’m...”

“Martin, he’s going to have to be sedated. He needs to be medicated for his diabetes and taken in for observation. And now he’s worried sick about those people he can’t feed. Would you sort it out, so I can promise him it’s taken care of? I’ll pay for one hundred pizzas, if that’s what it takes. It’s my fault, after all. Oh God, there’s the Italian rozzers. I have to give a witness statement. Martin, will you fix it?”

No lunch for me then...

“I’ll see what I can do. Bye, sweetheart.”

“Yeah, bye. Thanks. Love you.”

As I put my phone in my pocket, Sister Rebecca said:

“So your name is Martin?”

“Yes. Oh, sorry. Forgot to introduce myself. Martin van de Casteele. Hi.”

“Do I know you from somewhere?” she said, giving me that squinting look I know so well.

“What, me? I’ve never been here. Now, can we do something about the food? We have a kitchen here, after all. When do these people show up?”

“Eight o’clock. But we have nothing and I don’t know ... I mean ... I’ve only been here for a week. I usually set the tables and serve drinks. Father Luigi made the food.”

William Shatner and Rosetta Stone wandered in, having had their coffee.

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This Is Your Carstairs Speaking

Ron Dudderie

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