Malarkey thinks she’s joking.

  “Oh, our chauffeur. And I’m Bond, James Bond.”

  She doesn’t respond, which gives Malarkey pause.

  “Uh, you’re serious. You never told me …”

  “Nothing to tell. Enjoy the ride.”

  Her pissed-offed-ness is slowly waning thanks to the jet lag rather than anything Malarkey has said or done. As Mario drives off and after a few moments of silence, Malarkey feels compelled to speak.

  “About the club …”

  “Don’t want to talk about it.”

  “I’m sorry. Wasn’t thinking.”

  “You rarely do. It’s one of your virtues … but I agreed to do it.”

  “Still love me?”

  “Jury’s out … maybe later.”

  She puts her arm beneath his, rests her head on his shoulder, closes her eyes, and falls sleep.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  AT THE VILLA LILIANO

  After leaving the airport, Mario heads toward Arona, which is about an hour outside of Milan: forty-two miles or sixty-eight kilometers depending on whether you’re an American or not. Malarkey absorbs the scenery, and continues stroking Liliana’s hair even though she’s already fallen asleep. Before long, they arrive in Arona on the shores of Lake Maggiore. Malarkey could describe Lake Maggiore perhaps in the manner of Thomas Mann. But Malarkey isn’t Thomas Mann; however, if he were Thomas Mann he might describe what he sees in the following manner:

  Malarkey looks out the Bentley window. Water roars in the abysses on the right; on the left among rocks, dark firtrees aspire toward a bluish sky, silent scuttering of stratus clouds. A magnificent succession of vistas open before Malarkey’s eyes, of the solemn, almost phantasmagorical world of towering snowscaped peaks, into which their route might weave and worm itself. New vistas appear and disappear with each new winding of the road. Malarkey reflects that they must have got above the zone of shade-trees, also probably of song-birds; whereupon he feels such a sense of the impoverishment of life as to give him a slight attack of giddiness and nausea and make him put his hand over his eyes for a few seconds. It passes. The lake is visible in the distant landscape, its waters a chilling blue, its shores covered with black fir-forests that climb the surrounding heights, thinned out, and give place to bare, mist-wreathed rock. Beyond the lake, the Alps, the snow-peaked mountain massif Monte Rosa, peers down upon the lake, upon Locarno and Stresa and Arona. It is here where Malarkey and Liliana are headed, but for what purpose even Thomas Mann is unclear.

  But since Malarkey isn’t Thomas Mann, Malarkey circumvents such a description this way:

  Now you get the picture. The Villa Liliano is a magnificent nineteenth-century estate, which sits on a promontory overlooking Lago Maggiore on the other side of Arona. Mario drives through the monogramed silver gates and down the circuitous lane that is sheltered by looming pines, the tips of which have created a kind of canopy due to the Mistral-like winds that skirt the surface of Lago Maggiore in the winter. And then, suddenly, this:

  As the Reader can see, it’s a visual feast cradled as it is with its own forest of chestnut and plane trees, palm trees and cypresses. The estate was once owned by the Viscount Medardo of Terralba, a distant relative of the novelist Italo Calvino. But its history is unimportant. What is important, is that standing outside is Liliana’s father, Giancarlo Liliano, who’s in his late sixties. Giancarlo looks so much like Giancarlo Giannini he could actually be Giancarlo Giannini so the Reader should imagine him being Giancarlo Giannini dressed in a handmade blue pinstripe suit and matching tie. He is reserved by nature, but as he stands with his hands behind his back, the Reader notices that despite his reserved nature, he’s eager to see his daughter. As Mario removes the luggage, Malarkey turns to Mario and says in Italian:

  “How do you like driving this beauty?”

  Mario smiles and responds.

  “It is better than sex, signore.”

  “Maybe I should try it. You think I could?” he whispers to Mario.

  “If it is fine with Signore Liliano I do not see why not.”

  Malarkey raises his eyebrows. Liliana grabs her purse from the trunk.

  “You never told me you spoke Italian.”

  “It’s pigeon Italian.”

  He smiles. Signore Liliano approaches them.

  “My love.”

  He hugs and kisses Liliana.

  “Papa, this is Malcolm.”

  Signore Liliano holds out his hand and smiles broadly.

  “My pleasure.”

  “Pleasure is all mine.”

  “I imagine the both of you are quite tired, no? Would you like to rest?”

  “Yes, I’ll take Malcolm to my room. Where’s mother?”

  “Your mother is resting. She’ll join us for sherry before dinner.”

  “Of course,” Liliana answers as if that’s routine for her mother.

  They start to walk inside.

  “After you,” says Signore Liliano.

  “No, after you.”

  Signore Liliano is seemingly impressed with Malarkey’s protocol if not his novice language skills since the entire conversation is in Italian, but since Malarkey can’t assume the reader reads Italian he’s written it in English.

  “But of course.”

  As the Reader can imagine, the interior of Villa Liliano is an opulent nineteenth-century home whose massive living room windows overlook the lake. Classic furniture that could be out of a showroom at Sotheby’s infects the entire house; eighteenth and nineteenth -century oil paintings are strategically arranged on the walls; there’s an original nineteenth Century Italian Gothic Travertine fireplace above which hangs a six-foot oil portrait of a standing Signora Liliano, a septuagenarian, seventy to be exact, who appears to be looking down at the viewer with a somewhat disdainful gaze. She seems to be the quintessential matriarch: blond, statuesque; regal, very Jane Fonda-like. Actually, she looks so much like Jane Fonda she could actually be Jane Fonda so think of Jane Fonda as you read this chapter. Next to the floor-to-ceiling windows stands an elaborately decorated ten-foot Christmas tree strangely bereft of gifts. Hands clasped behind his back, Malarkey looks at Signora Liliano’s portrait as if it were something out of the Tate.

  “My, my, my. Beautiful portrait.”

  “Yes, my wife. Painted by a relative of Modigliani. Please, rest. Mario will bring your luggage upstairs.”

  Malarkey and Liliana both start up the elegantly balustraded stairs. As Signore Liliano watches them ascend the staircase, Malarkey turns.

  “Should I wear a suit to dinner?” he half-jokingly asks.

  “No, a sport coat and tie will be fine.”

  Signore Liliano walks away as Malarkey furrows his brow and follows Liliana upstairs to her bedroom, which is as expansive as, and not unlike, the style of the living room, classically decorated with tall windows that overlook the lake. There are relics of her childhood appropriately displayed on mantels and windowsills, on walls and tables, such as the Brevi and Faro toys from the 80s. It appears as if little has changed since she left Arona. Perhaps, it’s a way for Liliana to remember herself as a child. Perhaps, it’s a way for Signora Liliano to remember her daughter as a child. Or to treat her as one. Regardless, Malarkey takes off his shoes and plops on the California king-size bed.

  “That went over swimmingly, don’t you think?”

  “As you may have noticed he’s somewhat reserved.”

  “Reserved? Your father? Really?”

  “Don’t be an ass.”

  “Why go out of character.”

  Liliana doesn’t respond.

  “By the way, I was kidding about the suit,” Malarkey says.

  “Well, he wasn’t kidding about the sport coat and tie. I hope you brought a clean shirt.”

  There’s a knock at the door. She opens it and Mario brings in the suitcases.

  “Just over there, Mario. Grazie mille.”

  Mario puts them in a corner and leaves.

  “Prego.”

  Liliana walks into the en suite bathroom, hikes up her skirt, pulls down her panties and sits on the toilet. Malarkey looks her way.

  “Somehow an open door policy here seems strangely out of place,” Malarkey says. “Almost as if one should have permission to urinate. Which reminds me. What kind of royal toilet paper do you think the Queen uses?”

  Liliana ignores him, finishes her business, flushes the toilet and washes her hands.

  “Get over it.”

  She climbs on the bed next him.

  “So, where’s mommy?”

  “Mother rarely greets anyone at the door.”

  “Even you?”

  “Even me. When she’s ready, my father will escort us to her.”

  Malarkey squints as if he heard her incorrectly.

  “Escort us? Like with bodyguards and shit? Don’t tell me your mother is a princess, too?”

  “What do you mean, ‘too’? Are you implying …”

  “No, just seems a bit odd to me that we’d need to be escorted downstairs to see your mother. Nice tree though. Where are the presents?”

  “There aren’t any.”

  “Because?”

  “Because she doesn’t believe in giving presents.”

  “So, why the tree?”

  “She believes in the spirit of the holiday.”

  “So do I, but I can still splurge at Target once a year.”

  “Listen, Malcolm,” Liliana begins seriously. “I know how you can be, so please try your best to be polite.”

  “I’ll be on my best behavior. Which is dicey indeed.”

  Liliana snuggles next to him and closes her eyes. Malarkey strokes her hair, but doesn’t sleep. He gazes out the window. From Malarkey’s point of view, he sees the afternoon light fade slowly into darkness. Across the lake, there are the sparkling lights of Arona, a town that Liliana says is one of the best-kept secrets in Italy and hopes it stays that way. An antique clock on the mantel chimes eight o’clock. There’s a knock at the door. Liliana, who’s now dressed in her finest eveningwear for dinner, opens the door.

  “Are you ready, my dear?” asks Signore Liliano.

  “Yes.” She turns toward Malarkey. “Are you ready, Malcolm?”

  Malarkey is in the bathroom dressed in his usual attire, but with a white T.J. Maxx dress shirt instead of his usual fading blue one, a slightly worn Oleg Cassini tie that he bought at Goodwill back in the 90s and the pinstripe sport coat he purchased at the thrift store. Otherwise, it’s the same attire he always wears.

  “Absolutely.”

  He arranges his tie and touches up his unkempt hair, slapping on some styling gel that will keep it from flying in distant directions. Liliana turns to her father with a half-smile and a shrug as if silently apologizing for Malarkey’s appearance before the three of them walk down the stairs, led by Signore Liliano who holds Liliana’s hand. They pass through the foyer and into the study, which is as opulent as the rest of the house with built-in mahogany bookshelves, stuffed with leather-bound books; a Steinway grand piano; Persian carpets on magnificent Macassar Ebony hardwood floors; and all the other accoutrements that go along with that kind of wealth. Malarkey doesn’t really need to describe it all. The Reader should try to imagine what else is in the house since, quite frankly, it’s the Reader’s job to read and Malarkey’s job to write.

  As they walk in, there, sitting in a regal, high-back chair, dressed as if she were going to a ball, is Signora Liliano who looks exactly like her portrait. Liliana walks to her mother who deigns to stand. In the finest rendition of the Real Housewives of Orange County, they hug and air kiss missing each other’s cheeks by millimeters. Malarkey follows respectfully behind.

  “Mother, this is Malcolm.”

  He holds out his hand. She reluctantly holds out hers and they shake. The expression on her face is clearly one of disapproval and she makes no attempt to hide it. If the Reader has a good imagination, then the Reader can see the scowl on Jane Fonda’s face since Fonda is the Queen of Scowls, Barbarella notwithstanding. So, just imagine Jane Fonda elegantly dressed, scowling at Malarkey and hold that thought.

  “A pleasure to meet you,” Malarkey replies, doing his best impression of Hugh Grant or maybe Jeremy Irons.

  “Likewise,” she answers as dryly as dryly can be.

  She sits down, crosses her suntan legs and rests her arms on the manchettes, her hands slightly gripping the armrest as if she can hardly restrain herself. Much less anxious, Signore Liliano sits to her right as Liliana and Malarkey sit on a couch across from them. At that moment, a servant brings in a tray of sherry served, of course, in appropriate sherry glasses and offers them to everyone. Malarkey takes his and sniffs.

  “Pedro Domecq. Amontillado.”

  “Pardon me?” Signora asks.

  “The sherry. Reminds me of high table.”

  “High table?”

  “At Oxford. Sometimes the dons would deign to invite lowly undergrads for a sherry before dinner.”

  “You attended Oxford?” she asks somewhat surprised.

  “Yes. Christ Church College. Home of Lewis Carroll … the pederast.”

  Liliana discreetly elbows him. Malarkey turns to her as if he’s done nothing wrong and shrugs his shoulders.

  “What?”

  “Liliana never mentioned that. How was it?”

  “Stately, regal, regimented, and painfully pretentious.”

  Liliana gives him another slight “elbow.”

  “Ow!”

  “And what did you study there?”

  “Irish literature.”

  “And why did you choose that?”

  He looks at Liliana.

  “Because I liked to read and write.”

  Liliana smiles.

  “I would like to make a toast,” says Signore Liliano.

  They all raise their glasses except for Signora Liliano who holds hers around chest high.

  “To Liliana and Malcolm. May your trip be joyful and your time together bountiful.”

  The last part of that toast causes Signora Liliano to give Signore Liliano a scowl that clearly indicates her displeasure. Signore Liliano is used to his wife’s scowling. After all, he’s Italian and he’s used to Italian women who are some of the best scowlers on the planet. He’s actually said that to Liliana, but accords the comment to the late Lina Wertmuller whom he once met at an after party of the film, Swept Away. They all sip their sherry, except for Signora Liliano who grasps her glass tightly in her hands since she’s more than a bit annoyed at her husband’s toast. As a matter of fact, if she holds the glass any tighter it will shatter. More small talk ensues. Malarkey is not going to engage in that small talk, but the topics range from financial stuff to domestic stuff, career stuff to writing stuff. As Malarkey has written, “small talk” which can be defined as talk meant to fill the interstitial moments in our lives and which, depending on the length of said small talk, is time never again retrieved in one’s life.

  Subsequent to the small talk, they adjourn to the dining room, which is as opulent as everything else in the villa. Signore and Signora Liliano sit at opposite ends of a majestic mahogany table that looks as if it were used in Downton Abbey while Malarkey and Liliana sit across from each other. The table is heavily laden with china and crystal decanters of water and wine, but dinner is spent in relative silence except for the clinking of silverware against the plates or the splashing of wine being poured. Malarkey often looks at Liliana and Liliana often looks at Malarkey and Signore and Signora often look at each other, but very little is spoken and what is spoken is very pedestrian: the weather, Aneilli pasta, Arona, Bucatini pasta, the lake, Campanelle pasta, Ditalini pasta and every other alphabetical kind of pasta until Ziti. More small talk.

  Of course, Malarkey can liven up the conversation by talking about how he and Liliana got caught fucking in a lavatory by the Chancellor of his university, not once but twice, but that’s a bit more pedestrian than Malarkey thinks appropriate. Clearly, it’s more pedestrian than Liliana thinks is appropriate. The Reader can only imagine how Signore and Signora Liliano would react to the news that their daughter was caught fornicating in a KLM lavatory even if it were business class. So it goes.

  After dinner, the women and men pair off and go their separate ways. Liliana and her mother return to the study, Malcolm and her father head for the patio. Liliana sits across from her mother. Between them is a small table with a decanter of water. To say one could cut the tension with a knife would be a cliché so Malarkey will not say one could cut the tension with a knife. Signora Liliano stares at Liliana’s engagement ring.

  “I noticed your ring at dinner,” Signora Liliano says with only a half-scowl.

  “Yes. It belonged to his mother.”

  “Why did you not tell us?”

  “I wanted it to be a surprise.”

  “That it was. Then this is not a joke.”

  “Why would it be a joke? I love him.”

  “Do you now?”

  The Reader can clearly hear Jane Fonda deliver this line. Brilliant.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “What do you love about him?”

  “I love his wit, his intellect and his honesty.”

  “But has he been truly honest with you?”

  “About what?”

  Signora Liliano merely shakes her head.

  At the same time, Signore Liliano and Malarkey are sitting poolside. Between them is a decanter of Calvados. Malarkey offers Signore Liliano a cigar, which he brought from the US for just such an occasion as this.

  “Care for a Cohiba?”

  “Yes, grazie.”

  He lights Signore Liliano’s cigar and then his own.

  “These are Cuban. Once upon a time, if you got caught smoking them in the US it was a fine and a prison sentence. Can you imagine? For smoking a cigar?”

  “Then you should enjoy them all the more. Calvados?”

  “Thank you, I will.”

  Signore Liliano pours him a glass of Coeur de Lion 1959 Vintage Calvados and Malcolm sips.

  “This is terrific Calvados.”

  “Glad you like it.”

  “May I ask you a personal question?”

 

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