Fonts E-Book

Michael Smith

• Herausgeber: epubli
• Kategorie: Lebensstil
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 281

Beschreibung

Each story has as its inspiration and staring point, the name of the chosen font, hence the title of this book. Here are brief descriptions of each of the twelve short stories in this book. Trattatello: A comedy, answering the question, 'just how does one become an assassin?' American Typewriter: A sports' journalist reflects on his inspiration. Georgia: A murder mystery; we know who did it, but how will his crime be discovered? Tahoma: A love story, as a young couple seek adventure in the South Pacific. Bradley Hand & Lucida Grande: A comedy; two views of the same disastrous blind date. Impact: Jazz, coffee and, maybe, love, in a 1980s New York City summer. Luminari: A story considering a possible scenario for life after death? Monaco: Father and son battle for control of their wine business during the weekend of the famous 1984 Monaco Grand Prix. Courier: A newspaper reporter in 1936 Berlin reviews the Nazi's rise to power, and offers warnings to future generations. Didot: A comedy about characters working on the steam railways in the north of England. Iowan Old Style: A fictional story based on the real events of 15th May 1968, when the state of Iowa was hit by two massive tornados. Comic Sans: A love story based on a real event that took place during the early 1990s Balkan war.

Leseprobe

Introduction

Trattatello

American Typewriter

Georgia

Tahoma

Bradley Hand & Lucida Grande

Impact

Luminari

Monaco

Courier

Didot

Iowan Old Style

Comic Sans

References

Acknowledgements

Imprint

Introduction

“Sometimes you just get an idea for a story title and you have to write it

… but short stories always seem to cost me blood, and I envy the people who do them for fun.” (Terry Pratchett, ‘A Blink of the Screen, 2012, page 132)

…well, I do write them for fun, and I hope that sense will be conveyed to the reader.

           Each story has as its inspiration and staring point, the name of the chosen font, hence the title of this book.  Were this book of the traditional, paper variety, it would be my wish that each story be printed in the appropriate font.  However, eBooks do not work like that.  Consequently, the stories here are presented to you in a basic font.  To get the full effect, as the author intended, you might consider, if your device allows, changing to the titular font each time you begin a new story.  After all, that is how I wrote them.

            I hope you enjoy reading these stories every bit as much as I did writing them.

P.S. If you’d like to hear the 30 songs used in the story ‘Impact’, they are available, in the correct order, on a YouTube playlist:

https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLRTwUsWf582mxDBtNQfpC-WvXsNPG8jn8

Trattatello

           Mine is a dying profession.  Literally.  Young entrants to the rather secretive world I have inhabited for the last thirty years will describe themselves as contract killers or hired guns.  These I consider vulgar.  I prefer the more noble epithet of Assassin.  It is a name with a history, with class, and a certain gravitas.  We have served royalty, nobility and, in hard times, even governments.

            In life, one must play to one’s strengths.  I was born with a face of instantly forgettable proportions; as featureless as a desert.  As a young man, I had a personality to match.  These qualifications should have led me to a life as a bank clerk or, had I been slightly more ambitious, an accountant.  I would have been eminently suited to such safe, anonymous professions.  However, as you’ll soon read, fate offered me an unusual opportunity, and since then I have never looked back (except, of course, when being pursued).

            The first challenge facing any successful assassin is the choice of professional name.  One might think such details are selected by our brothers in the press, who are themselves capable of carrying out a character assassination every bit as harmful as our more … traditional variety.  However, to obtain a suitable moniker, one must be proactive and initiate a few whispered rumours in the right circles.  For example, “I hear the Hyena has arrived from Tangiers”, could be spoken a little too loudly in a public house frequented by members of the Press.  Then, when a member of the Cabinet is found, a few days later, dead in mysterious circumstances at the home of a lady other than his wife, and when a Fez monogrammed with the letter H is found at the crime scene, certain journalists might be able to put two and two together, and report that, “an un-named source has suggested the recent assassination might be the work of the Hyena.”

            However, the Hyena is not my style.  I would never choose such a vulgar name.  It would imply the assassin was mocking the victim.  Killing is no laughing matter.  A true assassin should show respect for each target.  So, I thought long and hard before arriving at a name that I would feel comfortable reading about in the morning newspapers, while breakfasting at my Mayfair apartment.  I wanted something that exuded class, something noble, and memorable.  It should be foreign-sounding too, a boon when trying to throw the boys in blue off my scent.  Fate offered me a name that satisfied all criteria.  Allow me to introduce myself.  I am Trattatello.

            After choosing a name, the next decision to be made by the hopeful assassin concerns the ‘calling card’ (although, clearly, this should not be taken literally).  A silk glove laid tastefully over the corpse is now considered passé.  A few of my colleagues do still favour the rose, each assassin distinguished from the others by their preferred colour; however, there are only so many different colours for a rose.  I wanted to choose something that would set me apart from my contemporaries.  When translated, the word Trattatello can mean Tract.  I decided, therefore, on an elegantly simple and tastefully brief tract or treatise, outlining the history of assassination.  Clearly, this will be of no value to the victim but, at least, the family and friends of the deceased will become aware that the passing of their loved one is part of a long and fascinating tradition.  And, after all, it pays to advertise.  A job well done, carried out efficiently and punctually leads, logically, to further contracts.  Life moves on; as does, indeed, death.

            The next decision to face the would-be assassin is the method of executing, so to speak, one's contracts.  Let me say here that I consider assassins today lacking in … finesse.  A semiautomatic weapon; really?  Or a rifle fitted with laser sights; where’s the sport in that?  I am considered, amongst the assassin fraternity, as ‘old school’; but I’m okay with that.  At least I take some sort of pride in my work.  There are some assassins I could mention who are only in it for the money; a job, rather than a vocation or calling.  For the type of work I undertake, I developed early on a preference for the stiletto.  It is easy to both carry and conceal.  It is silent.  It demands a certain ‘hands-on’ approach to the job.  But most of all, it is a classic.  Occasionally, en route to my target, it might be necessary to eliminate a guard or two; in such circumstances, a simple garrotting is quite sufficient.  But the ultimate target, the main feature as it were, should always be carried out with style and, if the mood takes me, a certain amount of panache.

            The next consideration is location.  Crime writers assume the theatre lends a certain amount of … drama to the event but, in reality, assassins rarely touch such places, for much the same reason assassinations rarely take place on most modes of transport - aircraft, ships and the like - this is because the means of escape are severely limited.  A few of the more adventurous members of the profession will consider a train-bound attempt, but one must be fit and agile to leap successfully from a moving train, most probably at night.  But, then what?  No; location is vital and should offer the assassin a secure, well-planned escape route.  Or two, preferably.  On this point assassins fall, generally, into two camps.  The larger camp, to which I belong, prefer a quiet, secluded building with a high chance the target will be alone.  The other camp argue that the best place to hide is, in fact, in a crowd, and they will complete their contracts in broad daylight on a busy street.  By the time the first hysterical shriek has pierced the general hubbub of daytime traffic, a good assassin can have slipped surreptitiously into a local store, and appear, to all intents and purposes, to be nonchalantly selecting a bowlful of exotic fruits from the deli’s ‘Pick ’n Mix’.

            To complete the assassin’s picture, one must decide on dress.  Many assassins prefer the simple, yet elegant, black trousers and black polo-necked sweater.  Again, a stylish classic, and it is difficult to argue against the practicality of this outfit.  Unfortunately, the proliferation of actors who portray assassins dressed in this manner in both film and the theatre, does make one, as a real assassin, stand out, and become an obvious choice should one be careless enough to end up in an identity parade.  At the other end of the spectrum, cloaks never go out of style, they look classy, but are highly impractical, especially when one is attempting a daring escape from a third floor bedroom window ledge in the dead of night.  As my face and personality both grant me the ability to be instantly forgettable, I decided my best course of action would be to wear ordinary, everyday clothes.

            Oh, and I almost forgot, an assassin must also have Standards.  For example, I will never accept a contract on a lady.  Also, I insist on payment, up front, to my secure Swiss bank account.  There are such things as Traditions!  Finally, I must consider the target to be worthy of my services.  Deserving, one might say.  This is possibly why, in recent years, I appear to have been specialising more and more in politicians.  There are certain advantages in this.  For example, there is very little bad publicity and, following some rather ingenuous outpouring of rage from former colleagues, the act is usually forgotten once a new election has taken place.  The nature and frequency of such politically motivated contracts are often good barometers of the mood of the nation.

            But I don’t want to paint too rosy a picture of the profession.  There are drawbacks.  For example, I must admit to being uncomfortable with regard to the vague, some may say evasive, responses I feel compelled to give on my tax returns.  While the tools of one’s trade are, for most professions, considered to be tax deductible, the inclusion of a receipt for a six inch stiletto could draw undue attention to oneself from agencies beyond the inland revenue.  And finding suitable life insurance has not been easy either; some of the questions on those application forms are frankly most invasive.  And the work does so cut into one’s social life.  It is most frustrating having to excuse oneself during a fine restaurant meal with a beautiful woman in some exotic location such as Barcelona, Tokyo, or Rio, in order to carry out a hit on some Baron who has been cheating on the Baroness.  Or, having to curtail a fine wine-tasting to administer the ultimate punishment to an executive who has been rather too creative with the company accounts. 

———————

            But we are getting ahead of ourselves - just how did I become an assassin?  Until the start of my second year at university, I had managed to lead a thoroughly anonymous life, bereft of any event that might have been described as adventurous.  Mine was a bland existence.  Until, one day in the October of my second year, when into my life walked, on impossibly long legs, Claudia.  She was an exchange student, visiting England for a year to improve the English Language she was studying at Milan University.  With the benefit of hindsight, I see now that it was an act of supreme naivety on my part to believe she would consider as boyfriend material such a boring type as my nineteen-year-old self.  What I willingly mistook as love at first sight was, from her perspective, merely a desire to hurt her parents.  By being with me she was, as they say, slumming it.  I learned much later that her hand in marriage had already been half promised by her parents to some forty-something year-old Count from Bari; a distant friend of the family, with excellent business connections and prospects.  To ward off this unwanted union, Claudia chose me to be the spanner in her parents’ works. Oblivious to Claudia’s true motives, I accepted an invitation to visit her parents’ villa on the shores of Lake Como during the Spring break.  What I assumed would be ten days on fine wine, delicious food, witty conversation and, rather more optimistically, plenty of action in the bedroom, turned out to be an excursion that would utterly and irreversibly alter the whole course of my life.

            We flew to Malpensa Airport, Milan, and took a taxi from there to her parents’ villa.  I guess the brace of Ferraris on the gravel driveway should have alerted me to the fact that, possibly, this was a little out of my league.  The second smack in the face should have been the greeting servants lining the stone steps leading to the magnificent entrance to the magnificent villa, set in magnificent gardens, overlooking magnificent Lake Como.  My only defence is to plead the old adage, ‘Love is blind’.  Although, in my case, ‘Love is blindfolded’ might have been more accurate.

            Not long after our arrival at the villa, I discovered that my main rival for Claudia’s affections was not the ageing, titled industrialist from Bari, but Giuseppe, a thirty-year old Olympic fencing instructor, invited to the villa for the weekend.  Upon arrival, this ludicrously handsome athlete leapt from his vintage open-top Alfa Romeo, without disturbing the chic sweater draped casually over his square shoulders.  His expensive after-shave was probably called ‘Self-Confidence’.  He said “Ciao” with a sonorous, velvet voice, and somehow managed to maintain eye-contact with each female member of the family as he kissed their hand.  He even wore shoes without socks!

            There was to be a party at the villa that first night.  I had no idea why, who was invited, when it started, or when it was likely to finish.  A steady stream of people arrived at the villa throughout the afternoon, and I had no way of knowing whether they were guests, caterers, body guards, or what.  I felt desperately alone despite the growing crowd in this beautiful location.   If there was some material aim to this action of Claudia’s, I could understand - a new pony, a second Ferrari, anything.  But no; the aim was not any form of gain, it was merely to make a point about her pending betrothal.  I gradually understood that the sole purpose of my presence was to annoy Claudia’s parents.

            My desperation was able to manifest itself more tangibly once I’d discovered the free bar located inside the villa, through the patio doors.  In addition to knowing virtually no one, communication was further complicated by my severe lack of useful Italian.  As the sun began to set over the stunningly beautiful lake, the music began and guests ventured onto the open-air dance floor, which was the centrepiece of the villa’s terrace.  I positioned myself adjacent to the low wall that separated the large patio from the even larger gardens which sloped down to the water’s edge.  Tasteful lighting scattered amongst the shrubbery added to the ambiance.  With a glass of red wine in hand, I adopted my moody, detached pose, gazing critically over the dancing couples and the beautiful surroundings.  I look back on that evening now with such pained pity - what a pathetic picture I must have made.  My feigned aloof air must surely have been interpreted by the guests for what it really was - sulking.  I was generally ignored; and deservedly so.

            One guest did not ignore me, though.  As I fought the effects of the wine, a woman on the other side of the dance floor came into focus.  It became clear that here was a woman who had once been referred to as beautiful.  Unfortunately, the past tense is a cruel critic, against which even the best cosmetic surgeon has little chance.  Definitely in her forties, but aiming for a look at least ten years younger, she still possessed class.  She was ageing well, and a kind suitor would have been able to use a wine analogy to good effect.  Indulging further in my sulking, I tried ignoring her.

            Within half an hour, a diplomat might have generously observed that I was on my way to having a little too much to drink.  The upside proved to be that the ‘house red’ was actually very good indeed.  I decided that returning frequently to the bar for refills might have been making a bad impression on my hosts so, on my next visit, I asked simply for a bottle and a corkscrew.  The barman obliged and, like his kind the world over, was able to inform me that the woman who had been observing me was a Contessa.  Motor skills are never at their best when one is under the influence of alcohol, and it is not just heavy machinery that should be avoided in such situations; even the simplest of actions can prove problematic.  My attempt to remove the cork with, what I imagined would be, a flourish, turned out to be slapstick.  In addition to the egg on my face, I was left with small spots of red on the shoulder of my new, white shirt.  I returned to my vantage point next to the low wall, where I continued watching the party guests, and killed time with more moody sulking.  The Contessa was still there, on the terrace, enjoying the warm evening air, chatting comfortably with a variety of guests, but occasionally looking out for me, from the corner of her eye.  I had the impression she had been waiting for my return.

            It wasn’t long before I understood why.  She stalked around the edge of the dance floor, champagne in hand, making it clear that I was her quarry.  She arrived and, without a word, gently took my glass of wine, and placed it, with her champagne flute, next to the wine bottle on the low wall.  Before I knew what was happening, she was taking me by the hand and leading me to the dance floor.  As if on-queue, a slow waltz began.  Her doe-eyed gazed met my bemused, bloodshot stare, as the 3/4 beat brought the motion of our bodies into intimate synchronicity.  Still nothing was said.  Eye contact was broken, however, when she noticed the red spots on the left shoulder of my shirt.  Her penciled eyebrows moved closer together for a brief moment, her head tilted slightly, and a light smile played around her lips.  And still no words were spoken.

            The first few notes of the next dance, a Tango, were suddenly accompanied by a terrified scream from somewhere within the villa.  The music stopped.  Guests looked at each other; then started to venture towards the source of the shrill interruption.  The Contessa gripped my hand and we too moved.  In the hallway, Claudia’s mother, surely ashen-faced under her make-up, stood staring into the dining room.  Her hands, quivering as they covered her mouth, had been unable to mute the scream.  The guests now formed themselves into what could easily be described as a crowd, but had, so far, refrained from becoming a mob.  This crowd moved into the dining room, curious to both see, and not see, the reason for the hostess’s outburst.  On the floor lay a body.  Inevitably, a pool of blood was slowly expanding on the rug, as if aware of its vital and expected role in enhancing such a dramatic scene.  In these situations there will always be one or two individuals who consider themselves ‘leaders’.  They will ‘take charge’.  Two such individuals knelt down next to the body.  One ordered, “Call a doctor,” to the crowd in general.  The other ‘leader’, who had been searching for the body’s pulse, countermanded the first order with, “No, call the police.  He’s been stabbed; this is murder.”  The room inhaled and held its collective breath.  

            The first ‘leader’, keen to regain the upper hand, asked, “Does anyone know this man?”  Immediately, several guests uttered the name of a local politician.  The room then began speculating as to the motive for this murder.  Within a minute, a general, expert consensus was reached by the room, that the victim had been involved in several local scandals involving payments for favours, predominantly associated with bogus permits in the field of building regulations.  The self-appointed jury then unanimously found the deceased guilty, and he probably deserved it anyway.  And with that, the crowd had, indeed, become a mob.  Had this been Transylvania, there would have been pitchforks.

            The Contessa gripped my hand firmly and pulled me out of the dining room.  She did not speak until we reached the deserted dance floor.  Finally, she spoke.

            “You naughty man.  But you are very clever, I think.  No?”

            “Er, mm, er, what?”

            “I know what you did.  But nobody else suspects.”

            “Uh?”

            “You are just the person I have been looking for.  I have a little problem of my own that I need … solving.”

            “Problem?”

            “Oh, you don’t fool me,” she purred, “Here is my card.”  I then felt her hand slide the card inside my trouser pocket, and linger there a little longer than was really necessary.  She smiled.  And it was then I realised…

            “No, no!  Look, you’ve got this all wrong.  I didn’t…”

            She placed her fingertip against my lips and said, “Shhhhh….  It will be our little secret.  No?”

            “Er… no!”

            Before I could protest further, a few of the guests began to return to the terrace.  With speed of thought that I found surprising, the Contessa grabbed a sweater from the back of a chair and wrapped it around my shoulders, a la Giuseppe.  She stroked my left shoulder and added, “We don’t want the other guests to discover your true business.  Call me.  Soon.”

            And with that she glided across the dance floor to mingle.

            I found the wine bottle on the low wall, and began its rapid consumption.

———————

            The inevitable police presence meant no one staying in the villa could get to bed before 3am.  The following morning I wanted to sleep in.  But, the red wine produced an epic hangover, and everyone else in the villa seemed to have plenty to do dealing with the fallout from yesterday’s incident.  Remembering Claudia’s instructions when I arrived, I rang for one of the servants, and ordered breakfast.  Black coffee.  No, really, just back coffee, grazie.

            During the second cup, I remembered the Contessa’s exploration of my trousers.  I found her card and examined it.  Name, address, telephone number; all printed below the embossed Trattatello family crest.  What was I to do?  I could simply ignore the card, and her offer.  However, something in her manner had informed me that this was a woman who would not accept No as an answer; beautiful women rarely do.  So, once I had consumed sufficient coffee to partially offset yesterday's wine, I decided to call her number.  A man answered.  Damn!  

            “Er. La Contessa, per favore?”

            “Momento.”

            Probably having been told the caller sounded English, a female voice began, “Hello?”

            “Er.  Hello, is that Contessa Trattatello?”

            “Si, this is Contessa di Trattatello.  And is this the young English gentleman I met last night?”

            “Yes.  Si.  Er…”

            “I am so glad you called.  I would like to discuss with you a little business proposition.  But not here.  How about lunch tomorrow?  I know a delightful trattoria.  Luigi’s in Bellagio.  One o’clock.  Ciao.”

            And it was that simple.

———————

            The taxi dropped me off outside the trattoria and I entered, unsure if a table had been booked or not.

            “Ah, Senior, the Contessa awaits you.  This way please.”  

            I was shown to a table in an intimate corner of a secluded balcony, blessed with more stunning views over the lake.  Does this place have an ugly side?  The Contessa was waiting for me, gazing wistfully over the postcard scene.  She greeted me with a peck on each cheek; something Europeans find as easy as breathing, but Brits manage to turn into an embarrassing, comedic event.  Is it one cheek, two or three?  Europeans just know.  Brits, thinking their luck is in, optimistically go for the third peck, and are left kissing thin air.

            We sat at a ridiculously small table; our knees almost touching.  Vines hanging from the pergola protected us from the warming sun overhead.

            “Thank you for coming.”

            “My pleasure.  I think?”

            “I know you Englanders find such things … difficult, so let me say from the start, this meal will be put on the account our family has at this trattoria.  Also, I do not wish to waste valuable time translating the menu, so please trust me when I order for you.”

            I accepted.  There was not really any other option available to me.  The confidence of the Contessa - did it come from being rich and titled, or from being that much more experienced than me, or simply from being on home soil?

            The waiter arrived and a conversation ensued that was both rapid and incomprehensible.  Its outcome, however, was a delicious plate of pasta, with wine.  I limited myself to just one glass.  Sorbetto followed.  Over cappuccino, the Contessa drew her chair even closer.  Her voice lowered.  Her eyes penetrated mine more deeply.  She was about to ‘get down to business’.

            “I have a little problem I believe you can help me with.”

            This was the part of the lunch I had not been looking forward to.  “Er.  Look, there may have been a misunderstanding yesterday.”

            She smiled.  “No, there was no misunderstanding.  Please hear me out.”

            What had I to lose?  I sipped my cappuccino and listened.

            “My ‘usband no longer finds me as attractive as… other women.  His business trips take longer and longer.  Last year I asked a private detective to follow him and discover what was going on.  He took some photographs to prove to me that my ‘usband was being, er,… unfaithful.  Is right word, yes?”

            “Er, probably.”

            She reached into her handbag, removed a small envelope and slide it over the table to me.  “Look, please.”

            I opened the envelope, and found inside convincing evidence of her husband’s infidelity.  I tried to remain as impassive as possible, and returned the photos to the envelope.  As I slid the envelope back across the table, I could see the reaction these photos had on the Contessa.  All her self-confidence had evaporated.  She avoided eye-contact with me.  A small, white handkerchief was being applied to the corner of one eye.  

            “I’m sorry this seems to hurt you so.” was all I could think to say.

            The handkerchief performed a small tug-o-war between her two fists before being used to stifle a small sniffle.  A slight breeze ruffled the vine leaves overhead.  Birdsong was the only sound.  I waited.

            “My ‘usband, he, … he needs, … he needs eliminating.  Bastardo!”

            “Look, that’s a bit, you know, drastic, isn’t it?”

            She looked up and, with a determination that had not been apparent a few seconds earlier, uttered two words that would change the course of my life.

            “Due milioni.”

            “Excuse me?”

            “Two million.  Euros.”

            The absolute revulsion at being considered a hired killer, and the prospect of carrying out something for which I had no practical or moral preparation, was suddenly thrown into question.  Two million?  Goodbye student debt.  No, wait, what am I thinking?  This is murder.  I hesitated.

            “Er.  Look.  Er.”

            “Okay.  Two and a half million.”

            “What?”

            She smiled at me, leaned even closer and whispered, “It is easy.  I pay you two and an half million euro and you … stop my ‘usband and his naughty ways.  For good.”  More work with the handkerchief.  “I am so miserable since I found out.  If he does not die, then I think I will.”

            This was all becoming a bit too melodramatic.  But, two and a half million?  Really?  For bumping off someone who was cheating on his wife?  A foreigner, at that.  I poured myself another glass of wine.  Could I do it?  Really do it?  Paying off that student debt was very attractive, as was the prospect of buying an Alfa Romeo to rival Giuseppe’s.  As if she was reading my mind, the Contessa continued, “I will set up everything for you.  I know when he will be alone, and where.  I will even make sure he is a little drunk.  All you have to do is…”

            “What?  What is it I have to do?”

            “You are so modest.  You are joking with me, no?  Ha ha.  You are, how you say, … toying with me. Yes?  I saw what you did at the party.  It was perfect.”

            “So, er, a simple, … stabbing then?”

            “That would be perfect.”  Kissing me on the cheek, she added, “But not on the antique carpet, please.”

———————

            We’d arranged to meet a couple of days later to discuss details.  Same trattoria, same table, same perfect setting.  The Contessa selected another fine pasta dish for me, with a superb accompanying wine.  During cappuccino I knew we were down to business again.

            “You return to England on a flight from Milan early next Monday morning, yes?”

            “That’s right, I need to check-in before seven.”

            “That is good.  So, this is what we’ll do.  My ‘usband will be murdered late on Sunday evening.”

            “Er, sorry to interrupt you but, er, could we not call it murder?  I’d prefer to call it an assassination, if you don’t mind.  Thanks.”

            She smiled; or was it a smirk?  “You have your professional pride.  I understand.  My ‘usband will be … assassinated late on Sunday evening.  I will make sure he has a little more to drink than usual, so he will be unlikely to … defend himself.  You will wait in his darkened bedroom; behind the long curtains, maybe, and …”

            “Sorry to interrupt again.  Did you say HIS bedroom?”

            “Yes,” then her face lit up, “Oh, I see what you mean.  Ha ha, yes, we do not share a bed.  If I tell you that our safe is in my bedroom, then you may understand where my … priorities lie.”

            “Okay, got it.  Sorry, do continue.  I was behind the curtains, I think.”

            “Yes.  He will enter his room, drunk, and collapse on the bed.  And fall asleep quickly.  Then you can…”

            We both looked at each other.  Silence.

            “Signora, another cappuccino, perhaps?  Anything for you, Signore?”

            We both declined the waiter’s offer, and he left; but we were both glad of the interruption.  

            “After I … after the … afterwards.  What then?” I asked.

            “You will return to where you are staying, hopefully before midnight, and get some rest.  Then, as if nothing had happened, you will say goodbye to Claudia and her family, take a taxi to the airport, and fly home.”

            “And you?  What will you do?”

            “Nothing.  For a long time, I will do nothing.  I will not discover the body until I call in on my ‘usband for a late breakfast.  Discovering the body I will, naturally, call the police.  Maybe eight or nine in the morning.  By this time, of course, you will be flying back to England.  No one will suspect.”

            “Are you sure?”

            “Yes; because I will move some of my ‘usband’s valuable possessions to a hiding place I know.  I will turn over a few pieces of furniture; the less valuable ones, of course.  I will make it look like my ‘usband discovered a robbery and was mur … killed by the robber.  Like I said, no one will suspect.  The police here will see it as a simple robbery gone wrong.  They do not have the time or the spare officers to investigate, and I will not push them to do so.  I will insist, as a grieving widow, to be left alone with my sorrow.”

            “That all sounds … plausible.  There is one other thing, though.”

            “Yes?”

            “Sorry to ask, but … the money?”

            “Ha ha, you English, you are so afraid to speak of money.  Do not worry.  Tomorrow, you and I will take a train ride to Zürich.  My cousin is the manager of a very discrete bank and, with just a passport and a recommendation from me, you will be able to have your very own Swiss bank account.  My cousin always tells his new clients a little joke; all the computer screens at his bank are wide-screen so they can fit on all the zeros.  When we visit, we will open your account with half a million.  The rest will be transferred a few hundred thousand each month.”

            “Won’t this cousin of your’s suspect?”

            “Oh, yes, he will suspect.  If we play this the right way in the bank, he will suspect you are my lover; what is that other phrase?  Oh, yes, you are my toy-boy, yes?  Ha ha.  He knows my ‘usband and I have no love.  At the bank we must act like lovers.  The payments I will make into your account will be, from the bank’s perspective, for services rendered; I believe that is the phrase.  They will assume that for so much money, you must be very, very good.  Is that a reputation you can live with?”  She smiled; no, this time it was definitely a smirk.

            “Oh, yes; much better than being considered a mur…”  There was no way I would be able to say that word.

———————

            The trip to Zürich went as planned.  The Contessa played her part as my lover a little too convincingly, I thought, and she certainly made it abundantly clear to her cousin that she could not keep her hands off me at any price.  I only hope I was able to play my part as well as she did.  While in Zürich, the Contessa took great delight in buying me a pair of monogrammed gloves for use during … the event.  It seems she had thought of everything, even fingerprints.

            So, I had half a million in my Swiss bank account; that was the good news.  The bad news was, very soon I had to start earning it.  Being new to this, I wanted to get it right, and that entailed planning.  I even researched the most painless method to assassinate someone.  The suggested poisons would need a master’s degree in chemistry to create, or connections in all the wrong places.  It seems there are some very dodgy people out there.  In the little time left to me, I had no option but to resort to the method the Contessa assumed I would use, a knife.

            With part of the money already in my new account, and the prospect of further instalments, I couldn’t very well let down the Contessa.  However, I did need an instrument with which to carry out my … assignment.  I got round this my mentioning (technically, lying), as casually as possible, that my stiletto had been lost while at Claudia’s villa.  The Contessa rose to the occasion and, within a few hours, through contacts I wished to remain oblivious of, she had managed to procure for me a replacement.  It seems I was, as they say, good to go.

            The hours leading up to the event were unbearable.  I replayed in my mind, again and again, the moment when the knife would pierce his flesh, when the blood would begin to ooze from the wound, when his eyes would stare questioningly into mine, when his last breathe would be expelled; and all of it would be my doing.  But, I reasoned, the money was already in the bank, the Contessa had been badly wronged by her husband, I’d given my word - hadn’t I?  And so my torment continued.

            On the Sunday evening, the Contessa was composed enough to invite me over for dinner.  Her husband, she explained was not expected until later in the evening, so we had the house to ourselves.  She’d given her servants the evening off and had prepared our meal herself.  I disappointed her by being unable to eat all but a few mouthfuls, such was the turmoil in my body.  We did share a fine wine, though.

            The sun had set, the table had been cleared, everything had been said that could possibly have been said.  She kissed me, for the first time, full on the lips, and whispered, “Action stations.”

            She lead me up to her husband’s bedroom, showed me where I could hide behind the long, dark velvet curtains.  One final, delicate kiss, and she was gone.  I was now alone in the room.  I made my way to the curtains and slid behind them.  And waited.  This was the moment of truth, and all I wanted to do at this moment was flee.

            Sooner than anticipated, I heard the sound of a car drawing up on the gravel driveway.  I heard car door noises, followed by house door noises, informing me that my target was home.  

            The hour was upon me, and it was then I knew for certain, that I could not go through with it.  

            I had been fooling myself that I could be an assassin.  I had to change my plan.  And quickly.

            Hearing footsteps on the wooden staircase, I hid further into the voluminous curtains, intending now to wait until he fell asleep, not kill him as previously planned, and leave.  I’d have to deal with the Contessa’s disappointment later.  And, of course, return her money.  

            When the Count arrived in the room he was, indeed, a little drunk.  It seems he arrived home in this state and it was therefore unnecessary for his wife to ply him with more booze.  The curtain concealing me hung next to the door to his en