Good Blood

FRANCO Ungaretti had no trouble identifying Phil either. “Fili, yes?” he said in Italian as they neared the table. “When did you get so old?” He seemed determinedly sullen, as if making sure that they knew he’d come against his better judgment. He continued to scrutinize Phil as they sat down. “Look at that gray in his hair, do you see that?” he said to the woman. “My son looks older than me, isn’t that something?”

The woman, absorbed in counting something off on her fingers, quirked up the corners of her mouth in a mechanical smile.

“You don’t look so terrific yourself, Franco,” Phil said, which was true enough. The older man looked like a broken-down old featherweight who’d been in the ring a few times too often. His nose had been broken more than once, one ear had been partially cauliflowered, and there was healed scar tissue above his eyes. An uglier scar on his cheek, spongy and shiny and pink, looked as if it had been left by a claw hammer, but was probably the one from the broken bottle. He had poorly fitting upper and lower plates that clacked as he spoke, and made the tendons of his neck jump as he tried to keep them from shifting.

“I don’t . . . is it true there are no snails in Ireland?” said the woman, momentarily surfacing, before going back to her fingers without waiting for an answer. The joints, Gideon saw, were puffy with arthritis and had to be painful.

Franco stabbed a finger at Phil. “You,” he said sharply, “can call me ‘Father.’”

“Oh, really? I figure I can call you whatever I want,” Phil shot back, and the two of them glowered at each other.

“Well, this has certainly started off well,” Gideon murmured in English to Phil; and aloud in Italian: “Why don’t I get us some coffee? Anyone?”

“I can buy my own coffee,” Franco said, seeming to notice Gideon for the first time. “Who are you supposed to be, anyway? What do you want here?”

Gideon, sitting across from him, leaned back and away from an almost-visible gust of brandy and stale tobacco fumes.

“He’s a friend of mine, Gideon Oliver. I asked him to come. I wanted to give him the chance to meet my esteemed and beloved father,” Phil said with heavy-handed sarcasm. “So who’s your lady friend?”

“This is Mrs. Ungaretti.” Franco clamped his teeth together, clack, and fixed Phil with a you-got-a-problemwith-that? stare.

“I don’t like being touched,” the woman murmured to no one in particular. “I never have. I don’t know why that should be, unless it’s a family trait.” No one paid any attention to her.

Phil started to answer his father, but decided to let it pass. He didn’t have to say it: As far as he was concerned, there was only one Mrs. Ungaretti, and it wasn’t this addled lady.

“As long as you’re a friend of the family,” Franco said to Gideon, “I’ll have a brandy, a cognac. Make it a double.”

“Yes, I will too,” the woman said vaguely. “Make it a double.”

“She’ll have an espresso,” Franco said.

“Espresso, yes, that’s what I meant,” she said docilely. “With a twist of lemon, if such a thing is possible.”

“Phil?” Gideon asked.

But Phil didn’t hear him. Father and son were engaged in locking glares like a couple of bellicose ten-year-olds trying to stare each other down.

Gideon was grateful for the chance to escape, even temporarily. Not a man who was at ease with emotional fireworks in any case, he was surprised and disturbed by the way Phil was acting. In all these years, he realized, he had never once seen Phil angry—irritated, grouchy, fractious, yes; plenty of times. But really angry? Meanly sarcastic? Never. This was the first time he’d ever seen this gentle, go-with-the-flow man act rudely to anyone, and that was most unsettling of all. It seemed to go against nature.

He took all the time he could getting the drinks— brandy for Franco, espresso with lemon peel for Mrs. Ungaretti, cappuccino for himself—then carried them back out on a tray as slowly as he could get away with doing it. He was pretty sure things were going to get worse before they got better (if they got better, which was looking doubtful), and he was in no hurry to get back.

Indeed, when he returned, they were practically at each other’s throats. Phil’s face was white, with the muscles in his cheek pulsing, and Franco was half out of his chair, bending over the table, his fingers clutching the edge, shouting hoarsely at him. “Don’t you get so high and mighty with me! I’m not your damned father anyway, and for that, you can take my word for it, I thank God every morning of my life!”

“You’re right, you’re not my father,” Phil yelled back into his face, “and I’m not your son. My father was Mark Boyajian. You, you’re nothing!” He was trembling across his shoulders and down his arms.

“I’m nothing? I’m nothing? Don’t make me laugh! You’re nothing! You’re not even your mother’s son!” He, too, was deeply agitated. He snatched up the double brandy and tossed it down in two quick gulps with what started as a stage laugh and quickly became a ragged cough. Inside the cafe, people were nudging each other and faces were turning to take in the show.

“Phil,” Gideon said in English, “maybe we should just—”

Phil shook him off. “No, don’t you want to hear what he has to say? I mean, how often do you get the chance to hear this kind of bullshit? What’s that supposed to mean, I’m not my mother’s son?”

“What does it mean?” Franco said wildly. “You want to know what it means?” He lost his focus, let go of the table, and dropped heavily back into his chair, eyes closed. “What does it mean,” he sighed.

“I’m waiting,” Phil said.

“Come on, Phil,” Gideon said, putting a hand on his arm. “the guy’s obviously smashed, he’s just coming up with things to get you upset. Don’t you think we ought to—”

“You really don’t know, do you?” Franco muttered. “They really never told you? In all this time?”

“Know what?” asked Phil.