the programme notes referred to it as a key example of the Milanese Emptiness School, this distinction was not sufficient to draw the Edinburgh crowds. And to add to the general air of participation in an obscure event, the print was dark and scratchy, as if not enough light could penetrate it, or as if it had been made at dusk, on a cloudy day. The action took place in a small village between Milan and Parma, in the early 1950s. The village was closing, it seemed, through lack of support. The local priest, played by a man with a pronounced limp, had despaired of saving his congregation, which was now reduced to a few aged widows and a young girl who appeared to be developing stigmata. The stigmata which, if genuine, would have revived 94
the village’s fortunes, turned out to be no more than a rash.
All the village men were in Bologna, where they were on strike. The strike had no cause and had no apparent ending.
There was nobody to negotiate with, as the bosses had gone to Rome and declined to return. There was a profound crisis.
At the end of the film, the crowd had arisen from its seats and made its way through to the bar. Some people remained seated in the theatre, as if waiting for further explanation. Pat walked through with Matthew, and asked him what he thought of the film.
“Well,” he began, and then tailed off. He looked at her; she would have views perhaps; for his part, he had no idea what to say.
“Exactly,” whispered Pat. “And what did the crowd think?”
“The crowd’s not fussy,” said Matthew.
As they entered the bar, Pat looked at the individual members of the crowd. Matthew had introduced them to her before they had gone into the theatre, and now she recalled their names.
Ed was the tall one in the black tee-shirt; Jim was the one with the earring; Philly was a blonde with rat’s-tail hair; and Rose had a curious pair of sixties-style glasses. Pat found herself staring at Rose, who caught her eye and smiled at her, hesitantly, Pat thought.
When they reached a table and sat down, Pat sat next to Rose, Ed on her other side. Matthew, who was several places away, looked inquiringly at Pat. He wanted her to move, thought Pat, but she would not: she was with the crowd, not with Matthew.
“You work for Matthew, don’t you?” asked Rose. Her voice was strange; rather high-pitched; not a confident voice.
“Yes,” said Pat. “I’m his assistant.”
Rose looked at her and said: “Lucky.”
“To work for Matthew? Lucky?”
“Yes,” said Rose. “I would love that.” She paused. It seemed to Pat as if she was preparing to ask something awkward, and indeed she was.
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“Do you go out with him a lot?” Rose asked. “Or are you just . . . well, I suppose one should say, are you just . . . ?”
“An employee,” Pat supplied. “I work for him, you see.”
This information seemed to please Rose, who glanced over at Matthew and then looked back at Pat. “I’ve known him a long time,” she said. “We used to go to a tennis club together.
Not that my tennis is any good – it’s hopeless. Did you know that Matthew played tennis?”
Pat shook her head. She had always thought of Matthew as being slightly lazy; surely tennis would be too strenuous for him.
“And then,” Rose continued, “we went – the whole crowd, that is, minus Ed, who was having his appendix out – we went off to Portugal last year. For two weeks. That was such good fun.” She closed her eyes, as if to remember.
Pat looked at her. It was perfectly apparent that Rose had her eye on Matthew, but would her interest be reciprocated? She feared it would not. Rose was reasonably attractive, and appeared likeable enough, but that was not the point in these matters.
What counted was chemistry, and when Matthew had introduced her to Rose he had done so in a way which did not suggest that there was anything special between them. Rose, no doubt, was trying too hard. Men did not like to be pursued – as a general rule – and Matthew would have picked up her interest
– and retreated. There was no chance for Rose, Pat thought, unless she changed tactics – and people did not generally change tactics.
Ed now addressed a remark to Rose. Pat looked around her.
The film in one of the other cinemas had come to an end and had discharged its patrons into the bar. They looked animated, and amused; no Milanese emptiness. She watched a couple of young men walk up to the bar. One of them was tall and was wearing a dark-green shirt. He stopped short of the bar to say something to his companion, who leaned forward to catch the remark. As he spoke, the tall young man looked out across the bar, directly at Pat. He paused, and the person with him looked back too.
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He tried to place her. He had met her somewhere – at the cafe? Yes. At the cafe. With that woman who went on about that book. He nodded, and waved.
Pat thought:
