almighty brotherhood of frauds, as she secretly called them.
Harry Joy was not particularly intelligent, not particularly successful, not particularly handsome and not particularly rich. Yet there was about him this feeling that he belonged to an elite and for no good reason (none that Bettina could see) he was curiously proud of himself.
When the patrons of Milanos saw his empty table on Monday lunchtime they already knew the news. They felt a gap, an emptiness, as if something very important was missing from the place.
When the table in the corner was taken by Joel Davis, his junior partner, and Harry's wife, there was (although they could not express it) something not quite decent about it.
Aldo would not have given them the table, not that particu-lar table, but the woman tricked him into it, and then, of course, it was impossible to take it away from her. She arrived first, by herself, and how was he to know she was lunching with that person.
'Ah, Mrs Joy.' He beamed. He held her hand. He had not been told. Other people had been told.
'For two, Aldo.'
'For two. Mr Joy will be joining you?' (He groaned, remembering.)
'Mr Joy will not be here.'
She did not tell him. Of course she was upset (possibly she was upset). No one told him. He, Aldo, was the only one who didn't know. It was a Monday, a difficult day to know things.
His mistake (when he discovered it) offended him throughout lunch, made him scowl to himself, and while he made sure that the service was scrupulous, he sulked behind the bar, preoccupied and uncertain.
When Joel came up the stairs, the penny dropped. But it was too late to shift them to another table.
And still he did not know about Harry! It would be another minute before he would know, and then from a winewaiter. Now he merely looked at Joel with a sour sort of contempt. He smiled, a baring of teeth.
Joel bared his teeth in return and checked his cufflinks, a salesman's habit he would have done well to be rid of. He did other American things (for he was an American), like insisting on iced water at table and then drinking spirits throughout the meal, which was noticed by everybody and not always approved of. The town had an ambivalent attitude towards Americans, envying their power and wishing to reject it and embrace it all at once. In business you could never be sure whether it was an asset or a liability to be an American.
Joel was only twenty-six but there was about him the sense of something over-ripe and gone to seed. He was not tall, and not exactly fat. But one noticed, immediately, those large red lips, which hovered on that balancing point where sensuality becomes greed. His fleshy face was a trifle too smooth and the skin glistened like a suspect apple which had been waxed to give it extra sales appeal.
He saw Bettina waiting, noted Aldo scowling, and instinctively, with no calculation, chose a route through the pink tablecloths which would take him past a prospective client, who would, he assumed, be eager for news of Harry.
Bettina watched him with qualified pride. She saw that the client liked him but that other people at the table were offended by his over familiar manner. He had no real idea of the impression he made. He would never understand why he offended people, why they thought him too pushy, too loud, or why they would also think him refreshing and clever.
'Hello, Mrs Joy,' he said.
'Mr Davis.' She did not smile. She felt the disapproval of the restaurant, like a slightly off odour, collectively generated. There was discomfort. A glass of wine was spilt at one table, a fork dropped at another.
Joel was busy searching for a waiter.
'It's O.K,' Bettina kicked his shin gently. 'I ordered you a daiquiri.'
He pulled a face. 'You know I don't like daiquiris.'
'How are they at the office?'
The office, like the restaurant, had displayed a certain mute hostility towards Joel as if the whole business had been his fault. They had detected signs of a new pomposity in him. He had 'borrowed' the little Birko jug Harry had kept in his office to make coffee and this, although he didn't know it, had created a minor scandal.
'It's O.K. in the office. Alex is looking for another job already. He doesn't trust me and if Harry ....'
He didn't say 'dies' and she lowered her eyes as if he had imprudently complimented her on the smoothness of her skin.
,And a couple of the girls were crying.'
'Which ones?'
He looked at her and laughed maliciously.
The daiquiri arrived. He sent it back and asked for a martini. He explained to the waiter how he would like the martini made.
'You bastard,' she said.
'What?'
'I ordered the daiquiri for you.'
'I don't like daquiris.'
'I would have drunk it,' she said.
Only after the food arrived did he ask her about Harry, and, just as in any business lunch the entree is reserved for small talk-and the main course signals the commencement of serious business, it was at this point they began.
'Well ....?' he said.
'He thinks he's going to die.'
'And ....'
'The doctor says he'll be fine. It's a dangerous operation, but he's confident it'll be fine.'
'But he thinks he's going to die? Why?'
'You know Harry, it's like his hives. He decides he's going to get them and ....'
'When he decides he's getting hives, he gets them.'
'I didn't mean that. He looks good.'
'Good.'
'The doctor says there's nothing to worry about.'
'Marvellous,' he said, but kept looking her in the eye, his knife and fork lifted, as if looking for some secret sign. Joel, sometimes, lacked all subtlety.
Neither of them had the will or the strength to actually murder someone, although Bettina would certainly grow in leaps and bounds over the following year, and nor did they have the strength to say they would have liked Harry dead. In truth they wouldn't even look the idea in the face. Instead they flirted with it. They saw it pass sexily out of the comer of their eyes but did not, for a second, turn their heads to stare. They did not allow themselves' to know what they wanted or why they wanted it. They were blind-worms pushing forward, entwining in the dark. One could, unfairly perhaps, imagine them as the instruments of someone else's pleasure.
'Here comes the little monkey.'
He knew she was talking about Aldo and didn't look around. Joel had long ago given up trying to make Aldo like him.
'Mrs Joy,' Aldo looked at her reproachfully, his small dark head on one side, 'you didn't tell me ...'
Aldo did not much care for -Bettina Joy but he admitted to himself that she had something, a strength, a sexiness that was very rare for a slightly dumpy woman with fat legs. Her face was round and smooth and olive- skinned, her hair straight and dark, her eyes impenetrable.
'I'm sorry, Aldo.'
'I understand, I understand.'
'He's in the General. They'll be operating this week.'
'Such a young man. He'll be better though, soon. My brother had a heart attack twenty years ago. He's been healthier since he had it.' He laughed. 'It's probably the best thing.'
'Coronary by-pass surgery', Bettina said firmly, 'is very dangerous, but we all hope it will be fine.'
'Now perhaps he will give up those cigarettes.'
'Perhaps, yes.'
There was a pause and Joel thought: not a damn fool here knows I am fucking her.
('Your meal was enjoyable?')
