A Table between Worlds
Fanny had slurred the name, saying it quickly and carelessly, and he had thought nothing of it. It was not until they were inside that he realized it was the restaurant where he often ate, the place to which he had brought Lara.
One of Mama Capini’s sullen sons showed them to a window table. He ventured to inquire, “Is your mother here?” but the son turned aside without answering.
Fannie asked, “You’ve been here before?”
“I think so,” he said. For safety’s sake he added, “These storefront spaghetti places all look about the same to me. It was good, though.”
“You said you had money; so we’ll split this, if that’s all right with you.”
“No,” he told her. “I’ll pay.”
“I should warn you, I eat like a fire.”
Looking at her small mouth and slender neck, he doubted it; and when the waitress arrived, Fanny ordered a pasta salad and tea. He asked if the fettuccine Alfredo was good today; assured that it was, he said he would have that.
“And I thought I was hungry.” She lit a cigarette, using the kind of bulky, reliable lighter he recalled from childhood. “Can I ask why you keep staring out the window?”
He had been trying to read the winter-grimed license plates of passing cars, hoping they would betray whether they belonged to his own world or hers. “Just keeping an eye on traffic,” he said.
“See anyone you know?”
He shook his head.
“When you lunch with a good-looking woman, you’re supposed to look at her, even if she’s not so stylishly dressed. You’re even supposed to make conversation, when your mouth’s not full.”
“I think you’re dressed very nicely,” he told her. She was still in the plain black silk frock she had worn in the coffee shop, having removed only the little lace apron and cap. Her serviceable tweed coat was draped over the back of her chair.
“My all-purpose undercover outfit.”
Mama Capini came bustling out of the kitchen and waved as she veered toward them. “Ah! It’s you.” Her smile showed a gold tooth.
Tentatively he said, “It’s been a couple of days, I think.” Did some other version of himself eat here too?
“What you think you say? Maybe a month. You gonna get real skinny.” Mama Capini turned her smile on Fanny. “Look at him! Never eats right but here.”
“I know. He had waffles for breakfast.” Fannie shuddered elaborately.
“That’s right, no good! Maybe I open in the morning, give him omelets and some nice prosciutto, fresh bread. Then I save his life.”
He asked her, “Mama, do you remember Lara? The redhead I brought here?”
“Sure, I know Lara.” The gold tooth flashed again. “Nice girl, too good for you.”
He nodded. “I know, Mama. Has she been in here since she came with me?”
“Oh.” Mama lowered her voice and glanced at the vacant tables around them. “Lara dump you?”
“I’m trying to get undumped. Has she?”
“Last night for dinner, but real late.” Hopelessly, Mama spread plump, clean hands. “We’re all out of tortellini.”
Last night! He asked, “It was Lara? You’re sure?”
“Course. I know her right away.”
Fanny asked, “Was she with anyone?”
“You take him yourself. He don’t look so bad. You make him forget Lara.”
“I’m going to try. But was she?”
“Married couple, new married.” Mama noticed his skeptical expression. “I’m tellin’ you the truth. She’s got rings and everythin’. They hold hands under the table.”
Fanny said, “Describe them, please.” From a corner of his eye, he saw that she had slipped a small notebook and a stub of pencil out of her purse.
“He’s big! Bigger than Amedeo. She’s a little woman like you, real pretty. Both got yellow hair, the man and the woman.”
“How old?”
Mama shrugged. “’Bout the same as you.”
“How were they dressed?”
“Man’s got a blue suit. A tailor made it—he’s too big for Kopplemeyer’s. But all wore out, should have thrown it out last year, you know? I see the suit and I think, bet Lara pays. But I’m wrong. He pays.”
“How was his wife dressed?”
