Free Cooking With Fernet Branca by James Hamilton-Paterson

sensation of a lid being lifted. Light floods me. I can see again! It’s a miracle. ‘Un miracolo ,’ I murmur weakly, like Erminia in Act 3 on discovering that her confessoris Fr Brasi, the ex-venefice who has now repented and taken holy orders. (They, I’m glad to say, are soon destined to elope, the nouveaux Héloïse and Abelard of pulp opera.)
    ‘No, Gerree, is no miracle.’ And there, with grisly inevitability, is Marta holding my hard hat which I suppose must have become jammed over my eyes by the fall. I notice – because in such moments of revelatory clarity one notices everything – she is also holding a bottle of Fernet Branca in the other hand. Poor dear, she simply can’t be parted from it. Awfully sad, really, what with her bogus musicianship as well. Still, in my present shocked and dishevelled state I experience an almost affectionate pang of neighbourliness towards her. Pretty lucky she was around, frankly. We’re a long way from civilization up here. I reach to pat her hand reassuringly but she misinterprets the gesture and holds the bottle to my lips with a murmured ‘Just a little, Gerree, if you must. Very bad for hospital.’
    I stop sucking at the pourer. ‘I’m not going to hospital,’ I protest. A dribble of Fernet runs down my chin. ‘I’m perfectly all right. Just a bit dazed, you know. Took a bit of a tumble.’
    ‘You asleep ten minutes.’
    ‘Oh nonsense. Just help me get – Ow! ’ For as I sit up an interesting pain shoots through me. The phrase ‘cracked rib’ leaps into my mind. Thanks a million, God: that’s all I needed.
    ‘Maybe you break inside.’
    To the ironic the world is boilerplated with irony and I notice far overhead a pair of vultures twirling: buzzards, actually, but close relatives all the same. Their thin mewing drifts downwards, a feeble noise like kittens being wrung out which is so at variance with their supposed raptorial majesty. With some anguish and Maria’s brawny assistance I get to my feet. Already her alcohol is making my knees weak. I must have fallen a good half mile, to judge by how far overhead the plateau seems on which my house stands and which somehow has to be reached. Slowly and painfully we climb the path up the terraces. The pain eases somewhat, probablythe effect of the Fernet, creating the illusion of my head floating upwards while a numb body plods below. At long last I slump into a chair in my kitchen.
    ‘Now I call ambulance,’ says Marta, looking around for the telephone.
    ‘You will do no such thing,’ I tell her in my most commanding tone, which even to my ears sounds feebly buzzardish; Clark Kent emboldened by sherry. ‘As you can see, I’m perfectly fine, just a bit shaken and bruised. I shall retire to bed. Maybe you ought to do the same after your heroism. If tomorrow morning I’m at death’s door we may have to call in the sawbones, but not until then. I’m most grateful to you for your help, Marta, dear. That was a very neighbourly act. Thank you.’
    My quiet sincerity has its effect and she dimples at me.
    ‘Now I help you upstairs, Gerree.’
    ‘No,’ I say firmly, ‘that won’t be necessary at all.’ There are limits. I mean, where will it end? With her tugging off my intimi , as the Italians primly call underwear? She should be so lucky. Being helped out of one’s clothes by strangers is something the discriminating person reserves for Emergency Room staff, mortuary attendants and casual lovers. Ex-Soviet-bloc neighbours who try to get one drunk do not hack it. ‘Thank you all the same.’
    At last I persuade her to leave, which she does reluctantly after swapping phone numbers. It is agreed I shall call her if I need assistance and she will anyway come over in the morning to see if I’ve survived the night. We part with expressions of goodwill. When I discover that she has forgetfully left behind her bottle of Fernet I almost call her back. Having collected a few necessities I climb the stairs