Free Juggling the Stars by Tim Parks Page B

up. Right right right right!
    â€˜But just let me phone home first. So they’ll know I’m all right. It’s a bit mean really, making them worry any more.’
    No, if they knew she was with him from the start then there would be no point in it at all. Morris wasn’t sure yet whether he had quite made up his mind, but he was determined to keep such a very exciting idea within the realms of possibility. He put his arms on her shoulders and moved them inwards - gestures you saw on television - to find he was caressing a neck softer than any simile could tell. But he didn’t let that confuse him. (It was, after all, the waste that was a wonder to him with human beauty. So much loveliness for nothing.)
    â€˜Let me phone,’ he said. I can ask about Grandma. If they talk to you they'll be totally intimidating. You know what your mother’s like. Shell have you back and studying all summer in no time.’ He suddenly felt very affectionate.
    She hesitated. ‘Okay.’
    They went into the hallway and stood over the telephone.
    â€˜Trenta-sei, Sessanta-Sei, novanta-due.’
    â€˜Giusto.’
Morris licked his lips. This wasn’t the decision itself. He could simply enjoy it for what it was, a clever practical joke. The point of no return was miles away. In Vicenza?
‘Trenta-sei, sessanta-sei, novanta-due.’
He dialled the numbers very swiftly until, on the nine, he lifted his finger away almost an inch before the dialling stop. Massimina was watching his face with a worried smile and noticed nothing. There was a curious mixture of flirtiness and fear about her, timidity and courage. Very female. Not unlike Mother when she dressed up for darts club lunches but was worried Dad would get drunk. That way they had of enjoying and suffering together. Scrubbers and martyrs both. Morris was suddenly feeling quite sure he could handle this.
    Then he was surprised to hear that a phone had begun to ring somewhere. He had expected simply the no-connect signal. Damn. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.
    â€˜Pronto?’
A stranger’s voice, thank God.
    â€˜Pronto, Signora Trevisan?’
    â€˜Sorry, who? There’s no Trevisan here.’
    Morris waited for the other to hang up, but she didn’t. Massimina looked at him, raising a thick eyebrow. He’d have to make her pluck that if they were going to be in each other’s company for much longer. He covered the mouthpiece.
    It was Paola. She’s just gone to get your mother
-pronto, Signora Trevisan?’
    'I'm afraid there’s no Trevisan living here, you’ve got a wrong number.’
    Why in God’s name didn’t she hang up then? Damn.
    â€˜Sono Morris Duckworth.’
    This number is three-six, six-six, seven-two. What number were you after?’
    â€˜It’s about Massimina, Signora Trevisan.’ Ninety-nine cases out of a hundred people were rude and hung up when there was a wrong number - and this woman had to try and be helpful!
    â€˜Hello, can you hear me? Hello.’
    'I just wanted to tell you that Massimina is here, Signora.’
    And finally the line went dead. Morris relaxed. He smiled at Massimina who was biting the cuff of her tracksuit.
    â€˜No, Signora, I had no part whatsoever in encouraging your daughter and I certainly haven’t made any attempt to take advantage of her. Rather the opposite. I’ve been telling her she should go home. But she insists she wants to stay here. Not only because she’s in love with me, Signora, but because she finds the way you run her life totally unacceptable and dictatorial.’ This was perfect. Morris almost wished for a moment that Signora Trevisan really was at the other end. But it was too late now. He left a long pause for an angry reply.
    â€˜No, I don’t intend to discuss anything of the kind with you, Signora. Nor does your daughter. I merely phoned to inform you that you needn’t worry, and also