Free Fin & Lady: A Novel by Cathleen Schine Page B

since 1939. On a picnic with his wife and son, Mr. Deutsch was struck by lightning. And killed. How could you not mention that your father was struck by lightning? But Biffi never did. He walked with a buoyant, unhurried step, as if the evils of the world had never chased him from country to country and never could. He often said the world was cruel, but he never seemed to mean it. After all, he had been named after a café in Milan that made exceptional cake, the Caffè Biffi, or so he said. It was not easy to know when he was joking. He was handsome, funny, and fierce, a diabolical black goatee surrounding a wide, beautiful mouth, angelic brown eyes shimmering above. His accent was musical, his name a confection. He might as easily have hailed from Freedonia as from Hungary. Fin was crazy about him.
    “You’re crazy about him,” Lady once said.
    “Yeah, but you’re just crazy.” Fin could say that to Lady. He could say almost anything to Lady. That was because most of the time she wasn’t really listening. Most adults never listened to children, and she didn’t listen most of the time, either. But then, when you least expected it, there she was, intent, curious, open, her eyes locked on yours, her whole being locked on yours.
    No wonder Biffi Deutsch fell in love with her.
    “Good lad,” Biffi said when he introduced himself that first day. Lad? No one had ever addressed Fin as “lad.” “Good lad.” When he shook hands, he left a dollar bill resting on Fin’s palm.
    Fin tried to hand it back.
    “No, no, it’s for you.”
    Like a tip. Who ever heard of tipping a kid? Maybe in this man’s country they tipped kids. Or at least lads.
    Fin led him into the living room, where Lady lay on the couch, her head covered by a pillow. Fin made his way closer, close enough to lift a corner of the pillow and whisper, “Someone’s here. A man. From not the United States.”
    Lady emerged, ravishing, her skin as clear as porcelain, her eyes bright. “ Ciao , Biffi! I wasn’t expecting you!”
    “Not? You have invited me, you see.”
    He settled down on one of the low curvy chairs and crossed his legs. As he did so, his pant leg rode up, exposing bright purple socks, a dazzlingly pale leg, and a dark garter.
    Fin made them martinis.
    “Who taught you this sophisticated skill?” asked Biffi.
    “Lady did.”
    “Did she?” said Biffi. “Did you?” he said to Lady, raising an eyebrow.
    “He doesn’t drink them,” Lady said. “Do you, Fin?”
    “No. They’re disgusting.”
    Biffi laughed. “Well then.”
    When Biffi and Lady got up to go to dinner, Biffi said, “Come on, you, too,” and Fin said, “Really?” and Lady said, “ Perché no? ” and Mabel said, “Wash your hands.”
    They went to a small Italian restaurant with red-and-white-checked tablecloths and candles stuck in wine bottles that were wrapped with woven straw. There was sawdust on the floor, and Fin felt as if he were in a horse stall. He had spaghetti and meatballs. “Where are you from? Is Hungary near Italy? I’ve been to Italy. And Paris. Have you been to the World’s Fair? Do they have a Hungarian pavilion at the World’s Fair?”
    “He’s usually as quiet as a mouse,” Lady said.
    “I am?”
    “Are you?” Biffi asked.
    Fin thought for a moment. He heard his father’s voice: Cat got your tongue again? “Maybe.”
    “I was a quiet boy,” said Biffi.
    “Quiet children hear things,” said Lady.
    “All children hear things,” Biffi said.
    Fin watched as a beautiful striped slab of ice cream was placed before him.
    “Spumoni!” he said. Just the word was festive.
    “A traditional Hungarian dessert,” said Biffi.
    “Ha ha,” said Fin.
    “Oh yes!” said Biffi. “It is true. And Spumoni is my middle name.”
    “Biffi Spumoni Deutsch,” said Lady. “It just rolls off the tongue.”
    They all started to laugh. They repeated the ice-cream middle name, laughing and laughing. He had never laughed like that with