Free Tonio by Jonathan Reeder Page B

leaning up against the side of the small arbour that enclosed a wooden loveseat. I settled down on the veranda with the evening papers. A little while later, Tonio placed two square photos on the table in front of me.
    â€˜Remember, they’re just Polaroids,’ he said. ‘I always take a couple to test the light.’
    They were in black-and-white. A girl, or young woman, Tonio’s age, with shoulder-length hair and a pleasant face that looked far too sweet-natured for the aloof business of modelling. She had put herself in a somewhat too deliberately winsome pose, framed by the mini-arbour, its bench apparently removed during the session.
    â€˜Pretty girl,’ I said, my expert eye far from withered. ‘Very pretty. But a professional model … I dunno.’
    I handed him back the Polaroids. I could see on his face that once again, I just didn’t get it.
    â€˜Professional? Adri, she’s a college student. That modelling and acting, it’s only a side job. Just like me at Dixons.’
    â€˜She’s awfully attractive, that’s for sure.’
    Suddenly, his demeanour changed. ‘She asked me go to Paradiso with her on Saturday night,’ he said, with bashful pride. ‘Some kind of Italian blockbuster night, with Italian hits from the ’80s.’
    â€˜Oh, there’ll be lots of Eros Ramazzotti then.’
    He pulled a comic face that said: never heard of him. Miriam came out onto the veranda and offered us something to drink. Tonio declined, but sat down anyway, albeit restlessly, on the edge of a chair. Miriam reminded me of two funerals the next day, at more or less the same time. Two close acquaintances, both of whom were equally important to us.
    â€˜We still have to choose,’ she said. ‘And not like: you do one, I’ll do the other. Not this time.’
    â€˜Too many people dying lately,’ I said. ‘Cremations, funerals … The question is: are they all mandatory? People are so quick to make you feel like there’s no getting out of it. There’s something unfair about it, considering my own—’ I turned to Tonio. ‘I’m not sure if you know … well, so now you do … but when the time comes, I insist on being buried in the absolutely smallest possible company. Not cremated, mind you, buried. A hole in the ground with three people standing around it. Three, no more.’
    â€˜Oh,’ said Tonio, ‘and who’s the third one then?’
    There was a moment’s silence, and then we all burst out laughing in unison. He was right. The third one would be lying in the coffin.
    Tonio had a delightfully unassuming laugh, with lively bursts which made his parted lips looked even fuller and the skin on his nose creep upward toward his forehead. (That laugh, too, was in a critical condition. Oh God, save his laugh.)
    He got up and, still chuckling, asked his mother: ‘Do you still get Surinamese takeaway on Sundays?’
    â€˜A tradition since before you were born,’ Miriam replied.
    â€˜Whitsun, too?’
    â€˜We don’t do Whitsun.’
    â€˜Sunday’s on then. Chow mein would be delicious.’
    â€˜All right, just don’t cancel again because you’re so beat . Like last Sunday, when we were supposed to go into town.’
    â€˜Oh yeah, that watch … we’ll have to make another date.’
    In his quick, springy way, his shoulders hunched just a tad, he headed to the door, and said goodbye with his variable salutation, which this time sounded something like: ‘Oi.’
    â€˜Have fun Saturday,’ I called after him. I don’t know if he heard it, as he was already passing through the kitchen on the way to the front door. How extraordinary: Tonio was going to drop by for the third time in the space of a week. The previous day he had laid out his future plans, but it was like he had something else to tell us. I hadn’t forgotten how proud