The American by Martin Booth

the formula, another cue in the game of recognition.
    All the while, I was being watched. I paid with a five-euro note. The page of the newspaper slipped to the ground. I picked it up.
    ‘ Grazie .’
    As the word was spoken, I saw the head tilt to one side. There was a smile. I could see lines form at the corner of the eyes, a young person’s eyes.
    ‘ Prego ,’ I answered, adding, ‘you are most welcome.’
    The newspaper was folded, I collected my change and followed some paces behind through the market stalls to the gelateria -cum-bar outside of which stood some tables and chairs on the pavement. My contact sat beneath a Martini umbrella. I sat opposite across the metal table which rocked unevenly on the pavement.
    ‘It is hot.’
    The sunglasses were removed and put down. The eyes were deeply hazel, but contact lenses can tint an iris and I guessed these were coloured.
    The waiter came out, flicked a cloth over the table and emptied the tin ashtray down a draining grate in the gutter.
    ‘ Buon giorno. Desidera? ’
    He spoke with a tired voice. It was nearly midday and the sun was hot.
    I did not order. This was the final fail-safe, the final check. My visitor said, ‘ Due spremute di limone. E due gelati alla fragola. Per favore .’
    Again, there was a smile and I saw the skin by the eyes line once more. The waiter nodded. I noticed my visitor’s smile was devious, cunning: there was something sharp about it, acutely discerning. It was like the crafty, falsely subservient expression one sees in the eye of an artful dog which has just robbed the butcher’s shop.
    We did not speak until the drinks and ice creams arrived.
    ‘It is hot. My car has no air conditioning. I asked for one but . . .’
    The words trailed off. Thin, artistic fingers like a musician’s removed the plastic straw from the drink and sipped at it.
    ‘What car have you?’ I asked but received no reply. Instead, the hazel eyes moved quickly across the market crowd, from one passer-by to the other.
    ‘Do you live far off?’
    The voice was subdued, more suited to an intimate tête-à-tête in a private cubicle in a cosy restaurant than conversation across a rickety street-café table.
    ‘No. Five minutes’ walk at the most.’
    ‘Good! I’ve had enough in the sun for today.’
    We ate our ice creams and drank our drinks. We did not speak again until it was time to leave. The waiter brought the bill.
    ‘Let me,’ I offered, reaching for the slip.
    ‘No. My shout.’
    Such an English expression, I thought: British, at any rate.
    ‘Are you sure?’
    ‘Quite.’
    It was if we were old friends sparring in a comradely fashion over a bill in a London restaurant. Business friends. In part, this was the case, for we were doing business.
    ‘You leave. I’ll get my change and come after you.’
    We made our way to the vialetto . At all times, my visitor kept at least thirty metres back.
    ‘Very nice,’ was the comment as I let us in to the cool canyon of the courtyard, the fountain dripping gently in the quiet. ‘You’ve found a very nice spot. I do like fountains. They add such – such peace to a place.’
    ‘I like it,’ I replied.
    It was at that moment, perhaps, for the first time, I felt a distinct affinity for the little town, the valley and the mountains, sensed their deep tranquillity and wondered if, when it was all over, I should stay this time, eke out my leisure years here, not move on to another temporary abode and subterfuge.
    We went up the stairs and into my apartment; my visitor sat in one of the canvas chairs.
    ‘I wonder if I might beg a glass of water? It is so frightfully hot.’
    Frightfully: another English phrase.
    ‘I have cold beer. Or wine. Capezzana Bianco. It is semi-sweet.’
    ‘A glass of wine. Please.’
    I went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. The beer bottles clinked in the door rack. I could hear movement in the chair as the wood frame creaked. I knew what was going on: my room was