going to leave all that again? It’s not natural.”
Mamma Cesare shook her head. “I knew he’d never stay. Not when he saw that sign I painted where his house should be—‘Cara did this’ in big white letters. It must have glowed in the moonlight.”
Agathe’s jaw dropped. She didn’t know whether to react with horror or admiration for a woman who was so determined to get the man she adored. She whispered, “So you left Cara to marry one of the other boys?”
“What other boys?” said Mamma Cesare. “Nobody else came home. That village died and I wasn’t going to stay for the funeral. Cesare and me, we left for America.”
“And ended up in Dot.”
“It’s a long story and I’m all of a sudden tired. This thing I wanted to show you, it will have to wait. Will you come again another night?”
Agathe said of course she would and Mamma Cesare must rest and she thanked her very much for the tea as they walked uncertainly together down the corridor to the street and especially for Cesare’s story and, of course, for the fortune-telling.
“Oh, I forgot about that,” said Mamma Cesare. “Tell me, who is Achilles?”
“I don’t know an Achilles,” said Agathe. “I know a Hektor and I don’t like him very much.”
“Your cup says you met Achilles. Maybe even today. I am never wrong. I am strega from long line of strega. You know Achilles. He is your friend.”
Agathe said, “I’ll remember. Goodnight.” She pulled the door shut behind her and stepped on to Castle Street. High on the hillabove, the cathedral bells struck midnight. And a few moments later, allowing for the time that the sound takes to travel over the city even on a clear Dot summer night, the driver and conductor of the last tram to run that evening got up from their seats on its back step, flicked their cigarettes away in bright curving shooting-star arcs, screwed the lids back on their coffee flasks and took the tram out of the depot. By the time it had rolled through town, past the darkened Opera House where the current production of Rigoletto had failed to impress the critics or the customers, through Museum Square, along George Street to find the manager of the Palazz Kinema waiting for his usual ride home and back in a lazy coat-hook loop to where Cathedral Avenue meets Castle Street, Agathe was already standing at the stop, spotlighted in a street lamp’s yellow puddle. She sat at the back of the tram. She did not recognise the manager of the Palazz Kinema when he got off at the stop before hers. She kept her eyes fixed modestly on the floor until he passed and stood up almost as soon as the tram moved off again, holding on to the pole at the back as it crossed the Ampersand.
At the other side of Green Bridge, when the tram left her, she stood for a moment, enjoying the quiet, the rush of water under the arches, the whirring flight of two ducks as they flashed between the street lamps, the reassuring darkness of The Three Crowns, the distant, diminishing mechanical roll of the retiring tram, out of sight, invisible but still telegraphing its existence backwards through the complaining wires and reverberating rails. Agathe climbed the stairs to her flat, tiptoed into the bedroom, sloughed off her clothes like a dryad bathing in a moonlit pool and lay down, sadly, beside the snoring Stopak.
Before sleep took her, the little cat clawed its way up the bedclothes and burrowed, purring, under her hand. “Goodnight, Achilles,” said Agathe and slept.
N THE MORNING, TIBO’S SPAT WITH THE MAYOR of Umlaut was still front-page news in the Daily Dottian . When he stopped at the kiosk on the street corner to buy his morning paper, there was a big yellow bill on the board outside:
KROVIC & ZAPF-WAR
A wet stain marked where a passing dog had peed on one corner. In the queue for the tram, three men were reading the story—one of them holding the paper, two friends craning over his shoulders. It differed from the
Mamma Cesare shook her head. “I knew he’d never stay. Not when he saw that sign I painted where his house should be—‘Cara did this’ in big white letters. It must have glowed in the moonlight.”
Agathe’s jaw dropped. She didn’t know whether to react with horror or admiration for a woman who was so determined to get the man she adored. She whispered, “So you left Cara to marry one of the other boys?”
“What other boys?” said Mamma Cesare. “Nobody else came home. That village died and I wasn’t going to stay for the funeral. Cesare and me, we left for America.”
“And ended up in Dot.”
“It’s a long story and I’m all of a sudden tired. This thing I wanted to show you, it will have to wait. Will you come again another night?”
Agathe said of course she would and Mamma Cesare must rest and she thanked her very much for the tea as they walked uncertainly together down the corridor to the street and especially for Cesare’s story and, of course, for the fortune-telling.
“Oh, I forgot about that,” said Mamma Cesare. “Tell me, who is Achilles?”
“I don’t know an Achilles,” said Agathe. “I know a Hektor and I don’t like him very much.”
“Your cup says you met Achilles. Maybe even today. I am never wrong. I am strega from long line of strega. You know Achilles. He is your friend.”
Agathe said, “I’ll remember. Goodnight.” She pulled the door shut behind her and stepped on to Castle Street. High on the hillabove, the cathedral bells struck midnight. And a few moments later, allowing for the time that the sound takes to travel over the city even on a clear Dot summer night, the driver and conductor of the last tram to run that evening got up from their seats on its back step, flicked their cigarettes away in bright curving shooting-star arcs, screwed the lids back on their coffee flasks and took the tram out of the depot. By the time it had rolled through town, past the darkened Opera House where the current production of Rigoletto had failed to impress the critics or the customers, through Museum Square, along George Street to find the manager of the Palazz Kinema waiting for his usual ride home and back in a lazy coat-hook loop to where Cathedral Avenue meets Castle Street, Agathe was already standing at the stop, spotlighted in a street lamp’s yellow puddle. She sat at the back of the tram. She did not recognise the manager of the Palazz Kinema when he got off at the stop before hers. She kept her eyes fixed modestly on the floor until he passed and stood up almost as soon as the tram moved off again, holding on to the pole at the back as it crossed the Ampersand.
At the other side of Green Bridge, when the tram left her, she stood for a moment, enjoying the quiet, the rush of water under the arches, the whirring flight of two ducks as they flashed between the street lamps, the reassuring darkness of The Three Crowns, the distant, diminishing mechanical roll of the retiring tram, out of sight, invisible but still telegraphing its existence backwards through the complaining wires and reverberating rails. Agathe climbed the stairs to her flat, tiptoed into the bedroom, sloughed off her clothes like a dryad bathing in a moonlit pool and lay down, sadly, beside the snoring Stopak.
Before sleep took her, the little cat clawed its way up the bedclothes and burrowed, purring, under her hand. “Goodnight, Achilles,” said Agathe and slept.
N THE MORNING, TIBO’S SPAT WITH THE MAYOR of Umlaut was still front-page news in the Daily Dottian . When he stopped at the kiosk on the street corner to buy his morning paper, there was a big yellow bill on the board outside:
KROVIC & ZAPF-WAR
A wet stain marked where a passing dog had peed on one corner. In the queue for the tram, three men were reading the story—one of them holding the paper, two friends craning over his shoulders. It differed from the
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