Bellino

Zin Murphy

Copyright 2020 Zin Murphy

Uniro Publications

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead,
places or events is purely coincidental. The characters are products of the author’s
imagination.

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3 AUDIOBOOK COLLECTIONS

6 BOOK COLLECTIONS
 Bellino

Sophie curses her God. She curses all the saints she can remember from her convent

school days. Then she thanks Our Lady, in the guise of her Portuguese grandmother, for

giving her a swarthy skin that can stand the heat of November in northern Italy.

She picks up her pace. Why does Ev have to schedule meetings so soon after

lunch?

'Hi, Maffy!' Sophie greets a local girl heading slowly in the other direction.

Mafalda shivers and settles herself deeper into her quilted jacket. She mumbles

something as she passes, then turns to stare at the back of Sophie’s blouse as the

Canadian strides off towards her own part of the United Nation International Romance

Office campus.

The security system blocks Sophie between the two entry doors. However hard

she stares at it, the second door refuses to let her through. Then she remembers the trick,

and opens her eyes wide before the scanner. The door hisses and opens. The time display

reads 1428.

Sophie clatters up the stairs. She slows down to compose herself as she crosses

the open space, mouthing 'Ciao' to any colleagues who look up, then pushes Everard’s

door, left ajar, fully open and stumbles in.

'Miz Schtok!'

'Stock,” she corrects automatically. 'Mister Coach.'

'Koch,' he corrects. 'As in ... rooster. Siddown, Sophie.' He shifts his bulk in his

chair. 'Welcome to our two-person Frumpty Dumpty conference.'

 Sophie does not appreciate her boss’s humour. She does not consider herself

particularly fat. Besides, men appreciate a fuller figure.

'What’s new, Ev?'

'Sicily'. Everard fondles his abundant beard.

Sophie has absorbed the northern Italian view of southerners. She pictures people

who are swarthier and shorter than herself, but also sensual and shiftless.

Everard’s cough interrupts her reverie.

'Well? What do you think?'

'Good human material.'

'Yes, a people that is - a people that are - a people that is already very romantic.'

His eyes are bright, his enthusiasm magnified by the lenses of his spectacles. 'A

wonderful stage for our conference.'

'What conference?'

'Nemici, Amici.'

'Huh?'

'Enemies into Friends. A conference on the transforming power of love.'

'Another one?'

'The first of its kind in Sicily.'

'Who’s coming?'

'Tammara Webber, Samantha Young, Sylvain Reynard, Sophie Kinsella…

plenty.'

'And the money? Who’s sponsoring it?'

'Our headquarters in New Orleans, their local government ...'

Sophie makes a dubious face.

'Look, I’ll sort out the sponsors. You just fly down to Sicily and help organise it

for us.'
 Sophie pictures hard-faced peasants clutching violin cases. She pictures deserts,

sandstorms, camels dying of thirst.

'Ugh!'

'My local contact will meet you at the airport, show you round, find the venue,

basically do all the work. You just make sure there’s no hanky-panky. No funds going

missing.'

'Aagh!'

Everard slides a sheet of paper across the desk. Sophie reaches out for it. Everard

slams his hand on hers.

Not again, she thinks.

'Your on-line tickets.'

Everard raises his eyes from the front of Sophie’s sweat-soaked blouse to her

fleshy, compressed lips, then to her steely green eyes.

Everard withdraws his hand. He uses it to bring a plastic bottle out of a drawer in

his massive desk and place it in front of Sophie.

'You might need this.'

Sophie picks it up and reads the label.

Maxfactor Sun’s Block. Made in Laos.

***
Sophie hates flying. It is comfortable enough, saves time and rough journeys, but it is

really damaging to the environment. She catches the shuttle bus to the airport, but has to

take a taxi to the shuttle terminus because she has difficulty getting up so soon after

dawn.

Everard has told her she is going to like his contact in Sicily. She does.

It is not that young Marti Bellino is especially handsome. With his pointy ears,

pointy nose and a chin covered by a rough, pointy beard, he reminds Sophie of a

character in a television series from her adolescent years. It is more his sharp, knowing

eyes, which seem to glitter when they meet hers. The touch of his fingers on her wrist

when she offers her hand electrifies her. He gives off the air of someone who knows

exactly what he is doing. His English is perfect, and his manners are almost perfect.

Sophie wishes he was old-fashioned enough to have kissed her hand, as she watches him

stride ahead with her bags heavy with conference materials. Bellino stops to let Sophie

catch up.

'You will love Sicily,' he says. 'It is the most romantic part of Italy.'

'I’m here to work, unfortunately.'

'But is not Romance your business? The world contains no better place for lovers

than here. That is our car.'

Bellino is pointing to a white Jaguar parked at an angle in the taxi rank. A man in

police uniform is standing beside it, looking carefully around him. He sees them

approach, opens the passenger door for Sophie, then helps Bellino load her bags into the

boot.

The drive into Catania is short. Sophie is trying to work out how much petrol they

have consumed when Bellino pulls up at the hotel he has booked for her. It looks

pleasantly modest. So does the portly man waiting in front of the entrance. He shuffles

over to the Jaguar, opens the door for Sophie, helps her out and kisses her on both cheeks.
Then he does the same for Bellino. Sophie is taken aback. She has barely got used to

greeting habits in the north. She will tell her friends in Canada that it adds a touch of

romance to everyday intercourse. Maybe they should try it.

The portly man has unloaded the boot, and follows them slowly into the hotel. He

deposits the bags in front of the unmanned reception desk, goes behind it and asks Sophie

for her passport. He examines it carefully, with increasing admiration. He shoots a look

of enquiry at Bellino. Bellino gives a quick shake of the head. The man’s face resumes a

neutral expression. He summons a teenage boy, who arrives with the same slow gait, lifts

the bags with an effort and accompanies them to Sophie’s room on the second floor.

As soon as the boy leaves, Bellino asks if he can use the room’s phone.

'So as not to compromise the security of your event. Please give me the final list

of guest speakers.'

Sophie obliges. Bellino sits on the bed, picks up the phone and sets to work.

Sophie examines the room. She likes the lack of extravagance.

Bellino is talking fast in an unfamiliar form of Italian. Sophie goes into the

bathroom. A notice beside a glass on the wash basin asks guests to save a precious

resource by rinsing with mineral water, which they can buy at the Reception Desk.

Sophie approves.

When she emerges, Bellino is putting the phone down.

'Everything is arranged to your satisfaction,' he says. 'Fulvio has sorted the venue;

Clementina has arranged suitable accommodation for the guest speakers; and Carmine

has seen to the catering.'

'Vegetarian, I hope.'

'Including vegetarian. Everything is in order. I have confirmed.'

Bellino swings his legs on to the bed and lays back against the pillows, hands

behind his head, smiling.

 'I’ll need full written details.'

'In due course. In due course.'

'Two copies: one for headquarters in New Orleans, one for the Turin Office.'

'It will be done. You shall have them. Listen, I have something for you. A little

gift.' He reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket.

Oh please, thinks Sophie, not a brown envelope.

It has the shape of a large envelope, but is covered in shiny red and silver striped

paper, tied with thin, bright green ribbon.

As Sophie reaches to accept it, Bellino catches her hand and pulls her toward him.

The bed frame and her momentum throw her off balance and she falls on top of him.

Sophie sees the packet fall to the floor and feels a hand on the inside of her right leg. She

brings her knees together and hears a cry of pain. Bellino looks shell-shocked as she

pushes herself off him and gets to her feet, off the bed.

'Don’t try that again.'

'Santa Madonna di Carini, proteggimi dalle …!'

Sophie hears an unfamiliar expression. It sounds like “stray gay”.

Bellino’s aggrieved look dissolves into laughter.

'I am sorry, my dear. But ... a pretty young woman, alone with me in a hotel room.

I did not want you to think I was homosexual.'

'Why would I care?'

'In fact. From now on, I shall be as good as gold.' Bellino gets to his feet.

'Do that. Right now, I need a couple of hours’ rest. This afternoon I’d like to

inspect the venue.'

Pretty ... young ... Inwardly, she sneers. Then smiles.

'First things first. I shall collect you at one o’clock. You will enjoy the best

Sicilian food.'
 'You know a good restaurant, I take it.'

'I know very many fine restaurants, but nothing can beat home cooking. My wife

is expecting us.'

***
After lunch, Sophie feels bad. She has eaten enough meat and fish to add two

reincarnations to her journey. She could have had an excellent lunch of the many

vegetables that Giulia Bellino had presented, but the polpette di nunnata fish-balls and

the meat-stuffed falsomagro roll had also been irresistible, and delicious. Reliving the

taste, she feels good.

***
The venue is perfect. Carmine and Fulvio show Sophie around it.

The conference hall is big enough to house the maximum number of people they

expect to come. Movable partitions can serve as walls to break it down into smaller

rooms for group sessions. The interpreting booths have new equipment, and Carmine has

hired interpreters to cover all five official languages. There is a catering area on the floor

above, and office space on the ground floor. Picture windows on the top floor offer a

view of the city and sea. They test the air conditioning. It works, and Sophie insists that it

stay on.

Fulvio presents the accounts for Sophie to inspect. It is clear that they have been

kept meticulously. The auditors will be pleased. The only expenditure anyone might

deem extravagant is on catering. Sophie asks about it.

'If food be the music of Romance, play on!' quips Fulvio.

Where on earth did he get that from? Sophie wonders.

They are in a temporary office on the conference floor. Through the window

panel, Sophie sees a group of smartly-dressed men arrive. Two are young, one of them

dark and squat, the other blond-haired but sun-tanned, with a more athletic build. The

third man is tall and thin, grey-faced but silver-haired. Bellino leaves the electricians he

has been conferring with and crosses the room to offer his greeting. He kisses a ring on

the thin man’s hand, yet ignores the other two.

He didn’t do that to me, Sophie thinks before she can stop herself. Maybe he is

gay, after all. A feeling in her stomach tells her otherwise.

Bellino and the thin man talk for ten minutes, then the group leaves.

Bellino comes into the office.

'Marcius sends his apologies, Sophie. He does not speak English. He wishes to

know about your next big conference.'

 'Actually, we’ve put in a bid to host the International Romantic Congress of Film.

They don’t come bigger than that. It’s our Chief Coordinator’s dream. If this conference

in Sicily is a success, it’ll boost our chances enormously.'

'Do you know who your main rivals are?'

'The main contender is Bombay.'

'Who have we got in Bombay?' Bellino snaps at Carmine. 'Films.'

'Well, Shetty’s gone, but Vijay, Santosh and Simran are still around. Plus some

new guys.'

'Find out their names and give the list to Marcius.'

Carmine hurries off to make the calls.

Bellino turns back to Sophie.

'I think we can make sure that you win.'

The air conditioning is strong. Sophie shivers.

'Look Marti, let’s just make sure that everyone who comes here goes away loving

us.'

It is evening when they leave the venue. Sophie is not hungry, but Bellino insists

they eat something together.

'Doesn’t your wife expect you home for dinner?'

'No. She never expects me unless I call. I usually eat out in the evening. I am a

busy man.'

'And if you call?'

'There will be a meal ready when I arrive.'

'How does she manage that?'

'I do not know. But she does.'

Bellino stops at an unpretentious trattoria where he says the food is always good.

He wants Sophie to try the sweet and sour rabbit, but she has murdered enough living
creatures for one day. Instead, they have pasta alla Norma. Sophie wants to try the local

wine, so Bellino orders a Passopisciaro chardonnay for her. He sticks to water.

'What do you think of the wine? It is grown on the slopes of the volcano.'

'I like the pale golden straw colour. Hmmm. The nose presents a harmonious

blend of orchard and stone fruits with a rapier of citrus, all complemented by a more

languid opulence.' She sips. 'The palate reflects the aromatics presented on the nose and

delivers the promised richness, but there is a very attractive linear mineral streak which

adds focus. This is a very pure translation of Chardonnay. Your choice was good.'

'And our arrangements for the conference?'

'Excellent. Your people are very thorough. My Chief Coordinator will be very

pleased.'

'So, everything is in order, then.'

'You’ve contained the costs very well. In fact, there were more electricians

buzzing around the place than appear on the payroll.'

'Oh, they were from the film studio.'

'Film?'

'That is right. At no charge to Uniro.'

'We didn’t ask to have the conference filmed.'

'Conference and backstage.'

'What are you talking about?'

'They approached us. They want some authentic background for the key scene in

a film they are making.'

'A conference? The key scene? What is this film?'

'The title is L’uomo privo.'

'The Private Man?'

 'No. The Bereft Man. The Private Man would be L’uomo privato. Already been

done. Emidio Guerra’s masterpiece. Ours is going to be slower, less action-packed, more

arty.'

'Does Everard know?'

'Eh? Ah, your Mr. Koch. Of course he knows. He and I will share the money. A

little incentive for us.'

'You can’t do that. It’s our conference, Uniro's! Uniro could use that money to

spread romance and love.'

'You never even thought about it. So you will not miss it.'

'What about Everard?'

'He and I work together well. We are a good team.'

'It’s preposterous!'

'It is business. And for the sake of business, we will offer you a cut. An equal

share.'

'Is that an offer I can’t refuse?'

'Of course you can refuse.'

'Then of course I refuse.'

Bellino drives Sophie back to her hotel and bids her a courteous goodnight.

Once inside her room, she uses her protected work phone to call the Chief

Coordinator’s office in Turin. One of Angelopoulos’s secretaries tells her he has left. She

calls his home. No-one answers. She calls his mobile number. She won’t know where he

is, but that does not matter. The important thing is that he answer. He does.

'Sophie! How are things in Sicily? Are you having a good time?'

'Yes, everything’s fine here. Better than fine. That’s why I’m calling. Am I

disturbing you?'

'No, no. I was hoping you’d call. Go on.'

 'It’s just that Everard and the local fixer, a certain Marti Bellino, have come up

with this great idea, and I wanted to let you know straight away.'

'What is it? I’m all ears.'

'It’s about a film. Has Ev mentioned it to you?'

'A film? No. Tell me more.'

'Well, Ev and Bellino have discovered a film studio here that is keen to film our

conference, plus all the back-stage activity, and then use excerpts to give authenticity to a

movie they’re planning. An art-house movie which features an international conference.'

'They are willing to pay?'

'Yes, quite a lot, it seems. Ev has the details. Ask him.'

'I will. Tomorrow.'

'It’s a brilliant idea, isn’t it? Ev is so clever. Sometimes he even surprises me.'

'OK. I’ll congratulate him tomorrow. Goodbye now, Sophie.'

'Oh, hang on, CC. Could you wait till I get back? Gotta make sure it doesn’t fall

through. And I might be able to up the price if we keep them on tenterhooks.'

'But of course. For our dear friend a bigger contribution to Uniro's fixed costs,

you can ask me to do almost anything. Night-night, now. Sleep well.'

Angelopoulos closes the connection.

Sophie sleeps very well.

***
The next morning, Clementina comes to pick Sophie up in a scratched Fiat Punto. She

takes her around the accommodation chosen for the guest speakers, the other invitees

from afar and the Uniro group. Bellino’s team are all local and prefer to stay in their own

homes.

Once again, Sophie finds that the Sicilians have done a thorough job. The

accommodation is close to the venue, comfortable and by no means overpriced. The

accounts are auditor-friendly and there is no sign of hidden cameras or film crews.

Sophie is hoping for a call from Angelopoulos, but when the phone does vibrate,

it is Bellino at the other end.

'Sophie, where are you?'

'At the Hotel Consoli, with Clementina. It’s good. Clean and comfortable. Quality

elevator music, too.'

'Sophie, I have missed you.'

'Yeah, right. If you think you can win me over to any of your little schemes,

Marti, you’re wrong.'

'That does not matter, Sophie. I have no little schemes. Now you and I will

preview the excursion.'

'The excursion?'

'Of course. The sight-seeing trip for our conferees.'

'Only one?'

'Only one is necessary. For romance, Taormina is more than sufficient.'

'Marti, I’m not interested in romance in Taormina. I just want us to get them

there, sighted, fed and back in one piece.'

'Stay where you are, Sophie. I shall arrive in twenty-five minutes.'

He does. In the Jaguar, which he drives fast to Taormina, but not fast enough to

avoid being overtaken by a yellow Lamborghini.

 'Look at that death-merchant, Sophie. UN plates. It is outrageous.'

'I hope he’s one of ours. In United Nation, we’re allowed to have fun. Not like

that other lot, the United Nations, so po-faced and proper they drive around in Tatas and

stop at red lights.'

'But Sophie, that shows heightened ecological awareness.'

Sophie feels her pale face redden.

'Yes, you’re right, of course. It’s just that they studiously ignore us. We have a

campus right next door to theirs, in Turin, and they carry on as though we don’t exist.'

'That is outrageous!'

'Yes, you’re right, Marti. Thank you for noticing.'

Marti notices every move she makes as he walks her through the Victorian folly

of flowers known to anglophones as the Trevelyan Garden, as he leads her up to the

2,300 year-old Greek theatre with its views of sea and volcano, as he explains the waves

of Greeks, Romans, Byzantines, Arabs, Normans, Spaniards and French who invaded the

place before the invention of peaceful tourism.

'Sounds like Toronto, a real melting pot.'

'Troina? That is in the centre of the island. It is very different.'

'To-ron-to. Canada. We have Sicilians as well.'

'You are lucky. But Canadians can be fascinating, too.'

Sophie is staring at the stage area.

'Wait a minute. I’ve seen this place before. And it wasn’t on a postcard.'

'At the cinema perhaps. Are you a fan of Woody Allen?'

'Yes. Mighty Aphrodite! The chorus!'

'Aphrodite. What could be more romantic than that? There is something of

Aphrodite in you.'
 Bellino sees the look on Sophie’s face and does not pursue the topic. He even

blushes a little.

'And if you are a fan of Hollywood cinema …'

'Yes! The Godfather. Take me!'

Bellino’s eyes light up.

'Take me there, Marti! Please!'

Bellino drives the Jaguar flat out up the coast road to Savoca. He halts above it

and they gaze down at the village as the afternoon light blazes then fades.

'Tell me the scene, Sophie.'

'Oh, I can just see it. It’s coming. The wedding! Appollonia and Michael

Coglioni.'

'Corleone. Corleone.' He laughs.

'Oh, it is romantic!'

Bellino leads Sophie down to the Bar Vitelli, a café on the edge of the village,

where he plies her with almond wine while the proprietor regales them with well-honed

stores of when Hollywood came to Sicily.

'Etna?' Bellino offers as they leave.

'Dinner.' The wine is going to Sophie’s head, which she wants to keep clear.

Bellino drives them back down the motorway, through Taormina and on a few

kilometres to the small town of Giardini-Naxos, where he pulls into a car park outside a

restaurant perched on a hilltop overlooking the bay. Flying gravel announces their arrival,

and a middle-aged man wearing an apron over a smart shirt and clean trousers comes out

to greet them. They are ushered to a table on the terrace. It has a “reserved” notice on it.

'Tonight, this is the Paradise of the Vegetarian,' Bellino declares.

Waiters begin to set dishes before them.

'I think I could manage some fish.'

 Bellino flicks his eyebrows at a waiter, who hastens over. They confer in low

voices, then Bellino turns to Sophie.

'Tonno ‘nfurnatu. Tuna. Freshly caught. Oven-baked, with tomatoes, capers and

olives. You will love it.'

Sophie does. She loves the vegetables, the wine, the setting, the unrelenting

attention she gets from Bellino. If only …

'Marti, what’s this about? You’ve done your Latin lover bit. I know you’re not

gay. You don’t have to repeat it.'

Bellino looks uncomfortable.

'No, this is different. Sophie, I …'

'What?'

'I am always thinking about you. I …'

'Marti, I’m short, overweight and bad-tempered. I must be five years older than

you. What could you possibly see in me?'

'Sophie, you are so unlike the people I know, so exotic, so honest.'

'From a different world, eh?'

'Yes. You are so lucky.'

'Marti, you are a married man.'

I am a man of .... I am an honourable man.

'And that’s another thing. I’m not blind. I’ve noticed the way people fawn over

you, a youngster with no past, no apparent experience of anything very much. I may be

Canadian, but I have seen The Godfather.'

'This is Sicily, not an American film set.'

'And you’re a young man. A charming, attractive, intelligent young man.

Wouldn’t you like to become a charming, attractive, intelligent old man one day?'

'Sophie, you do not understand.'

 'I understand a damned sight better than you think.'

'Listen, whatever happens to me, whatever danger I am in, the Madonna of Carini

will protect me. She always has, she always does, she always will.'

'I’ll take back the intelligent.'

Sophie catches Bellino’s hand. She kisses the palm. A sob breaks out. Bellino

brushes away a tear from each of her eyes with his thumb.

'Sophie …'

'Pour the wine, wise guy. If you really want me, wise up. I’m not into necrophilia,

and I don’t want a lover who’ll turn into a corpse before I get fed up with him.'

'Sophie, I tell you, the Madonna – '

'Let’s just admire the view, shall we?'

Sophie has Bellino’s hand in both of hers. She forces it down on to the table and

pushes it away from her. She stifles another sob and looks out over the lights leading

down to the Bay of Schisò.

A quarter of an hour later, they agree without words to get up and leave. Bellino

does not pay the bill and Sophie does not volunteer.

Under other circumstances, the disregard for anyone’s safety that Bellino shows

as he drives back to Catania would scare Sophie. Tonight, she does not even calculate the

fuel consumption.

Tyres and tarmac make an unpleasant noise as Bellino stops the Jaguar outside

Sophie’s hotel. She gets out, slams the passenger door and moves quickly towards the

entrance. She stumbles. Bellino’s hand catches her elbow, keeps her upright.

'Sophie, let me come up with you. I must talk to you.'

'Yeah, come on up, lover boy.'

'Sophie, …'

'C’mon.'
 They ascend in the lift to the tune of Un amore di plastica.

Sophie lets them in to her room. Bellino’s arms are around her, his hands on her

breasts, his thumbs pressing into her nipples.

Sophie has strong arms. She breaks his grip.

'Hey, hey, lover boy. All in good time.'

'Sophie, I ….'

'Sophie, Sophie ... Marti, what do you think of … anal sex?'

'What? Right! I am game if you are.'

'No. You’ve misunderstood me. I mean taking it. For 30 years. From hardened

criminals.'

'What? Are you crazy?'

'Mind you, prisoners get free AIDS treatment in jail these days, don’t they?

Doesn’t cure you, of course. But it does keep you alive. For a few more years of anal sex

from hardened criminals.'

'Are you out of your mind?'

'Forget your Madonna. Think of yourself, Marti. Break free and stay alive. There

are plenty more Madonnas, I mean Sophies, in this world if you want them. Now get outa

here, Marti. Out!'

Sophie slumps onto the bed.

'Marti?'

Bellino has already left.

***
Bellino drives Sophie to the airport in silence the next morning. At the departure gate,

they kiss with passion. She walks through the gate without looking back.

As the plane waits for clearance to take off, Sophie frets about the size of the

ecological footprint she is leaving on the island. All that conspicuous consumption of

food and fuel. And now this flight. What is worse, it will all be multiplied by the people

she will bring in and out for Uniro’s conference. Everard’s fury over her ruining his film

scam she can deal with, but Gaia’s fury at her waste may prove overwhelming.

Sophie is planning her penance when the plane takes off. Kilometre zero produce

for a month; even her beloved digestive biscuits will have to go. She will walk all the

way to work, turn off the central heating …

Sophie flies low over the rooftops of Palermo. In the square of a suburb scorched

by sun and neglect, she sees Marti, on his knees, surrounded by armed police. He screams

to his mother for help; the police fire their weapons into his body. Marti’s blood soaks a

red, silver and green package that lies on the asphalt next to his corpse. Fury rises in

Sophie as she realizes that she will never see Marti again, or know what the package held.

Then she is in Everard’s office, reaching over his desk and beating his face with a rolled-

up booklet. Everard’s eyes widen in horror as he realize what Sophie’s weapon is: the

Uniro Code of Ethics. His cries for mercy go unheeded.

Sophie wakes to the noise of an announcement. In her drowsy, emotional state,

she cannot identify the language. She looks out of the rain-lashed window, sees nothing

through the grey cloud outside it, and feels cheered by the return to normal weather.

Flaming hell, Sophie thinks, I hate those realistic dreams.

She rummages in her handbag and pulls out Marti’s unopened gift to her. Sophie

tears off the wrapping paper and finds herself the owner of an illustrated guide to

Palermo’s ice cream parlours. The cover illustration fills her mouth with saliva.
 The announcement is repeated in three languages, equally indistinct. The woman

nearest her fastens her seat belt, then takes a packet of cigarettes from her handbag and

presses it to her cheek. Sophie realises they are descending toward Turin’s Sandro Pertini

airport. She places the gift back into her handbag and whispers a quick prayer to the

Madonna of Carini, asking that Kwame be there to meet her.

[end]
 About the author

Zin Murphy is a British author who travelled extensively as a teacher of

English as a foreign language before settling in Italy, where he worked as a
translator and language editor. He now lives in Portugal and concentrates on
his own words.

Murphy's stories have an international following, and his poetry has

appeared in places ranging from the Venice Biennale to the Brighton Argus,
as well as a multitude of literary magazines.

His short play, Bar Londra, is in the repertory of the Turin Theatre
Company. He has appeared as an actor in both plays and films, including the
award-winning Italian historical saga Noi Credevamo.

This story first appeared in the the Irregular Writers' anthology

Irregular Stories. You can find that here:

https://getbook.at/topfiction
You can get Zin Murphy's first novel, Revolution Number One, set in
Portugal in the tumultous 1970s, here:

https://www.free-ebooks.net/drama/Revolution-Number-One

Here is the first chapter:

 Revolution Number One

Zin Murphy

Chapter 1

Birthday Boy

The egg lent Joséphine’s thin throat an adam’s apple as it slid down.
“Ten!”
Joséphine diluted the taste with a gulp of her whisky and coke.
Warm autumn air carried the sound of music from the colonies across
the city neighbourhood. Inside the party flat, on the top floor of a low-rise
apartment block, Simão looked at the remaining hard-boiled eggs, all of
them neatly shelled. His face had started to lose its Mediterranean colouring
after the fourth egg. Now his skin turned even paler. He reached for the
smallest egg, then drew his hand back.
“I can’t.”
“You give up?”
“Yes. I give up.”
Simão looked crestfallen, though his eyes gave away a flicker of
relief.
The guests set up a chorus of “Jo-sé-phine! Jo-sé-phine!!” Joséphine
raised her skinny arms in triumph.
Ed Scripps observed his young landlady from the back of the room.
This was a new side to her. He was glad to see her so enthusiastic about
something other than money. His party was warming up.
“Eleven!” he shouted.
Ed wondered whether this party game was a local tradition or a
French import. Either way, his landlady had clearly had plenty of practice.
Joséphine grabbed another egg from one of the plates and stuffed it
into her mouth. She chewed a couple of times, then swallowed.
“Jo-sé-phine! Jo-sé-phine!!”
“Twelve!” called Ed.
Joséphine paused. Pride fought unease on her face.
 “All right,” she said, “but take off that ugly African music and put on
one of my beautiful Brazilian records.”
Ed interrupted the voice of Rui Mingas, his own choice, and replaced
it with the record he found at the top of the stack of Joséphine’s collection.
Accompanied now by the sound of Maria Bethânia, Joséphine eased
her twelfth egg into her mouth and started to chew. Then stopped. Chewed
again. She placed one hand on her throat and began to massage it. With her
other hand, she snatched her tumbler, raised it to her lips, and took a
draught. And another. She belched. The egg was down.
“Jo-sé-phine! Jo-sé-phine!! Jo-sé-phine!!!”
Clutching her belly, Joséphine rushed out of the lounge.
“Don’t go!”
“One more!”
A couple of people patted her as she went past, but no-one risked
trying to stop her.
The cries of “Jo-sé-phine!” died down. Conversation resumed, rose
and swirled to the background of Brazilian rhythm.
Ed’s guests, Portuguese and foreign, talked mainly about music, cars,
football, politics and clothes. And supermarkets, of course, when they spoke
to their host. The heated political discussion was a surprise to Ed. He did not
expect people to speak so openly, living, as they did, under a fascist regime.
“Things have got to change,” said Hélder, one of his business contacts
here in Lisbon. “The days of standing ‘proudly alone’ are over. We’ve got to
open up to the outside world and get trading. Like it or not, that means
becoming more democratic.”
“It means ending the wars in the colonies,” put in Mário, a friend of
one of Ed’s acquaintances back home. “Give them their independence. Let
them run their own damned show.”
“Bring our boys home! And keep them here!” This was Lourdes, a
woman in her mid-30s whom Ed had met at the rowing club. “Can you
imagine it, spending four years in the jungle, with the natives shooting at
you?”
Ed shook his head. She was exaggerating, surely?
“Can you picture,” she went on, “what those boys will be like when
they get back? Traumatised and dangerous.”
The only dissenting voice was that of Jorge. Ed had met Jorge in a bar
frequented by teachers at the Sussex School, a language institute where Ed
was taking Portuguese lessons. One of the teachers must have brought Jorge
along this evening. Jorge prised Ed away from the group by asking him for a
bottle of beer.
“Help yourself,” said Ed. “The beer’s in the fridge in the kitchen.”
“Can you show me where that is, please?”
Ed excused himself and propelled Jorge down the corridor to the
kitchen. He opened the fridge, pulled out a bottle of Sagres, handed it to
Jorge and went to the drawers to rummage for an opener.
“Must be in the lounge,” he said.
“That’s OK.”
Ed turned to see Jorge drinking from the bottle.
Jorge wiped his luxuriant moustache with the back of his free hand.
“Having one yourself?” he asked Ed.
“Not just yet. I like to get some plain water inside me first. Gotta stay
sober in front of my guests.”
“Look, Ed, the things those people were saying, they’ve got it all
wrong. You don’t want to listen to them. For one thing, we don’t have any
colonies. Mozambique, Angola, Guinea, they are not colonies. They are all
part of Portugal, just as much as Lisbon is. Giving them away would be like
cutting our arms off!”
Jorge caught Ed’s quizzical expression.
“Ed, tell me, how long have you been in Portugal now?”
“Two months to the day.”
“Right. That’s nothing, is it? Of course you don’t understand the way
things are here, what is going on. But with time you’ll get to know us and to
respect what we’re doing. We are only doing what we have to do.”
“Ooooh!! What are you two boys doing in here alone?”
The voice was followed into the kitchen by the voluptuous body of
Anne, one of the English teachers from the Sussex School. She evidently
knew Jorge quite well, because she pushed her hands into the thick hair over
his collar and brought his face forward and up to meet her lips, shoving him
back against the fridge at the same time. They did not part. Indeed, Jorge’s
arms closed around Anne’s back and pulled her tighter to him.
Ed removed the bottle of beer from Jorge’s hand, which then
disappeared under the back of Anne’s blouse. Ed placed the bottle on the
kitchen table and went back to the lounge, where an argument about music
was brewing.
Lourdes wanted to go back to the classical music with which Ed had
started the evening. Some of the others were adamant about sticking with
Brazilian, or at least South American, music. One or two were arguing
loudly for rock. None of them, it appeared, shared Ed’s taste for African
music, or wanted to hear Portuguese sounds.
Ed did not recognise the woman at the centre of the argument. He
found her attractive, despite her boyish haircut. She was short, olive-skinned
and curvaceous. Her eyes were dark and flashed fire to accompany the
strong words shaped by her full lips. He reckoned she was about twenty
years old. She was waving the disc she wanted played. Ed recognised his
copy of Genesis Live. Mário and others had planted themselves between her
and the record player, which was playing a number by Chico Buarque that
had no words. Every so often, they would supply a chorus with relish. It
sounded medical to Ed: “Tantum R” – not much fun. Rock would be better.
Especially Genesis.
Ed approached the young woman.
“I see you like Genesis. I got that just before I left England. It’s so
new, most people here won’t know it.”
She looked at him steamily.
“Can you just play it?”
“Sure. As long as you dance to it. With me.”
“If that’s what it takes.”
Ed removed the record from her hand and strode over to the player.
He turned off Chico Buarque and replaced it with Genesis Live. It was his
party, after all.
Genesis were not the easiest of groups to dance to, but on the dance
floor, or even in a crowded room at a party, Ed could dance to anything, his
slight limp invisible. His partner danced without speaking, lost in the music.
When the track finally ended, she hugged Ed, looked up into his eyes,
thanked him and drew him into a corner, where she manoeuvred him onto a
chair and perched herself on his knee.
“I’m on your level now,” she said, looking him evenly in the eyes,
“whoever you are.”
“Ed Scripps. It’s my party.”
“Oh, the supermarket fellow. Who likes classical music.”
“Yes, that’s me – among other things.”
The floor below them began to reverberate with more than the
vibrations caused by Genesis. Someone was banging from below.
“Neighbours!” said the source of the warmth spreading along Ed’s
thighs.
 “I expect they want us to turn the music down a bit,” said Ed. She slid
off his knee, pushed her way to the record player and raised the volume even
higher. When she got back to Ed, she had two glasses in her hands. She gave
the one containing water to Ed and took a sip from the other.
“That’ll teach them,” she said. “Genesis Live is the most important
record of this year. A live album by the best live band in the world. It’s got
to be heard!”
Ed listened to the music for a couple of minutes, then asked “Who did
you come with?”
“I’m a good Catholic girl. Or so my parents think. I come by myself.”
She giggled. “But Calvin brought me here. I’m his student at the Sussex
School. He teaches me German. And I have a name: Maria da Conceição.
Most people call me Ção.”
It sounded awful to Ed.
“I know what you’re thinking. Just nasalise the vowel, then it’ll sound
a lot better.”
“Mary of the Conception,” Ed translated.
“It’s a good Catholic name, wouldn’t you say?”
“Kind of sexy, if you think about it.”
“I can tell you are doing just that. Yes you are, don’t deny it. Why
don’t you try me sometime, mister blue-eyed handsome man.”
“How about tonight?”
“Not tonight. Unless you can empty this room in the next twenty
minutes. I’ve got to head home while the Metro is still running. Mummy and
Daddy don’t want their little Conception turning into a pumpkin.”
She slid slowly along Ed’s thigh, letting her short skirt ride up so that
he could see her black knickers, then slid slowly back again, exhaling a
breathy “Aaah!” into his ear, before standing on her own feet, giving Ed a
long sultry gaze, turning, and plunging into the party.
Ed stayed put. He was next to an open window. Warm, damp air blew
in, dissipating some of the tobacco smoke, underneath which Ed could smell
not only his own perspiration, brought out by the dancing, but also a sweeter
aroma left on his clothes. He identified it as cinnamon.
When the second side of Genesis Live had finished, someone put on
Milton Nascimento. Ed got up and went to look for Ção, who was no longer
in the main room. As the evening progressed, the party had spread to the
corridor and the kitchen, but she was not there. Nor was Calvin in evidence.
The toilet door was open, the light off. Either she was being a good Catholic
girl in one of the bedrooms or she had left. Ed was about to investigate the
former possibility when his new friend Rui, a well-connected student of
economics, buttonholed him. Rui was tall; almost as tall as Ed, and had the
habit of looking people directly in the eye. This evening, though, his gaze
was faltering.
“What’s going on, Ed? You stop talking your guests? Here, have
some of this.” For once, his enunciation was less than immaculate.
Rui proffered a jug of light red liquid and looked around for Ed’s
glass.
“No, thanks, not just yet. What is that? Seems powerful.”
“Nah. Just the opposite. Is água pé. The newest, newest wine. Foot
water, it means. After the grapes have been trodden, we tread the grapeskins.
Produce this. ’s lovely. Weak, weak, weak. You can drink litres of it without
falling in. Over.”
“Sounds disgusting.”
“Nah. ’s lovely. Try some.”
“Not just yet. Have you seen –”
“Nah. She’s not so lovely, under that skin.”
Ed’s fingers tingled at the thoughts that last word evoked.
“Forget the womans. Tell me about supermarket business. What’s
new on the shelves?”
“Since you ask, lots of Brazilian products, because they’re mostly
Brazilian chains. But that’s not my department. I’m here to introduce loyalty
cards. Haven’t I told you?”
“Loyalty schmoyalty!” Rui was a fan of Woody Allen and Philip
Roth. “In this country, we are loyalty only to our football team and our
Church. And even that … You heard what these people say about our
government. And these are the middle glass! You know you gotcha rival?”
“Calvin?”
“Not for Ção, for loyalty. Mark Rotherfield. One other English.”
“He wants to introduce loyalty cards to Portuguese supermarkets?”
“Noooo! Trading stamps. Much better idea. Things people can
collect, hoard. You should –”
Rui’s nascent suggestion was aborted by loud, insistent banging on
the front door of the flat. Ed wondered why whoever was knocking couldn’t
see the bell, but he went to answer all the same. He opened to four men in
uniform, behind whom were two who looked like the stereotypical spies
from Mad magazine in their hats and raincoats. The uniform nearest him
started speaking in rapid Portuguese. It was too fast for Ed to understand.
Lourdes appeared at his shoulder and interpreted.
“He says your neighbours have complained about the noise. And
about the suspicious people arriving at this flat. So they’re going to check
identities.”
“I’m –”
“They know who you are. They’re more interested in your Portuguese
guests.”
Lourdes drew her ID card from her handbag and showed it to the
policeman. He nodded perfunctorily at it and pushed past them, followed by
a companion and the two plain-clothes men. The two other uniformed men
stayed at the door.
“Judite and Pides,” Lourdes whispered to Ed.
“Huh?”
“The ordinary police and the so-called secret police. Everyone knows
who they are. They’re powerful enough not to need secrecy. Nasty.”
The men in uniform had turned the music off and were glancing
cursorily at the ID cards produced by the Portuguese women. One of the
Pides was examining those of the men with great care. The other was asking
the names of all the foreigners present and writing down their answers.
Without warning, Ed was knocked against the wall as a man rushed
past. The man shouldered one of the uniformed police guarding the door out
of his way, too, but the second policeman there grabbed his arms from
behind and secured them in a full nelson, shouting for his companions to
come and help. One of them rushed over and expertly handcuffed the man.
One of the Pides sauntered to the doorway and exclaimed, “Look who we
have here.”
It was Jorge.
With neither words nor ceremony, the men in uniform marched Jorge
down the stairs and out of sight. The two plainclothes men stayed on the
threshold of the flat. The harder-looking of the pair told Lourdes they had
better not turn the music back on. One of the neighbours who had phoned
the police to complain was a retired judge from the colonies. He’d said he
had a gun and knew how to use it. Lourdes relayed the information to Ed,
who could see that she was badly shaken.
The man turned his sour gaze onto Ed.
“Happy twenty-third birthday, Mr. Scripps,” he said in English.
His companion chuckled, though his eyes stayed cold.
“Good luck with the loyalty cards,” Cold-eyes added.
 How did they know that? I’ve never seen these guys before in my life.
The plainclothes men turned and left. The party was over. The guests
spoke little as they gathered their coats and hurried away into the night as
though a curfew had been imposed.
On her way out, unaccompanied, Lourdes asked Ed if it was really his
birthday.
“Well, it was until midnight,” he answered.
“Why on earth didn’t you tell us?”
“I didn’t want anyone bringing presents. Not my style. My party, I
provide. Though all your contributions were very welcome.”
Dazed and perturbed, Ed went through the hand-shaking and cheek-
kissing routines that he was getting used to, and then he was alone.
Lost in thought, Ed shuffled down the corridor to the bathroom.
Inside, there was a stink of vomit, though the toilet bowl, like the sink, was
empty. He relieved himself, flushed the toilet, washed his hands and
splashed cold water on to his face. As he turned to leave, he heard a groan.
Wondering who the police had missed, Ed drew back the shower curtain.
Curled up in the bath, fully clothed, clutching her belly, was
Joséphine. She was so thin that Ed was able to lift her out of the bath and
carry her to the room she set aside for herself for her occasional visits and
trysts.
Ed laid her in the middle of the broad bed and put a blanket over her.
Then he fetched a large jug of water and set it on her bedside stand. Over the
bed, a giant poster of Joséphine looked down benignly on its occupant. She
was muttering something. Ed bent to listen.
“Who turn off my beautiful Brazilian?”
Ed left Joséphine’s bedroom and closed the door behind him. He went
into the kitchen, located an untouched bottle of água pé, and took it into the
lounge. He resumed his seat by the window, which he now closed. Ed sat
drinking from the bottle as he pondered the evening’s events and his nose
sifted the room’s layered scents for a hint of cinnamon.
 Also by Zin Murphy

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