Tales of the City 06 - Sure of You

was a key ring with a green enamel medallion bearing the poet’t likeness. He smiled and enjoyed the smooth feel of it beneath his thumb. “Did she fall in love?”
    “She wouldn’t tell me,” said Mrs. Madrigal.
    “I’ll bet.”
    “I don’t blame her, really.”
    “How about you?”
    “What do you mean?”
    He shrugged.
    She batted her eyes at him in a way that suggested he was being impertinent. “I had lovely walks in the hills.”
    He chuckled. “Good.”
    She turned away and began rinsing spinach leaves under the tap. “I’ve some pictures to show you later.”
    “Great.”
    After a silence, she asked: “Is she leaving for good?”
    “Looks like it.”
    She gave a little murmur and continued rinsing.
    “It’s a big break, really.”
    “Is he all right?”
    “No,” he answered. “Not particularly.”
    “When does she leave?”
    “Day after tomorrow, I think.”
    The landlady dried her hands on an Acropolis dish towel. She had about her such an air of quiet competence that he imagined for a moment she would set to work fixing things. Like a doctor who’d been given all the symptoms and was ready to prescribe the cure.
    Instead, she opened her ancient refrigerator and removed a tray of stuffed grape leaves. “Take these in for me, would you, dear?”

Snaps
    “… AND IN PETRA , WHICH IS THE NEXT VILLAGE OVER , THERE is something they call a tourist collective, which is made up solely of women. They sell crafts and rent out their homes and such. And it’s the first time the women of that village have ever made a penny—or a drachma or what have you—independent of their husbands. They just sit there with their little trays of lace, with these enormous grins on their faces…”
    After several joints and a long dinner, Brian’s mind had begun to wander, but this part of the landlady’s travelogue, drifting toward him out of nowhere, seemed somehow pertinent to his pain. He wondered if she’d if she’d intended it to be.
    “I thought you had snapshots,” said Michael.
    “Now, dear…are you sure you want…?”
    “Absolutely,” said Thack, flicking his worry beads vigorously. The landlady had given them each a string, marking their places at the table with them. Blue ceramic for Brian, orange for Thack, olive wood for Michael. Somewhere, undoubtedly, there was a string for Mary Ann.
    Mrs. Madrigal left the room, apparently in search of her snapshots.
    Across the table Michael smiled drowsily. “She looks good, doesn’t she?”
    Brian nodded.
    “Something agreed with her,” said Thack.
    Mrs. Madrigal returned with the photographs, fanning them out like playing cards on her velvet-draped sideboard. “I’ll let everyone look for himself. You can do without my narration for a while.”
    Brian joined the others at the sideboard.
    “I didn’t know you owned a camera,” said Michael.
    “I don’t, actually,” said the landlady. “Someone else took these.”
    The shots were largely what Brian had expected, except maybe for the absence of whitewash. Parched hills above vibrant blue water. Random donkeys. Brightly painted fishing boats. Anna and Mona squinting into the sun, the family resemblance more evident than ever as they held up middle age from either end.
    “The villa looks wonderful,” said Thack. “This is it, isn’t it? With the terrace?”
    “That’s it.”
    “This is Mona.” Michael showed one of the snaps to Thack.
    “Yeah. I recognized her.”
    “How?” Michael asked.
    “That shot she sent us last Christmas.”
    “Oh, yeah.”
    Brian was drifting again, dwelling morosely on the consolation of “us” and how it was about to vanish from his own vocabulary. Mrs. Madrigal locked eyes with him and smiled with excruciating kindness.
    Michael held up another snap. “Is this the one who took the pictures?”
    “Which?” said the landlady.
    “This guy who looks like Cesar Romero.”
    Brian was sure he saw the color rise in the landlady’s cheeks.
    “Yes,” she replied demurely. “That’s Stratos. He showed us around.”
    Michael nodded, giving her a sly look.
    “Who needs sherry?” asked Mrs. Madrigal, holding out the bottle and looking everywhere but at Michael.
    “Here,” called Thack, reaching toward her with his glass. He had noticed Michael’s teasing, apparently, and was helping her change the subject. “This stuff is great, by the way. So nutty.”
    “Isn’t it?”
    “Mmm.”
    “It was new down at Molinari’s…”
    “I’ll