I am posting a short story in two parts over the next fortnight as it is quite long and I would hate boredom to overcome my loyal readers. The mystery is worth sticking with. If you enjoy my posts please consider becoming a paid subscriber, it is only around £1.00 per week and helps me pay for ink, domain costs and coffee. It would make my pathetic literary efforts more worthwhile. Thanks in anticipation that some of you will support my work.
Habit Part 1
The proprietor of the Trattoria Franco had grown accustomed to the Fat Man visiting his restaurant. He arrived each Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday at 12.30pm on the dot. He sat at the same corner table at the rear of the restaurant, facing the entrance door. Over the last three years he had rarely missed any of his allotted days, perhaps with the exception of Christmas.
The same large black Audi arrived outside the restaurant’s front door heedless of West London’s traffic conditions; double yellow lines and parked cars never impeded his punctuality. The same dark vehicle returned the Fat Man to obscurity at 2.30pm on the nail. Even the driver was never visible through the car’s blackened windows. The Fat Man was not really very fat, perhaps plump might have been a fairer description, but he was universally known by the restaurant staff by the acronym, ‘FM’.
The proprietor of the Trattoria Franco had grown accustomed to the Fat Man visiting his restaurant. He arrived each Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday at 12.30pm on the dot. He sat at the same corner table at the rear of the restaurant, facing the entrance door. Over the last three years he had rarely missed any of his allotted days, perhaps with the exception of Christmas.
The same large black Audi arrived outside the restaurant’s front door heedless of West London’s traffic conditions; double yellow lines and parked cars never impeded his punctuality. The same dark vehicle returned the Fat Man to obscurity at 2.30pm on the nail. Even the driver was never visible through the car’s blackened windows. The Fat Man was not really very fat, perhaps plump might have been a fairer description, but he was universally known by the restaurant staff by the acronym, ‘FM’.
Franco prided himself in offering the finest and most authentic Italian cooking in the capital. His prices reflected the high quality of his fresh ingredients and the loving care his chefs employed in crafting the superb food that had made Franco’s a dining legend.
FM never indulged the waiters in table-side banter. The head waiter explained the dishes of the day in his best fractured English before offering his regular customer the menu. This he did with a small, obsequious bow. The menu was quickly followed by the wine list and another bow. Every day FM studied the menu contents closely and then he carefully scrutinised the wine list; he would deliberate for a number of minutes while the waiter hovered nearby in servile expectation. FM would then pick the same dish on each day of the week. FM spoke near-perfect English, there was the slightest hint of a mid-European accent, only perceptible when he rolled his ‘Rs.’
On Tuesdays he would start with some Sicilian olives followed by Fritto Misto served with fried capers and finish with Crostata and coffee. He would drink a bottle of chilled Gavi and a small bottle of Pellegrino sparkling water. On Wednesdays he would commence with some San Marzano tomato focaccia, followed with a plate of Rigatoni tossed with braised beef, mortadella and salami ragu. For desert Zeppole Neapolitan doughnuts with lemon and cinnamon. His wine was a Salvo Foti Rosé from Sicily and sparkling Pellegrino, but no coffee. Thursday’s choice was Copocollo Toscano salami, Arancini Risotto and a selection of Italian Formaggio washed down with a bottle of 2006 Barolo. His usual Pellegrino on the side completed with an espresso coffee. Why he consumed no coffee on Wednesday was a mystery. Nobody ever had the impertinence to question the monosyllabic FM, and so the riddle remained unsolved. He always paid in cash so his identity remained opaque. When FM was not studying the menu, consuming his delicious food, or delicately sipping fine wines, he sat inert, thinking. He stared straight in front of him and never caught the eye of other diners. Occasionally, he would remove a small calculator from his inside pocket and punch the numbers with a dexterity and speed which seemed out of place with his size and general demeanour. After a couple of minutes of feverish activity he would return the machine to his jacket pocket. He never appeared to carry a mobile telephone. FM tipped generously.
~
Just off the Via Saragozza and slightly away from Bologna’s historic centre, was a small restaurant run by an enthusiastic chef who had learned to cook at his mother’s knee. His food was exceptional and on every Friday and Saturday for the last three years a well-built man, who was known by the proprietor and his waiters as, ‘Mi’Lord,’ would arrive at 12.30pm in a black Alfa Romeo car with smoked glass windows. He always left promptly at 2.30pm. Each Friday he chose the same three courses as the previous Friday despite extensive consideration of the menu and wine list. He repeated the same routine each Saturday, following the identical pattern of his London culinary habits. However many times the exasperated proprietor implored his guest to change his order, he never wavered. His choice was as regular as the chimes from the nearby Accursi Tower Clock. His only concession to change was if his normal choice of wine was not available. This only occurred on one occasion as the proprietor was firmly instructed to keep stocks of his preferred choices, otherwise he would dine elsewhere. The Mi’Lord spoke very good Italian with an occasional rolling of his ‘Rs.’ The restaurant staff speculated this indicated a mid-European ancestry. They pondered if he was perhaps a mafia boss. He always paid in cash. He tipped generously.
On Sundays, he religiously spent the day in bed with his mistress, a very high class courtesan, who enjoyed her weekends in a suite at the Hotel Portici. When boredom or exhaustion overcame the pair they dined in the hotel’s Michelin acclaimed restaurant. Here, Mi’Lord chose freely from the extensive menus, discussing amiably with the maître d’hôtel, the best dishes of the day and the most suitable accompanying wines. He would choose his food to complement his beautiful female companion’s own tastes, it was clear they revelled in trying a variety of culinary delights.
In the warm summer months the Mi’Lord wore Zegna lightweight suits and in the winter he opted for Savile Row bespoke merino wool numbers. The shoes he wore in England were handmade by Lobb in St James’s, and in Italy he wore lighter Santoni footwear.
Every Monday morning Mi’Lord’s black Alfa Romeo would pick him up from the hotel at 5.00 am and drive six kilometres north-west of the city to Bologna Guglialmo Marconi airport where a private Citation Jet was waiting on the tarmac, fuelled and ready for take-off at 6.00 am. Mi’Lord’s mistress would spend a few more hours soaking up the luxury of the Portici hotel, and enjoy a light breakfast in her suite before leaving just before midday. She would return the following Thursday lunchtime to meet her lover. Her arrangement with Mi’Lord had commenced about three years ago and had enabled her to give up her other freelance escort activities. Mi’Lord paid her so well there was no need to seek other clients. She used her free time while he was away (she never asked him where he went) to attend her painting classes, and keep her pretty, but tiny apartment in central Bologna spick and span. She planned to become a portrait painter and her class tutor encouraged her undoubted talent. He helped her nurture the belief that one day her ambitions would be realised, particularly if she continued to be his pupil. She’d managed to resist his gentle advances without alienating him. Perhaps, when Mi’Lord gave her up, which she knew would happen one day, she’d marry her obsessed tutor. After all, he was rather sweet and cultured, if a little elderly. She thought he would be a sensitive and undemanding lover, after all, she had enough sex over the years to last a lifetime. It would be nice to be in a relationship where sexual performance wasn’t everything, after all she wasn’t getting any younger.
As the Citation jet went through its pre-take-off checks the stewardess brought Mi’Lord a cup of strong black coffee. As he stared out of the jet’s window at the puddled tarmac he could see the mist edging around the airport perimeter. It reminded him of his youth growing up in the wooded Carpathian mountains, the hazy film a prelude to the heat of the day. The excitement of picking up his hunting rifle, wondering what dangers and spoils the day would bring him.
And now what was he doing, in his new well-ordered but elicit life? The death of his wife in Geneva five years ago had had a life-changing effect. It had shattered his illusions about his very existence. He had become inconsolably bitter and withdrawn. Somehow, he had partly reverted to type: routine habits, sexual and culinary indulgences, but with the added adrenalin rush of danger. For the first time in his life he felt he was living vicariously, as if he was observing someone else from afar. He had never done anything illegal before in his life.
Read the concluding part to this story next week and don’t forget to sign up as a paid subscriber. Paid readers get more stories, content and exciting anecdotes from The Diary of a Baby Boomer.