Farewell Trip. Gary Twynam

screeches Sally, launching herself across the kitchen. The half-empty jar rolls towards the edge of the granite worktop and lands on the tiles with a loud crash. Sally lurches against me, the box goes flying and when it hits the floor the smash reverberates. A cloud of soft white powder rises into the air.

      I sneeze.

      ‘Ooops’ says Ed.

      ‘Oh, God! Oh, God!’ Sally’s hands are over her mouth and nose. ‘Don’t breathe. Don’t breathe.’

      I stand there, rooted to the spot, and ash falls gently onto my skin.

      Siena, Summer 1985

      ‘Shall we have a drink?’

      They have found the Piazza del Campo after a long, hot hour of taking wrong turnings. Her feet hurt and she wishes she had worn her comfy flip-flops instead of the fashionable leather sandals, however touristy they would have looked.

      He raises his eyebrows. ‘A drink? Already? I suppose we don’t have to have a drink drink. We could have coffee. Pardonnez moi, café au lait. That café over there looks nice. Perhaps we should go inside. The Rough Guide says real Italians take their coffee inside and mostly stand up at the bar too.’

      ‘If you have to stand up and drink at the same time you’ll spill it. That one does look nice though. I like its yellow umbrellas. Can we sit outside, even if it isn’t authentic? I want to look at the people. And really, café au lait? We are in Italy, remember.’

      ‘Ah, yes — Italian — how does that go again? I did look on the plane. Uno, due, tres. Signor. Buon giorno. What’s good afternoon?’

      ‘I can’t remember, but I’m pretty sure that due vino rosso per favore will get us a couple of glasses of red wine. And I really do need to sit down.’

      ‘Excellent, you’ve got the lingo, after you.’

      She hesitates in front of a jewellery shop window at the edge of the square, pushing him towards the café.

      ‘I’ll just have a look in this shop. You can order. See you in a sec.’

      ‘Ha, that old trick. “You first.” You’re just chicken. Or pollo, if you prefer.’

      ‘Quack, quack. No, that’s a duck. What do Italian chickens say?’

      ‘I surrender …’ He raises his hands.

      ‘Ooh, cultural joke, clever. Surrender accepted, off you go. Think of it as taking your place in the pantheon of romantic male heroes, forging ahead, easing the way for your lover. Besides, look, a waitress, you can charm her.’

      ‘Oh, God, come on then.’ He grabs her hand, marches her towards the café and they sit down at the nearest free table. The white-aproned waitress comes over immediately and he gives her a big smile. ‘Bonjour, I mean, buon giorno. Due vino rosso, per favore. Thanks.’

      ‘My hero.’ She leans over and plants a kiss on his cheek. ‘What’s on the itinerary for the rest of the day then, Heathcliff?’

      ‘Well, when we see what this is going to cost us, I’ll be spending the rest of the day working out how much we have left in the kitty. Remember, we agreed on twenty quid a day for lunch expenses and we overspent yesterday; and on dinner — but that veal was worth it. We need a quiet day to get back on track, or else I’ll have to recalibrate the rest of the week. What does the Rough Guide say?’

      ‘I don’t know, you look. Maybe we should just go back to the room … take a bottle with us and, well, you know …’ She wiggles her eyebrows at him.

      ‘Blimey, give a guy a break. Unlike you I need time to reload.’ Despite his words, he is seriously considering her suggestion. Then he notices the guidebook she has taken out of her bag and remembers their original plans. ‘Besides, things to do, places to see.’

      ‘Good grief, it’s like On The Town. You know, Frank Sinatra wants to see all the sights and what’s-her-face wants to get him up to her place.’ She sings with gusto. ‘My place, come up to my place.’ People at the tables nearby look over.

      ‘Harmonies, darling. Now, guidebook — let’s see. I circled all the good stuff. Took out all the churches and boring religious stuff obviously. Right, Siena, what have we got? Palio, Tower, Square, umm, that’s it. So, drink, then campanile and back for a snooze.’

      ‘I think you pronounce it “campaneelay” actually.’

      ‘Are you sure? Good lord, what is it about Italians, they seem to pronounce all their letters?’

      ‘It’s Latin, idiot. So much for your vaunted education. What did they teach you for all your dad’s money? Certainly not how to recognise great art or good literature. At least they beat good manners into you. You’re the only man I know who holds the door open and you always send a thank-you card to your mum. It’s rather sweet, I think.’

      ‘Ah, well — to the manner born you know, to the manner born. Anyway, you know I’m not posh, just a Surrey boy. And I can’t see what harm manners can do. Now, let’s get to the serious stuff. How many famous Italians can you name? . You’d better get your brain working because you can’t afford to lose this one — you’re two down. Don Corleone.’

      ‘He’s American! If we’re in Italy we should do real Italians.’

      ‘I’m joking. Anyway, you start.’

      ‘OK then, Romulus and Remus.’

      ‘Weren’t they wolves? Let’s see, Paolo Rossi.’

      ‘Who? Sandro Botticelli.’

      ‘Oh, yes, I like his films. Sophia Loren. Scorchio.’

      She rolls her eyes at his cartoon Italian accent. ‘Oh my God. How about Modigliani, have you heard of him?’

      ‘Of course, midfielder, 1970 World Cup. Robert De Niro and Al Pacino.’

      ‘Oh my God, Trip! You are such a cheat. We said real ones, have you no idea at all? I’m going to thrash you easily. For example, I bet you haven’t even heard of Leonardo da Vinci, have you?’

      ‘Of course I have. Invented the helicopter, the original polymath. Algebra, geometry, calculus, all that other stuff — oooh, got one. Michael Angelo.’

      ‘What?’ She throws her hands into the air, nearly knocking over her wineglass. ‘It’s Michelangelo! Not Michael Angelo. Michel. Rhymes with pickle.’

      ‘Michel Angelo? Don’t be silly, that’s not a name. Michael’s a name. Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. And Michael. Sorry — confusing myself there, thought he was a book of the New Testament for a second. Ah, I know. St Michaels. Marks and bloody Spencers. You know, Mike. Michael Angelo.’ He sits back, pleased to have made a winning argument.

      ‘I give up. You’re such a philistine. What’s the point? Do you know any Italian people who aren’t footballers? Artists or sculptors or, though I really don’t know why I bother to ask, any poets? Just one?’

      ‘Poets. Um. Ooh yes, wossname. You know, the circle of hells bloke, what’s his name?’

      ‘Dante. Thank God! All is not lost.’

      ‘What about Ezra Pound? He sounds Italian.’

      ‘In a minute you’ll be telling me that TS Eliot came from Rome. This wine is good. Shall we have another? Before the campanile?’

      ‘Ha, yes — encore du vin. TS Eliot, as well you know, came from Bloomsbury.’

      ‘You know, I find that strangely erotic. The fact you know TS Eliot lived in Bloomsbury, I mean, not the wine. Which is good.’

      He stares at her for a few moments, then slowly reaches over to touch her hand. ‘I’ll tell you something else about TS Eliot. He’s an anagram of toilets.’