Angelica Lost and Found

Chapter 38. Calamari, Hali But Not Really

‘Listen, Angelica,’ said Clancy when I finally stopped cutting him short on the telephone, ‘I know I behaved shamefully the other day, but is that a good enough reason to break off a long-standing friendship? I apologise wholeheartedly and I promise never to turn nasty again.’

‘OK, Clancy, I accept your apology and we can be friends again.’

‘Will you have dinner with me this evening? No improper advances, I give you my word.’

I said yes, and we went to a restaurant in the Mission, Delfina on 18th Street. It was crowded and noisy but cheerful. Although the lighting was not intimate the many ceiling lamps were friendly. Above the voices and the clatter of cutlery I could hear the nimble arabesques of John Coltrane’s saxophone in ‘Like Sonny’, one of the tracks I have at home.

‘It’s nice here,’ I said to Clancy, feeling as I spoke more than a little crazed. This place was here with us in it while somewhere else was a nowhere with Volatore in it.

‘And you haven’t even tasted the food yet,’ said Clancy.

‘You order for me, OK?’

‘Right, but first we need to get something sparkly down our necks.’

My attention wandered while he instructed the wine waiter who returned with a bottle and uncorked it, indicating by his expression that Clancy knew what was what. He poured a taster, and when Clancy nodded he poured the golden brightness for both of us.

‘Here’s looking at you,’ said Clancy.

‘Here’s looking right back,’ I replied dutifully as we touched glasses.

It was a very good dinner, with calamari followed by halibut, more sparkling wines, profiteroles, coffee and grappa. All of it delicious and all of it wasted on me. We took turns speaking but it wasn’t conversation. Reality, even when supported by sensory proof, is all in the mind. And the whole evening, Clancy included, was simply not real. No wings, no air rushing past me, no world unrolling below.

When he took me home he said, ‘Probably you’re not going to ask me up for a nightcap.’

‘I’m sorry, Clancy. It’s a reality thing.’

‘Yeah, right,’ he snarled, and drove away.

I was glad to see him go. I was looking forward to a little Jack Daniel’s, some Padre Antonio Soler with the volume down to a whisper, and a cosy chat with Cunégonde whose name no longer seemed right. This cat was more of an Irene. I’d Frontlined her fleas earlier, so she curled up in my lap and purred her satisfaction until it was time to call it a day. I put her in her basket, said, ‘Goodnight, Irene,’ and went to the bathroom. When I came out in my pyjamas Irene was comfortably arranged in my bed and purring so the windows rattled. A real mezzo but no seguidilla.

‘Move over,’ I said, and drifted off to sleep.