Advice for Italian Boys by Anne Giardini Read Free Book Online

and then it’ll be mission accomplished.”
    Nicolo was selected next by a couple, Alden and Clarissa O’Brien—a judge and a local television anchorwoman—to work with them both three times a week. After them came Patrick Alexander, a lean, hyperkinetic, tightly sprung man in his mid-thirties with a mobile, rubbery face, a broad-hinged, dark-shadowed jaw and an active Adam’s apple. Then Phil and Bella Fell, dark, slim, tall twins, new members at the gym on the six-month Bring a Friend trial plan, asked if they could see Nicolo early mornings on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays.
    Alden and Clarissa O’Brien came in together after work on Wednesday. Alden was a tall man in his mid-fifties. His upper back was beginning to curve forward into a studious stoop. He had a round stomach, thick arms and legs, a ropy neck, a substantial head of greying hair and a face deeply etched after years of close reasoning into a permanently shrewd and competent expression. He plunged his large, smooth hand forward to enfold Nicolo’s in a solid grip when he introduced himself, adding quickly “Call me Alden,” to put an end to any question that Nicolo may have had about the correct form of address for a judge. Judge O’Brien? Your Honour? Your Worship? M’lord? There was no way of knowing. Even Enzo hadn’t been certain when Nicolo had consulted him on this point of protocol. Alden’s handshake was a double up and down, strong and authoritative.
    The clasp of Clarissa’s long, freckled hand was considerably gentler. She was twelve years younger than her husband, and very slender. Her face—pale skin, wide-set eyes, strong nose and chin, elaborately furled lips, and a high brow winged by thick dark waves of hair—seemed familiar to Nicolo, likely from some TV show or other, Clarissa suggested, and she named six or seven programs she had hosted that he might have seen. Nicolo had heard of none of them. “A billboard maybe,” she concluded, and she raised her shoulders, making it clear that both she and Nicolo knew that TV programs and billboards were ridiculous. Her smile hung in the air for a long moment, a curved and complicated bracket.
    Partway through their orientation tour of the gym, Clarissa hung back while her husband walked ahead. She rested one of her hands on Nicolo’s forearm.
    “I bought these sessions with you as a birthday present for Alden,” she said to him. She spoke in a low voice and inclined toward him, her manner direct and complicit. “The trouble is he works too hard and spends far too many hours at his desk. His oldest friend died a year ago and since then he doesn’t even get out to play tennis any more. He needs to get some exercise, move around a bit, or he’ll end up like Bruce with his heart attack. I have to confess to you that I only signed on to keep him company. I hope you don’t mind that I’m telling you this. It’s easier for him to have me do this with him.”
    Alden caught up with Nicolo at the end of the tour, after Clarissa had returned to the women’s locker room to change out of her workout clothes. “It is important for you to knowthat my wife is not strong,” he said. “She will want to push herself, but she can’t do as much as she would like. I made up my mind to go along with this scheme of hers only so that I could make sure that she paces herself. There’s nothing serious, don’t get me wrong, but she had a close bout with an eating disorder, anorexia nervosa, a few years ago, a year before we were married, and I want to make sure she doesn’t head down that path again. It still holds temptations for her. So we can’t let her overdo it or get too fixated on any of this. Do you understand me? We’ll watch her together, both of us?”
    The judge thrust his hand into Nicolo’s and pumped it up and down, once, twice, making the bargain physical, manifest, and Nicolo felt that an enforceable pact had been made between them.
    Early on Thursday afternoon, Patrick