Three-Card Monte by Marco Malvaldi, Howard Curtis Page B

need to rest,” Massimo had said. “The fact is, I have nothing to do. I organized things so that I could work here and at the conference. Now there’s nothing happening at the conference, and as for the bar, you’re right, it’s quite likely there’ll be nobody coming in. But if I’m going to twiddle my thumbs, I prefer to do it in the bar rather than at home.”
    After a brief silence, a sly gleam had come into Tiziana’s eyes. “Listen, Massimo,” she had said, “if you really want to be here, I have a proposition to make. In the interests of the bar.”
    â€œI’m listening,” Massimo had replied, wondering how likely it was that Tiziana was about to propose coming to work topless.
    â€œI’ve been working here for four years, right?”
    Oh, God. She wants a raise.
    â€œNow, don’t get offended, but in the four years I’ve been here this place hasn’t changed one bit. The same walls, the same pictures, the big-screen TV over there, the tables there . . . Don’t you ever get bored?”
    I don’t know, Massimo had thought, letting his eyes wander around the bar. I don’t think so.
    â€œAnyway, I was thinking it wouldn’t be a bad thing to freshen it up a bit. Paint a couple of the walls a nice color, maybe with a sponging effect or something like that. Put up some nice reproductions or some nice photographs, put some nice curtains on the windows. Something to make the place a bit more cheerful. Don’t misunderstand me, I don’t mean it’s dirty or badly maintained, but on a day like today anyone coming in would look at the place, see the old codgers, and wonder what time the funeral starts.”
    Massimo had looked around. On closer inspection, it did indeed seem that Tiziana might not be entirely wrong. The fact was, there were things that Massimo really didn’t pay attention to until they were pointed out to him, and so he had never noticed the fact that the inside of the bar was starting to look a tad stale.
    â€œSo, tell me, Miss Architect,” Massimo had said. “What would you change?”
    â€œWell, it really wouldn’t need much,” Tiziana replied, smiling with all thirty-two of her teeth and starting to look a little overexcited. “First of all, two of the walls should be in color. I’d make one yellow, it gives a feeling of light, and one to match the counter and the floor. Of course, I’m not sure what would match that slate-gray floor, but I’ll think about it. Then I’d put up three or four reproductions, I really like the ones printed directly on canvas, but the ones you get around here are crap, maybe a few nice black and white photographs would be better, something like Mapplethorpe, I don’t know if you know the kind of thing I mean. One here, one there, two here, maybe a bit out of line, to give more of a sense of movement, otherwise it’ll look too much like an exhibition and that wouldn’t be right. Before anything else, we have to get rid of the two monstrosities hanging there, we can put a curtain or a Venetian blind over the big window, that should make us look more decent from the street. If it’s O.K. with you, I’ll have a look around today, and then tomorrow we’re closed anyway so I can come in and arrange everything. What do you think?”
    Help. I’ve unleashed a monster.
    Massimo had again let his eyes wander around the bar before coming to rest on what Tiziana had called “the two monstrosities”: a framed page from a newspaper showing the Torino soccer team, with the caption “1942-1949: Only Fate Could Beat Them,” and a front-page from the
Gazzetta dello Sport
, dated December 5, 1993, announcing a record jackpot on the pools. Thanks to a biunivocal correspondence between that Sunday’s results and the ones written by Massimo on the coupon, our hero had come into possession of part