When he arrived with his wife at the clinic in Valencia, Lorenzo was understandably anxious.
His wife, however, was in a buoyant mood.
“Lore’,” she whispered. “Mi piace questo posto. È molto pulito! Very clean! Sono molto disponibili. Very professional.”
She smiled as the nurse handed her the information pack with the white crest of the clinic embossed on its front.
Lorenzo could do no more than nod when they were introduced to Doctor Hernandez.
Doctor Hernandez, who had the well-preserved features of a man who had undergone plastic surgery, shook him by the hand and offered him a seat.
“Welcome to our clinic,” he said.
“Posso parlare in italiano?”
“My Italian is – how do you say…”
“Arrugginito.”
“That’s right. Rusty.”
Lorenzo was only mildly reassured by the photo on the wall of the doctor in the company of George Bush Snr.
At length, his wife was invited to disrobe behind a screen. Lorenzo stole a look at the ultrasound of his wife’s womb.
“Signora Gentile,” declared Doctor Hernanadez. “If you don’t mind me saying, the uterus is remarkably well-preserved for a signora of your age.”
His wife stepped down from the examination chair with a smile on her face.
Now it was Lorenzo’s turn to perform.
The bathroom was thankfully spacious and clean. There was a pile of magazines beside the washbasin and a flat screen on the wall.
“Lore’, have you finished?”
Lorenzo flushed the toilet.
“Well,” said his wife, “what happened?”
He sighed.
“I’ve lost my glasses. Can you come in here and help me find them?”
*
“Well,” said George, “I cannot imagine Germano has these sorts of problems. Do you think he wants children?”
“The Count is a busy man. Having said that…”
Giorgio looked wistful.
“It’s hard for a man to think about growing old without children.”
“Are you talking about you?”
“Caro mio, I am talking about us.”