Once upon a time, in the days before we all had little wheely bins to take on Ryanair or Easyjet, Patrick had a black Roncon suitcase with a blue strap around its middle to secure it. When it did not come up on the carousel, he went outside to smoke a cigarette. Finishing his cigarette, he went back into the airport to search for the baggage reclaim office and put in my claim.
“No,” I said, “that’s not mine.”
“You are Signore Kavanagh?”
“Yes,” I said, “but that’s not my case.”
The courier looked down at his paper. “You are Signore Kavanagh?”
“Look,” I said, pointing at the crumpled green shoulder bag at the courier’s feet, “there is the nametag. It says Signore Cardinale.”
The courier looked down at the bag. “Yes,” he said helplessly from behind his horseshoe moustache and shades, “but will you take the bag?”
“Can you believe it? I have to spell it out for him: he has to go back to Signore Cardinale with the crumpled green shoulder bag and come with my black Roncon suitcase, the one with the blue strap around its middle to secure it?”
Gavin chuckled
“That’s nothing,” he said. “My case went missing for over six months. When it got back to me, it had rubber stamps from India and Nepal.”
“Touché,” said Patrick, clinking his glass. “We shall have to organize a trip to India and Nepal just to see if the bags turn up. Do you want another? Of course, you want another.”
“Touché,” said Gavin, who was already thinking of the lump of Nepalese Red in his pouch. “By the way, did you get your case back?” “No,” Patrick said, “but I’ve still got Signore Cardinale’s.”