“If we want things to stay as they are, things will have to change.”
Il Gattopardo, Giuseppe di Lampedusa
Without a doubt Gavin Brady was a product of that mythical time in the faculty when it was enough to flash your Irish passport and the professors would assume you were a literary descendant of James or Joyce. Indeed, Gavin had been around such a long time he had become part of the furniture. As one of the DP wags insisted, he was like one of those leopard skin rugs brought back from a safari by a colonial relative. Patrick laughed when he heard this. “Gavin,” he said, “may have acquired a leopard skin; nevertheless, he is still very Irish in his soul.”
“So what you’re saying is I won’t get the contract unless we do what that so-called lawyer says?”
“Gavin, think about it.”
“Well, what difference does it make? We won’t clash. We’ll all get our continuità didattica, whatever that means.”
“Gavin, we’ve got to look after our own interests.”
“I’m not saying anything. You know what I think about it, however. I am sick of their sordid little power games.”
“You’ll see, Gavin. Nothing will change. We’ll get what we want as long as we stick together.”
“Is that supposed to fill me with confidence?”
“Gavin, I’ll see you tomorrow. Now go home and get a good night’s sleep.”
Gavin did not heed Patrick’s advice; instead, he stopped off at the Maltese run by his friend, Big Paul. When he saw Gavin, Big Paul beamed and brought his hand over the bar. Gavin gripped it and beamed back.
Big Paul did not need to ask what he would like to drink. Gavin watched Big Paul pour the warm beer into a proper pint glass; his mouth watered.
He took off his jacket, and took out his mobile and keys. He put the keys and the mobile on the top of the bar. He slipped the jacket over the seat of the barstool and sat down to chat.
The Maltese became busy as it always did after eleven. Students came from all over the town to hang out listen to Big Paul’s jukebox and hold forth in front of the bust of Karl Marx.
Gavin was in a better mood, and this was not just for the beer. One of the bar staff was leaving to join her boyfriend in the north, and Big Paul was looking for someone to replace her. Big Paul joked:
“What about it, Gavin? I’ll pay you in beers.”
Gavin thought about it for a second and laughed.
“You better pay me in cash,” he said. “I’ll drink you out of beers.”
Big Paul handed Gavin the second beer. Gavin said:
“Imbroglione! What’s your game, Big Paul? There’s too much head.”
Big Paul took the beer, and skimmed off the head. Then he poured some more head into the glass and waited.
Gavin settled down for his second pint. For a while he enjoyed the thoughts conjured by his beer. He was just thinking how nice it would be to work behind Big Paul’s bar when some old friends showed up. “Gavin, da quanto tempo!”
“Vecchio amico, che fai di bello?”
They invited him to come and sit down at one of the tables out the back.
“Dai, vieni a prendere qualcosa con noi.”
Gavin thanked them. He was happy to sit at the bar.
The football highlights came on the TV. Gavin watched a succession of goals. Big Paul came over and made comments about the merits and demerits of this or that team.
The bar was beginning to empty out. Gavin was just finishing his beer again and thinking about another when he looked down at the bar top. – There was his mobile, but his keys were nowhere to be seen.
Gavin tried to catch Big Paul’s attention, but Big Paul was busy with a customer. Gavin’s heart sunk. What was he going to do? How was going to pay the rent? How was he going to pay the bills? How would he afford Tibet? How would he fly to Mars?
All these thoughts, both bitter and ironic, seemed to flit through his mind when he saw Little Paul coming towards the bar with a tray load of empties.
“What did you do with my keys?” He said.
Little Paul looked confused.
“Non ho capito, Gavin,” he said. “Cosa intendi? I don’t understand Gavin. What do you mean?”
Gavin pulled his sleeve and leaned towards him.
“Where are my keys?” He said. “Dove hai meso le chiavi?”
Little Paul looked at him with a puzzled face.
“You’ve got them, haven’t you?” Gavin said. “I saw you take my keys.”
He looked round and called to Big Paul.
Big Paul came over, and Gavin explained:
“Little Paul took my keys.”
Little Paul protested his innocence:
“What would I want with Gavin’s keys?”
Big Paul and Little Paul started talking rapidly and animatedly in a mixture of Italian and dialect.
“Ma che cazz’ !”
“Fai il bravo…”
“Tu, fai il bravo…”
Gavin, however, seemed to have lost interest in the argument. He swayed as he got up from the stool.
“Gavin, where are you going?” said Big Paul.
“A cas’”, he said, mimicking their accents. “Home sweet home. Where the curry is.”
“How can you get in if you haven’t got your keys?”
“Excuse me, ragazzi. I don’t give a brass monkey’s arse about your keys. I want my curry.”
Gavin turned and pushed past Little Paul. He walked out the door and onto the street, pushing past the students standing round the entrance to the Maltese.
They swore at him. “Che cazz’!”
Gavin did not give a monkey’s; he walked up the street and turned the corner. He walked a few more yards and found a doorway.
He watched his pee as it formed a puddle. – The puddle drained away.
Gavin chuckled to himself when he realized it was the entrance to the faculty building.
“Serves the monkeys right!”
He zipped up his flies.
As he did, he put his hand in his pockets and felt his keys. Oh, no, he thought. You bloody ejit, Gavin.
As he kept walking, his head seemed to clear in the cold, night air. And yet he did not enjoy the sensation of sobriety. Tears welled up in his eyes; full of remorse at what he’d done, he wanted to go back and apologise to his friends, Little Paul and Big Paul. They were such good mates, and always so gentile and kind. They kept his beer on tap and they let him sit and drink at the bar and dream of a better life…
He looked up the street; his house was five minutes from the corner.
No, he thought, as the tears streamed down his face, this is not the key to life.
Two days later, Patrick was in the Maltese with some friends from the faculty when Big Paul came up to him. “Patrick, come va?”
“… A gin and tonic, of course. – And for your friends?”
He came back a few minutes later with Patrick’s gin and tonic and the two gin and tonics for the two young female researchers.
“Patrick, I’m a bit worried about Gavin,” he said. “Have you seen him? Only he left his mobile here the other evening.”
“Oh, that’s so typical of him,” said Patrick. “You better give it to me and I’ll give it to him tomorrow when he comes into the faculty.”
Big Paul did not think anything more of it when, later that evening, Gavin appeared at the bar and ordered his usual pint. After all, a leopard, whether he is Irish or Italian, does not change its spots.
“Did you ever find your keys?” he said.
Gavin nodded. “Mind you,” he said, “I can’t figure what happened to my mobile. Did I leave it here by any chance?”