There’s little need to go into what transpired immediately after Jones discovered them in flagrante delicto in the lavatory. One can only imagine. What are the odds? Even in fiction. However, during the remainder of the flight Liliana says not a word to Malarkey. Not a single word. Oh, she thinks of lots of things to say, especially in Italian, the language of choice when one is pissed beyond normal rhetoric. But she doesn’t. For example, she might want to say: “Non capisco un cavolo!” or “Non rompermi i coglioni!” or “Vai a farti fottere!” But she doesn’t. She must save that for a later time, but at the moment, her silence is as obscene as if she were to say: “Non capisco un cavolo!” or “Non rompermi i coglioni!” or “Vai a farti fottere!”
The Reader might think she’s keeping it all inside until they land. If that’s what the Reader might think, then the Reader would be completely correct. Needless to say, because of the interruption, Liliana is only partially inducted into the Mile High Club and if past behavior is a predictor of future behavior then the Reader will not be surprised by what happens when they arrive at Milan’s Malpensa Airport as Malarkey and Liliana wait for their luggage. It’s beyond clear that Liliana is more than a bit agitated about the nightmare that was the night before as she reads Malarkey the “riot act.” Although the actual Riot Act of 1714 declared any group of twelve or more people to be unlawfully assembled, and thus have to disperse or face punitive action has absolutely nothing to do with Liliana’s anger, the Reader should get the drift here. If not, Malarkey isn’t going to explain it to you, but after she uses the words she thought about using the night before; namely, “Non capisco un cavolo!” or “Non rompermi i coglioni!” or “Vai a farti fottere!” things don’t improve.
“How could you be so stupid as to not lock the door!” Liliana screams in the clearest of all possible English.
There’s little need for a dialogue tag here. If the Reader can’t imagine how pissed off she is, a dialogue tag won’t help.
“Jesus. It was cramped. I’m not Houdini!”
“You don’t need to be Houdini to lock the damn door! How incredibly embarrassing!” Liliana sticks two fingers in Malarkey’s face. “Twice! It’s happened twice! Have you lost your memory?”
Malarkey shrugs his shoulders and raises his eyebrows as if it’s not out of the realm of possibility that someone his age might, in fact, be losing his memory since Malarkey’s been losing his memory for years as the Reader may recall from the house key fiasco. As a matter of fact, losing his memory has bailed Malarkey out of a number of situations in which losing one’s memory is the response of choice.
For the Reader’s edification, as we age there are physiological changes in brain function that can create difficulties in recalling short-term information. In fact, this slowing of mental processes is not really memory loss, but failing to remember. For the Reader’s edification, as we age there are physiological changes in brain function that can create difficulties in recalling short-term information. In fact, this slowing of mental processes is not really memory loss, but failing to remember. For the Reader’s edification, as we age there are physiological changes in brain function that can create difficulties in recalling short-term information. In fact, this slowing of mental processes is not really memory loss, but failing to remember. Regardless, Malarkey thinks carefully about her statement then attempts to mollify her in the most banal of ways.
“But good things come in pairs, honey bunch.”
“Shut up! Don’t honey bunch me! I can’t believe I listened to you!”
“Let’s think about this rationally, sweetheart. How would I know the Chancellor was married to an Italian and was flying first class on a bloody Dutch airline to visit in-laws in Milan? What are the odds!”
“He must think I’m a slut.”
“Probably, but you’re my slut.”
He tries to put his arm around her, but she’s too pissed off and pushes him away.
“Why’d I listen to you?”
“C’mon, Luciana.”
If the Reader is a perspicacious Reader (and does not need to look up the word “perspicacious,” which would retard the read) then the Reader remembers “Luciana” is not Liliana’s name, but the name of Malarkey’s ex-wife. This “player error” is something that many ex-husbands are wont to do and the results of such errors can be fatal. This player error is exacerbated if the ex has a name that’s similar to the name of the newly beloved; in this case … Liliana-Luciana. Both with three syllables. It’s a simple mistake, but, as Malarkey says, as simple mistakes go it can be lethal. Many an ex has found himself masturbating on the living room couch for months because of such a player error. Just why this Freudian mistake happens is one of the mysteries of the universe, along with Black Holes, Dark Energy, String Theory, parallel universes, fractals, and aliens in Nevada, but suffice to say, it does not go over well with Liliana. In Malarkey’s defense, Malarkey’s Theory of Unrequited Angles has some measure. Before Liliana and after Luciana there were a number of women Malarkey dated all of whom had first names with the letter “L”; the blonde television anchor, Loretta, who would go into a frenzy at the mere mention of the word “anus”; the Italian restauranteur, Leonora, who would smear herself in brie (camembert if brie were unavailable) and ask Malarkey to lick it off; the Harley aficionado, Lisa, who could only make love to one of her 1,000 LPs; the watercolorist, Lani, who could only have sex after she was thoroughly painted in such; and the bisexual academic, Louisa, who instructed Malarkey in the fine art of cunnilingus, so, one might be willing to excuse Malarkey for incorrectly calling Liliana, Luciana. Then again, it just might be a lame excuse.
“What did you call me?” Liliana asks, questioning whether she hears Malarkey correctly.
Malarkey realizes the gaffe, but any man worthy of calling himself a man, Alpha or otherwise, would never admit to the mistake and fall back on the heretofore-mentioned memory loss.
“Call you? Call you? I didn’t call you anything, honey bunch.”
“Did you just call me, Luciana?”
Malarkey shifts into a combination of memory loss and “stupid mode.” Stupid mode is a well-known mode for men who, when caught with their pants down (literally or figuratively) rely on stupidity for survival. It works well with memory loss, especially if one is over sixty-five. This does not work well if one is only fifty, to which Malarkey can attest. It’s a bit like having a really good back-up quarterback.
“Don’t think so. I’d certainly remember if I called you that. Wow.”
Liliana sticks the finger of little misunderstanding in his face.
“You listen to me carefully! Call me Luciana one more time, just one more time and you won’t be traveling with anyone … ever. Luciana my ass!”
Malarkey tries to put his arm around her again, but she flips it off.
“That’s just the jet lag talking, honey bunch,” he says trying to dismiss her comment.
“No, that’s Li-li-ana talking!”
“Sorry. Haven’t traveled with a woman in a while.”
“That’s so lame, Malcolm. Get the goddamn bags!”
With the help of a baggage handler, they walk outside with their luggage on a cart at which time they’re met by Mario who’s in his early fifties and dressed in the livery of a chauffeur. Malarkey is a bit puzzled by his presence since Mario seems to be on familiar terms with Liliana. Though their conversation is in Italian, Malarkey has translated it for you.
“Welcome, Miss Liliana. Good to have you home.”
“Nice to be back. Mario, this is Malcolm.”
“My pleasure.”
“Grazie.”
Mario takes the cart and they walk toward the parking lot. Mario opens the doors of a newly waxed, jet-black, Bentley “Flying Spur” as Malarkey and Liliana climb into the back seat, before he places the luggage in the trunk and climbs behind the wheel. It’s got all the “bells and whistles” a Bentley costing $250,000 could possibly have and Malarkey is impressed by it.
“Are you comfortable?” Mario asks.
“Who wouldn’t be?”
Malarkey turns to Liliana.
“What kind of a shuttle service is this where you’re on a first name basis with the driver?” he whispers.
“It’s not a shuttle service, Malcolm. Mario’s our chauffeur.”
Malarkey thinks she’s joking.
“Oh, our chauffeur. And I’m Bond, James Bond.”
She doesn’t respond, which gives Malarkey pause.
“Uh, you’re serious. You never told me …”
“Nothing to tell. Enjoy the ride.”
Her pissed-offed-ness is slowly waning thanks to the jet lag rather than anything Malarkey has said or done. As Mario drives off and after a few moments of silence, Malarkey feels compelled to speak.
“About the club …”
“Don’t want to talk about it.”
“I’m sorry. Wasn’t thinking.”
“You rarely do. It’s one of your virtues … but I agreed to do it.”
“Still love me?”
“Jury’s out … maybe later.”
She puts her arm beneath his, rests her head on his shoulder, closes her eyes, and falls sleep.