A Dog's Life by Paul Bailey

Author:Paul Bailey
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Penguin Books Ltd
Published: 2003-06-12T21:00:00+00:00

Una Vita Nuova

‘Circe understands Italian,’ Vanni remarked with a grin. He had been caring for her while I had taken a week’s holiday in Egypt. ‘She’s a dumb linguist, thanks to me.’

It was true, after a fashion. In seven days she had learnt that Vieni qui, spoken with authority, was the same as ‘Come here’, and that Giù meant ‘Get down’. She understood, too, that when Vanni said Cattiva it was to indicate that she was behaving badly, and Tu sei bella, accompanied by a gentle pat, could only mean that she was beautiful and on her best behaviour. She was now, perhaps, the only bilingual dog in the park.

Vanni attended David’s funeral and stayed with me for some weeks afterwards. We had been friends, the three of us, since the spring of 1968. Earlier that year, I had been given an award for my first novel, and one of the conditions of the prize was – and still is – that the money be spent abroad. (I had planned to go to Rome, and was taking Italian lessons from an elderly man who lived in a gloomy basement flat near Baker Street. He only once spoke to me in English during the six-week course. ‘Hullo,’ he said as he opened the door when I arrived for my first lesson. ‘This is the last English you will hear. Buon giorno.’) But Vanni persuaded me to stay in Florence, his native city. I would meet his family and friends, and improve my Italian.

I flew to Pisa, and waited an eternity for my luggage. It was not forthcoming. An airline official told me, with a calmness I found exasperating, that the flight had gone on to Singapore, with my suitcase in the hold. I could collect it, he assured me, in three days, when the next Singapore–Pisa–London trip was scheduled. Accompanied by Vanni and another new friend, Paolo, I travelled by train to Florence, where Paolo had found me a wonderful room at the very top of the Hotel Paris on Via dei Banchi, a minute’s walk from the railway station. I stayed there for three happy months, paying a pittance for my eyrie.

I needed a change of shirt, some socks and underwear. To my amazement, the underpants cost almost as much as the shirt and socks combined. I had told the shop assistant that I required mutande, but did not realize until I opened the box that the mutande he had sold me were made of seta. I had bought four pairs of silk slips, all of which disintegrated in the hotel’s washing machine.

Paolo happened to be with me when the man from Alitalia phoned to say that my luggage was in Pisa, awaiting collection. Paolo seized the phone and reminded the man that it was because of his company’s inefficiency that my case had ended up in Singapore. The case was delivered to the hotel later that afternoon.

It was thanks to Vanni, who was to become an expert in Medieval

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