Cooking With Fernet Branca by James Hamilton-Paterson

Author:James Hamilton-Paterson [James Hamilton-Paterson]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780571267675
Publisher: Faber & Faber
Published: 2010-10-14T04:00:00+00:00

26

Between completing my score and trips down to the set I haven’t seen anything of Gerry this last week. Seen, no; heard, definitely. From time to time I’ve been aware of noises off: truck engines, bangings, hammerings, and floating over all the hysterical falsetto arias that seem to accompany my eccentric neighbour’s every endeavour. Since this voice of his is the one sound my life up in these hills and the film have in common, the two seem ever more associated. To that extent, though quite unknown to him, Gerry is already part of Pisorno Studios and Arrazzato.

It’s curious how abstracted one can become. These last few days I must occasionally have glanced unseeingly out of the kitchen window; but not until a sudden burst of riveting am I now moved to look out and notice for the first time a large fence that has appeared surprisingly close to my house. At this moment Gerry’s head and shoulders appear above the end panel. He is in his steel erector’s kit: I recognize the yellow helmet. For some reason he is holding an obviously weighty machine gun in both hands. He reaches far over the top of the fence with it and turns it to take aim awkwardly at the wood on my side. Suddenly there is a distant sound of collapse and he lurches, hanging half over. His helmet falls off. Simultaneously the machine gun fires, rather to his surprise, I should say, and he drops it with a yell. It crashes to the ground, trailing behind it a cable. Meanwhile Gerry has become remarkably red in the face and is thrashing about as he hangs. I fling open the back door in alarm.

‘Are you all right?’ I ask with neighbourly concern. ‘Can I help?’

‘Oh, I shouldn’t think so,’ he says, struggling some more. There is banging on the far side of the fence as from a flailing boot. ‘I, er, things are pretty much under control, thanks. I seem to have dropped the nail gun, though. Have it up in a jiffy.’ He tugs one-handedly at the cable. The gun on the ground twitches. ‘Better stand back, Marta,’ he warns. ‘It goes off very easily. Incredibly easily.’

‘Why don’t you just come over this side and fetch it? You look as though you need a rest, anyway. Come and have some delicacies from Voynovia.’

More banging. ‘Most kind,’ he gasps. He seems preoccupied and his face is congested with effort. I can’t think why he goes on hanging over the fence until I realize he must have kicked his step ladder over and can’t reach the ground. Really, he must be extraordinarily unfit if he can’t lower himself back down. The fence is barely two metres high.

‘Er, I’m sort of stuck, Marta. My boot won’t, well, I think I might have shot myself in the foot.’

‘In the foot, Gerry?’

‘Damn silly thing.’

I walk around the end of the fence. There is a step ladder lying on its side on the grass and Gerry’s left boot is indeed fixed to the panel halfway up.

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