Heads You Win

The bus stopped again and again to allow passengers on and off, but it was still several more stops before Mr. Moretti stood up and headed back down the spiral staircase. Once they were on the pavement Sasha kept stopping every few moments to gaze inside shop windows. A tobacconist that sold so many different brands of cigarettes and cigars, as well as pipes, which brought back memories of his father. In another, a man was sitting in a large leather chair having his hair cut. Sasha’s mother always cut his hair. Didn’t this man have a mother? A cake shop where he would have liked to take a closer look, but he had to keep up with Mr. Moretti. Another shop that displayed only watches. Why would anyone need a watch when there were so many church clocks all around them? A women’s boutique, where Sasha stood mesmerized when he saw his first miniskirt. Elena grabbed him firmly by the arm and pulled him away. He didn’t have time to stop again until he saw a sign swaying in the breeze, proclaiming MORETTI’S.

This time it was Elena who peered inside to admire the neatly laid tables with their spotless red and white checked tablecloths, folded napkins, and fine bone china. Waiters in smart white jackets bustled around, attentively serving their customers. But Moretti continued walking until he reached a side door, which he unlocked, and beckoned them to follow. They climbed a dimly lit staircase to the first floor, where Moretti opened another door.

“The flat is very small,” he admitted, standing aside to let them in. “My wife and I lived here when we were first married.”

Elena didn’t mention that it was larger than their unit in Leningrad, and far better furnished. She walked into a front room that overlooked the main road just as a motorbike revved by. She’d never experienced traffic noise or congestion before. She inspected the little kitchen, bathroom, and two bedrooms. Sasha immediately inhabited the smaller one. He collapsed onto the bed, closed his eyes, and fell asleep.

“Time for you to meet the chef,” whispered Moretti.

The two of them left Sasha sleeping and returned downstairs. Moretti walked into the restaurant and took her through to the kitchen. Elena thought she’d arrived in heaven. Everything she’d requested when she was in Leningrad, and so much more, was there before her.

Moretti introduced her to the chef, and explained how he’d met Elena while on the return journey to England. The chef listened attentively to his boss but didn’t look convinced.

“Why don’t you take a couple of days finding out how we do things here, Mrs. Karpenko,” the chef suggested, “before I decide where you might fit in.”

It only took Elena a couple of hours before she was assisting the sous-chef, and long before the last customer had departed the chef’s expression of condescension had turned to one of respect for the lady from Leningrad.

Elena returned to her flat just after midnight, utterly exhausted. She looked in on Sasha, who was still lying on his bed, fully dressed and fast asleep. She took off his shoes and pulled a blanket over him. The first thing she must do in the morning was find the right school for him.

Mr. Moretti even had ideas on that subject.

*   *   *

Elena tried to focus, and not think about what was going on in the dining room, even though Sasha’s future could well depend on it. She set about preparing Mr. Quilter’s favorite dish long before he arrived.

Mr. Moretti guided the gentleman and his wife to a corner table usually reserved for regulars or important customers.

Mr. and Mrs. Quilter were not regulars. They fell into the category of anniversaries and special occasions. However, Mr. Moretti had instructed his staff to treat them as VIPs.

He handed them both a menu. “Can I get you a drink?” he asked Mr. Quilter.

“Just a glass of water for now. I’ll choose a bottle of wine once we’ve decided what we’re going to eat.”

“Of course, sir,” said Moretti. He left them to study their menus and went through to the kitchen. “They’ve arrived. I’ve put them on table eleven,” he announced.

The chef nodded. He rarely spoke unless it was to bawl out one of his sous-chefs, although, he had to admit, life had become a lot easier since the arrival of their latest recruit. Mrs. Karpenko also rarely spoke as she went about preparing each dish with skill and pride. It had taken less than a week for the normally skeptical chef to admit that a rare talent had appeared at Moretti’s, and he warned the boss that he feared it wouldn’t be long before she wanted to move on and run her own kitchen.

Mr. Moretti returned to the dining room and whispered to the head-waiter, “I’ll be taking the order for table eleven, Gino.” When he saw the special guest close his menu, he quickly moved across to their table. “Have you decided what you’d like, madam?” he asked Mrs. Quilter, removing a small pad and pen from his jacket pocket.

“Yes, thank you. I’ll start with the avocado salad, and as it’s a special occasion, I’ll have the Dover sole.”