The Procedure

Every evening, returning from work, I stop by the Cafe Tambosi for a prosecco and a plate of olives. I sit at one of the tables that overlook the inside balcony and lose myself in watching the patrons, exhausted tourists catching their breath scrolling through pictures on a cell phone, ladies with large designer shopping bags piled on a chair.

I see a frequent customer, someone who, like me, comes every day; but yesterday, I noticed, did not show up. Elegant, in his sixties, thin glasses that he always takes off as soon as he sits, putting them in a black case placed on the table. Just because he was not there yesterday, I realize, I’m glad to see him. Curious, isn’t it? A stranger that I do not particularly like and with whom I have never exchanged a word.

Today is Friday, and there aren’t any free places in the main hall on the ground floor. He ascends the stairs to the balcony and sits at the empty table next to me. I make space for him as he passes. He is close enough to glance my way with a smile and a nod before opening the menu, which, like me, he knows by heart. I know what he will have: what he always has, a glass of port. Today, however, he surprises me. Looks up and asks me, without preamble, as if we had been talking for hours, “How’s the prosecco?”

“I find it very good,” I say, and immediately I regret it. What if he actually orders it and does not like it? “Thanks. I’ll have that, then”, he replies, with a look that is based on our mute familiarity; me always watching his enjoyment of his port, and him knowing that for me it is prosecco every day.

I get distracted admiring a girl who enters. Beautiful, a presence that raises attention and silence around her. She lingers at the door, keeping it open for a moment, her hair swirling in a dark vortex of sleet. To my surprise, she looks up at the balcony, her gaze passes over me and comes to rest on my neighbor with a smile. She glides up the stairs and sits next to him. Maybe it’s his niece, I think.

The man orders prosecco for both. He turns to me with a short nod of approval or thanks. Good, he liked it. She has flushed cheeks and whispers, smiling, stroking his arm. Every now and then she lowers her eyes. Then she leans over to kiss him, her hand lingering long on the back of his neck. It is not his niece. I find myself thinking that she probably isn’t even half his age.

She doesn’t stay long, about ten minutes. She quickly puts on her coat, leaving the collar up, bends down to kiss him again and runs down the stairs. The man stays. He still has the glass half full, looking at something on his cell phone.

I also take out mine, by imitation. There is a message from Silvia. She says don’t be late, I’am cooking stew. I smile. She’s been promising this for months. Hopefully she has bought a nice baguette, to dip in the sauce.

While I get up, the man raises his eyebrows in invitation at me. I approach. He shakes my hand, says his name is Fabio Ursi.

“Thanks for the advice. Good indeed. Can I offer you one?”

I look at the clock. “Thank you, but I do not have much time …”

“Sit only for a moment, then. Do you mind? “I sit.

“What do you think of my friend?” He asks casually, as if speaking of politics, not smiling and not seeking complicity.

“Beautiful girl”. I do not know what else to say.

“Beautiful, yes, beautiful. And young. Isn’t she?”

I nod. He nods too, as he lights a cigarette. His gesture strikes me. I realize I don’t know people who smoke any more.

“She wants to marry.” I am puzzled and a little embarrassed, I don’t know where this is going.

“Congratulations,” I say.

“Don’t congratulate me. We aren’t going t get married,” he interrupts. “I’m leaving her.”

The waiter, who arrives with two glasses of prosecco, must have misheard. Well, anyway, as I have it. I put the glass to my lips as he continues.

“I was a bit… let’s say a little light, with Adele.” He rubs his upper lip with his thumb thoughtfully. “I’m much older, but that’s not the point. I don’t love her.”

“And her, Adele, is she in love with you?”.

Ursi nods silently. “If I want a woman, she will fall in love with me.”

He says his boastful sentence matter of factly, completely without vanity. I look at him to see if he’s joking, in the anticipation of the beginning of a knowing smile. He doesn’t smile. He isn’t joking.

“You don’t recall having seen me here before with another woman, right?” He says. Suddenly I remember. A few months earlier. Right, yes, another woman. Not as young as Adele. Pretty too. Black hair, intense. At the table near the door. She too, kissed him. Also at that time I thought, she is his niece.

“You see, I have a foolproof procedure. It is so very simple… Oh, excuse me, you have to go, don’t you? ”

“I can stay a little longer.”

“Well, then I will continue. You have seen the movie The English Patient? ”

“No.”

“Too bad, it would be easier to explain. Anyway. In the movie there is a man in the desert who wants to capture an ostrich. The man is persistent. He has time. Like me. He finds an ostrich in the dunes and stops to sit at a distance. A distance so that the bird will feel safe.” He move his hand to draw a horizon of sand.

“The next day he comes back. Just a little closer. He sits, still, for a few hours. And the next day, even closer, a little. He does not move. Do you see where I’m going? ”

“The ostrich gets used to his presence.” I say. He nods again.

“Every time a little closer. Until one day he is so close that he can catch it,” I conclude.

“Exactly,” he says. “Human beings, like animals, find what is frequent, natural, whatever it is,” he continues.

“I am a very patient man. If I like a woman – but I really have to like her, mind you, because the procedure requires a lot of time and energy – I make my move. A few phone calls here and there. I never push the situation. My attentions are more than simply those of a friend and less than those of a man in love. Just a shade more than simple courtesy. I want her to think that I probably don’t want anything from her. I become familiar and non-threatening. Never jealous, never in competition with others. With this, my age helps”, he smiles.

“However, from time to time, I become extremely attentive.” He searches through his pocket and pulls out another cigarette. “So much that she will have doubts. Is he really interested in me? No, what am I thinking. He is twice my age.

Then, when she is not thinking about it anymore, a day or two later, I go a little further. And so on.”

He offers me a cigarette. I shake my head.

“The Ostrich Procedure.”

“Yes,” he replies. He leans towards me, using the unlit cigarette as an prop, holding it vertically between two fingers directly in front of my eyes.

“The Ostrich Procedure, that’s right. It applies to all human relationships, you know? Not only in matters of love. Work, friendship, even among strangers. It works. Always. I’ve perfected it. I added a little variation.”

He lights the cigarette and inhales deeply, and then puts it back again before my eyes. I understand the cigarette is the woman.

“When I see that the girl is accustomed to my attentions, I take them away.” He snatches his hand away, hiding the cigarette. Then resumes smoking.

“Just for a while. I forget a gift. I do not show up for an appointment. Well, yes, especially this: I don’t show up once. This allows her to realize just how natural my presence has become. To realize that she’s missing me. She will ask herself questions. Will I see him again? Perhaps, after all, I had only imagined his interest? Is it possible that a man so much older could be interested in me, and that I’m thinking about him now? ”

He leans back, takes another sip.

“When I show up again, my interest in her has a new value. At that point a small gesture is enough. Something just a little more than usual. That would make her lean towards the idea that I am really interested. After this, a hug or an invitation to dinner acquires new value. I just have to be attentive and helpful without pushing too hard, and the procedure is complete.”

He gets up, he throws his head back to finish his prosecco and gives me his hand.

“I hope I haven’t bored you with my little quirks.”

While he’s walking away, I say, “And you used the procedure with that girl.”

“Exactly,” he replies, without looking back.

“And with me.”

“Exactly,” he says again, this time turning with a half smile, looking straight into my eyes and pointing a cigarette at me in amused concession, before disappearing completely down the staircase