M is for Mistake

“Magic, pure magic,” mumbled Arlin over the last morsel of braised octopus, scraping the bits of creamy polenta from his bowl. That hotel restaurant chef was a magician, and Arlin must thank him personally.

Mere minutes ago, the same ceramic bowl was full of the flavorful polpo alla luciana. Not a fast eater, but Arlin devoured the divine meal and mopped the sauce leftovers with a piece of ciabatta; it was that good. He ate many fine meals in his long and adventurous life, but this simple yet incredible dish skyrocketed to the top, trampling French and Japanese culinary inventions.

So good, he didn’t notice who relocated to the next table, carrying a pink cocktail in one hand and a folder in the other. Miss Pumps and Pinstripes still had her skirt suit and heels on, but let her red curls loose, just like yesterday in that Murano store. Yesterday, Arlin hid behind a giant modern statue until she left the store. Thankfully, the lawyer lady was way more decisive than him. She pointed at a trinket and tapped on the counter impatiently, waiting for it to be wrapped. Arlin was not in the habit of fantasizing about a therapeutic session over his knee with every woman he met, but last night he gave in.

It seemed like the pink cocktail with a tiny paper plane on the edge was not her first drink, because when she yanked the folder open, the first page fell on the floor. She scribbled on the blank piece of paper, crumpled it, and tossed it on the floor with much deliberation this time. The paper ball rolled towards Arlin, and he could read the words ‘Dear Santa’ at the top. Which brought his attention to the first page. As a gentleman, he had to retrieve it for her. Though a glance would be ungentlemanly, Arlin did not resist a peek. The letter read:

 

Dear Santa,

I heard you had a swift and bombastic world tour and might be batshit tired. Tough luck. Sorry to interrupt your facefucking that horny Mrs. Claus, but I made a huge boo-boo and need your help. Stat. To right the wrong. Pay the piper. Or whatever you do with your naughty list.

 

“Huh,” Arlin scratched his trimmed salt-and-pepper beard. He thought he’d seen it all, but this was a first.

“Oh, don’t mind it.” The woman snatched the paper. “I never write the first draft in legalese. I’m working on a revision, second revision. Can I read it to you?”

“Of course,” nodded Arlin. “Where are my manners? Arlin James.” He offered his hand.

“Federica Minotti,” she shook his hand. “At home I go by Erica, but here they call me Fede. Do you know why?” She was a blunt drunk.

“Perhaps because they are Italians, I presume? And that’s how they shorten names. Alessandra to Ale, Valentina to Vale. You get the gist.”

“I’m single and speak Italian and the only one stupid enough who agree to go. Me, they send me, to deal with these Vatican wolves!” Like a true Italian, she spoke at double speed now and threw her arms in a melodramatic gesture to emphasize the grandeur of her current ordeal.

“Does Vatican work on Christmas?” Arlin reverted to British sarcasm.

“Of course they do. Who organizes the mass and everything? Vatican never sleeps, like New York. No, no meetings on Christmas. But I worked in the hotel! And now I’m screwed.”

“Let’s start from the beginning.” He tapped her hand.

“I’m here on White House business to expedite the divorce. Ouch!” She slapped her hand over her mouth. “I did it again, first the bartender, now you.”

“What did you tell him? That bartender doesn’t speak a lick of English.”

“I told him I work in the White House. Who, Ettore? Isn’t he cute? His nonna lives in Tuscany.” She flashed a flirty smile, the first in this bizarre conversation.

“Everyone’s nonna here lives in Tuscany. What else did you tell him?”

“Nothing else.”

“Wait? The POTUS divorce?”

“Nah, he isn’t Catholic.” Federica brushed off his suggestion. “His is pish posh.”

“Then whose?” Arlin inquired.

“I almost had a deal. But they want an archdiocese seat in Toronto.”

“Toronto is in Canada.”

“And that’s why it’s so difficult.” The woman rolled her eyes and sighed.

“Do you know what happens to girls who roll their eyes?” Arlin straightened his back.

“Don’t I know that.” She rolled her eyes again. “I survived Catholic school and parents.”

“Gymslip?”

“Yep. Dark green.” She’s been sobering up from recalling somber memories.

“Yes, sir, not yep,” Arlin corrected.

“You are not Santa, are you, sir?”

“I am not. I take on the principal’s duties when asked. You will have to ask me, Federica. My duties are similar to Santa’s, when dealing with the naughty young women. So, what was your big mistake?”