One day, not long after I had started working for him, Woolmer said: 'That's enough work for today, Clear up, will you? I'll be back in ten minutes.' It was typical of him to spring surprises on people, to do things without warning or explanation. I cleaned the paintbrushes carefully knowing that Woolmer would make a fuss if even one tiny speck of paint remained on them. I wasn't scared of him exactly, but he was man with a sharp tongue, and I tried not to upset him. I packed everything away in the proper. Woolmer order: ladders on the left, buckets on the right, and so on.
After about quarter of an hour a car pulled up, and there was Woolmer, at the steering-wheel of an old black Citroen. His face was gloomy as usual.
'Get in!' he said. The car pulled away quickly with a squeal of tyres before I'd hardly had a chance to close the door.
'Where are we going?' I asked.
He did not reply, which was his way of telling me to mind my own business. I decided to settle back and enjoy what I could of the ride - after all, it was better than standing on a ladder painting shop fronts. I hadn't the slightest idea where we were going, but we were soon out of Paris and in open countryside. With typical suddenness, Woolmer screeched to a stop by the roadside and switched of the engine. I looked at him. He was staring straight ahead. I followed his gaze, but all I could see was a country road with a hedge running alongside it.
A movement on the grass verge caught my eye. It was a hat, an old black Homburg. the sort that businessmen used to wear, and it appeared to be alive. It moved forward, stopped, and disappeared, bobbed up again for a second, then moved forward and disappeared again. It was such a ridiculous sight that I burst out laughing, but Woolmer, who was also watching the hat, remained serious-faced.
As I turned again to look, it rose up a couple of inches, revealing that there was a head underneath. It dawned on me that there was a ditch between the grass verge and the hedge, and that the wearer of the hat was down in the ditch. Woolmer got out of the car and walked towards the mysterious hat. I didn't know whether I was supposed to follow him or stay in the car. My curiosity got the better of me, so I got out and hurried to catch up with him. He stood by the roadside, staring down at the hat and talking brusquely to it in an Italian dialect which I could not understand. I looked down too, and saw under the hat, the red, wrinkled face of an old man. Despite the hot summer's afternoon, he was wearing a black fur-collared overcoat which perfectly matched his ancient Homburg. The amazing thing was that, although he was standing upright, his head barely cleared the top of the ditch. He was a dwarf of a man, and his small stature was exaggerated by the bent body of old age.
Woolmer held out his hand to the old man and pulled him out of the ditch, lifting him momentarily off his feet as if he were a straw doll. I could see now that the old man was not much more than a metre tall. He was clutching a huge briefcase under his arm, which made him seem even smaller. Like his hat and his overcoat, the briefcase was black, and, also like them, had seen better days. I wondered who on earth he was, and what on earth he has been doing in the ditch. Woolmer, typically gave me no explanation, and indeed did not even introduce me to the old man. The latter tapped the side of his nose and winked at me a couple of times as we walked back to the car, as if he and I shared a secret. Woolmer was holding him by the arm, but not affectionately. It was more like the grip that policemen use when they are arresting a wrongdoer. He bundled the little fellow into the back of the car, and nodded to me to get in.
We drove off with the usual squeal of tyres. The old man was silent at first, then he spoke to me 'Alora Giovanotto . . . Well, young man ...' he said, addressing me in good Italian. I waited for the rest of the sentence, but nothing came, so I turned around to look at him. Once more, he winked at me and tapped the side of his nose with his bony forefinger. 'So, Giovanotto, what do you think?'
Before I could think of a suitable reply to this baffling question, Woolmer uttered a short 'Shut up, you old foo!' to the old man. The old man stuck out his tongue at the back of Woolmer's head. Then he patted his briefcase, continuing to smile and wink and tap his nose. The expression on his face suggested that he had the Crown Jewels in there. For a moment the thought crossed my mind, that he might indeed be some kind of criminal, a burglar perhaps. With his small stature, he could easily climb in and out of windows, and he looked very fit and agile despite his years. Perhaps his briefcase was stuffed with stolen goods.
We arrived back at Woolmer's flat in the Rue Blanche towards dusk. He dropped me and the old man off while he went to park the car. The old man seemed quite agitated, a mixture of excitement and apprehension.
'Who are you?' he asked me suddenly. That was a fair question, I suppose, the same question I was dying to ask him.
'I work for Signor'
He laughed out loud. "Signor Woolmer! Signor Woolmer!" He shouted. 'That ___, He is no signore, He is a ___!' I did not know the words he used, but their meaning was clear: He had a very low opinion of my employer. 'But, don't you worry, govianotto. I'll be ready soon, and then I'll show Signor Woolmer, a thing or two . . . I'll be rid of him forever!' He patted his briefcase again, and gave a little jump, the sort of spring you associate with elves or fairies. He was for all the world like an elf at that moment, a tiny being full of magic and mischief. I decided that I liked him. Even though I was quite sure that he was as mad as a hatter. 'I'll show you later', He whispered, 'when he's not around. Our secret, Govianotto, OK?'
After about quarter of an hour a car pulled up, and there was Woolmer, at the steering-wheel of an old black Citroen. His face was gloomy as usual.
'Get in!' he said. The car pulled away quickly with a squeal of tyres before I'd hardly had a chance to close the door.
'Where are we going?' I asked.
He did not reply, which was his way of telling me to mind my own business. I decided to settle back and enjoy what I could of the ride - after all, it was better than standing on a ladder painting shop fronts. I hadn't the slightest idea where we were going, but we were soon out of Paris and in open countryside. With typical suddenness, Woolmer screeched to a stop by the roadside and switched of the engine. I looked at him. He was staring straight ahead. I followed his gaze, but all I could see was a country road with a hedge running alongside it.
A movement on the grass verge caught my eye. It was a hat, an old black Homburg. the sort that businessmen used to wear, and it appeared to be alive. It moved forward, stopped, and disappeared, bobbed up again for a second, then moved forward and disappeared again. It was such a ridiculous sight that I burst out laughing, but Woolmer, who was also watching the hat, remained serious-faced.
As I turned again to look, it rose up a couple of inches, revealing that there was a head underneath. It dawned on me that there was a ditch between the grass verge and the hedge, and that the wearer of the hat was down in the ditch. Woolmer got out of the car and walked towards the mysterious hat. I didn't know whether I was supposed to follow him or stay in the car. My curiosity got the better of me, so I got out and hurried to catch up with him. He stood by the roadside, staring down at the hat and talking brusquely to it in an Italian dialect which I could not understand. I looked down too, and saw under the hat, the red, wrinkled face of an old man. Despite the hot summer's afternoon, he was wearing a black fur-collared overcoat which perfectly matched his ancient Homburg. The amazing thing was that, although he was standing upright, his head barely cleared the top of the ditch. He was a dwarf of a man, and his small stature was exaggerated by the bent body of old age.
Woolmer held out his hand to the old man and pulled him out of the ditch, lifting him momentarily off his feet as if he were a straw doll. I could see now that the old man was not much more than a metre tall. He was clutching a huge briefcase under his arm, which made him seem even smaller. Like his hat and his overcoat, the briefcase was black, and, also like them, had seen better days. I wondered who on earth he was, and what on earth he has been doing in the ditch. Woolmer, typically gave me no explanation, and indeed did not even introduce me to the old man. The latter tapped the side of his nose and winked at me a couple of times as we walked back to the car, as if he and I shared a secret. Woolmer was holding him by the arm, but not affectionately. It was more like the grip that policemen use when they are arresting a wrongdoer. He bundled the little fellow into the back of the car, and nodded to me to get in.
We drove off with the usual squeal of tyres. The old man was silent at first, then he spoke to me 'Alora Giovanotto . . . Well, young man ...' he said, addressing me in good Italian. I waited for the rest of the sentence, but nothing came, so I turned around to look at him. Once more, he winked at me and tapped the side of his nose with his bony forefinger. 'So, Giovanotto, what do you think?'
Before I could think of a suitable reply to this baffling question, Woolmer uttered a short 'Shut up, you old foo!' to the old man. The old man stuck out his tongue at the back of Woolmer's head. Then he patted his briefcase, continuing to smile and wink and tap his nose. The expression on his face suggested that he had the Crown Jewels in there. For a moment the thought crossed my mind, that he might indeed be some kind of criminal, a burglar perhaps. With his small stature, he could easily climb in and out of windows, and he looked very fit and agile despite his years. Perhaps his briefcase was stuffed with stolen goods.
We arrived back at Woolmer's flat in the Rue Blanche towards dusk. He dropped me and the old man off while he went to park the car. The old man seemed quite agitated, a mixture of excitement and apprehension.
'Who are you?' he asked me suddenly. That was a fair question, I suppose, the same question I was dying to ask him.
'I work for Signor'
He laughed out loud. "Signor Woolmer! Signor Woolmer!" He shouted. 'That ___, He is no signore, He is a ___!' I did not know the words he used, but their meaning was clear: He had a very low opinion of my employer. 'But, don't you worry, govianotto. I'll be ready soon, and then I'll show Signor Woolmer, a thing or two . . . I'll be rid of him forever!' He patted his briefcase again, and gave a little jump, the sort of spring you associate with elves or fairies. He was for all the world like an elf at that moment, a tiny being full of magic and mischief. I decided that I liked him. Even though I was quite sure that he was as mad as a hatter. 'I'll show you later', He whispered, 'when he's not around. Our secret, Govianotto, OK?'