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Driving Lessons
Chapter 10 Scenes from an Italian Restaurant
Warnings: Swearing (Romano)
England woke to the sound of idiocy. That was the only description he could think of. He had gone to bed very uneasy. For a start, his new phone did not have 'buttons' or a keypad and it had taken him a full hour to work out how to switch it on. Secondly the damned thing seemed to have a fault. He kept getting incomprehensible text messages in German. Thirdly, the ring tone appeared to be set to 'La Marsaillaise'. France told him that this was because it was a French phone. Finally, and most disturbingly, France was in the next bedroom.
England got out of bed, moved aside the chest of drawers he'd used as a barricade and stepped into the hallway. The row was coming from the bedroom France had requisitioned.
France was loudly arguing with someone and that someone was arguing back.
It was America.
"Aw! Why has he got my bedroom?" America whined at England.
England felt a little guilty. He'd shown France the two spare bedrooms. One did not have a bed and France had raised an eyebrow.
"What am I supposed to sleep on? Am I supposed to levitate?"
"I can get you an airbed," England sighed.
"I am too old for such things!" France had said.
"Listen, pal…"
France always knew he was in trouble when England called him 'pal'.
"But, Angleterre, have a heart… I am older zan you!"
England had shown him the other spare room.
"I did not know you had a child living with you!" France had exclaimed.
"Very funny…"
France had stared at the Superman duvet cover, the Marvel posters, the action figures strewn on the floor, the train set, the lifesize cardboard cut-out of Darth Vader and lastly the Stars 'n' Stripes flag on the wall.
It was France's removal of this latter article that had sparked the argument that morning.
"Tell him! This is my room!" America told England. "He's making it all…" here America paused. "French!"
England sighed, "It's only yours for when you visit. You don't live here."
"Neither does Francy!" America retorted.
France had hung his own flag on the wall, put up a poster of Paris and had emptied his suitcases.
There was now a disturbing array of flowery shirts, strong 'parfum', roses and wine.
The room looked like it belonged to someone with a personality disorder.
"France is just staying here for a while," England told America. "A short while," he added, looking at France with emphasis.
"Oui little Amerique."
America hated being called 'little' and he scowled, "It ain't fair. He's ruining my room and look what he did to my soldiers," America went over to a table that had various toy soldiers and lego constructions on it. He picked some up, "General Patton didn't do stuff like that with his men! This was the Battle of Normandy, I was there, dude! We kicked arse… we didn't party like this and I mean I know you two are, yer know…" he didn't finish.
France smiled.
"Alfred, how on earth can this be the Battle of Normandy? You've got Roman soldiers on there, Batman and if I'm not mistaken, Harry Potter, who I doubt very much would have been even old enough to be at the Battle of Normandy." England said, ignoring America's implication about him and 'Francy'.
"Heroes, dude."
"Also I was there at the Battle of Normandy and I'm fairly certain there were no dragons."
"Well you were probably having one of your tea-breaks," America said.
"I'm not discussing this. I have a plane to catch," England hurried out to get ready.
The bathroom stank of French perfume, wine and roses. He shoved aside all the various French 'crap' and took a quick shower. He could still hear the arguing over the running water.
"Cheese-eating surrender monkey!" America was yelling.
England was by now going through his wardrobe. He really should get some new clothes, he decided and he should have gone to the dry cleaners. Everything of any decency was in the laundry basket. He considered borrowing from Francis, but the idea of wearing Francis' trousers turned his stomach. There was just his Guards uniform, his Army uniform, a pair of jeans he'd regretted buying as soon as he left the store, a pirate uniform which he caressed lovingly, or a tweed suit. Everything else was either covered in tomato or blood. He blamed France for this.
"You look like a Grandpa," America told him. They were driving through London. America had offered to drop England off at the airport in his huge 'Hummer' thing.
England, in his tweed suit, had thought he looked rather dashing. He had climbed into the passenger seat of the huge black 'idiotic monstrosity' with the aid of the kitchen stool. What was it about these foreign cars, he thought. They were either too low or too high.
The Mini had been delivered back to his house sometime that morning, but was undrivable. He had tried to explain this to France. "It's got a bloody great wheel clamp on it, you French idiot!" he'd shouted.
France had shrugged. "So?"
"So? Are you bloody high?"
France had just ignored him and proceeded to stir something garlicky on the hob.
"It says here to have it unclamped, we… I mean you… have to pay a £500 fine…"
France had dropped his large spoon and looked appalled.
America, for his part, had been fascinated by the Mini, "Jeez… it's amazing. And it's a real car? Like you can drive it for real? Wow… Everything in this country is so old, small and broken," he'd said looking at the older Nations - England complaining about his bad back and France complaining about the 'childish' bedroom.
England had then called out to his Bentley, "Bye bye my love…"
France, still inside the house, held his hands to his heart, "He still loves him…" he muttered.
"Gay," America had said.
The flight was gloriously uneventful and free of any fellow Nations, principalities or regions. In fact England was suspicious. He'd brought an overnight bag and his instructions. It was rather like being a spy. France had refused to say who his date was but that it was a 'real girl'.
It was a 'real' girl, France was right there. Unfortunately, the rifle now stuck in England's face was also very real.
"Erm Switzerland? Could you stop waving that rifle around?" England said nervously.
Liechtenstein, aka Lily Zwingli, sat opposite him in the cosy little Italian bistro named 'Cafe Vargas'. The name should have rung a huge bell but didn't.
"Bruder, put your gun away! It's Mr England. He's a gentleman!" Lily admonished.
"He hangs around with France. We all know he lives with him!" Switzerland said, glaring at England.
"I don't… we're not…" England began.
"Who set this up anyway? France? Why are you two meeting?" Switzerland continued, ignoring England's protestations.
Lily seemed to view the other thing as an exciting escapade. Her eyes shone. "Please tell us about your date with Miss Belarus. Did you really spurn her, Mr England?"
England almost fell off his chair, "No of course not!"
"There's a price on your head," Switzerland said ominously, still holding the rifle. He appeared to be pleased and England wouldn't have been surprised if it were Switzerland who was his assassin.
In fact, England was now sure France was really trying to get him killed.
Perhaps, if England could persuade Switzerland to put his rifle away then he might have quite a nice night.
Cafe Vargas was quite a nice little place and well-renowned in Rome, according to 'trip advisor'. Or would be if it weren't for the surly waiter.
"Si?" Lovino Vargas, joint owner of Cafe Vargas, glared at England and Switzerland but smiled charmingly at Lily.
"Erm… oh Romano…" England sighed. Why oh why did most of his fellow bloody Nations have jobs in restaurants? (Most of course did not have jobs in restaurants - but this seemed to be England's experience over the last few days.)
"Si? What you want?" Romano growled.
"Are we still getting the 10% discount?" Switzerland asked abruptly.
Romano shrugged. He was going to call him a 'cheese bastard' but didn't.
"Francis is paying," England told them confidently. He held up Francis' Banque de France credit card.
"Well I know you're paying. It's only right the man should pay for the lady," Switzerland said, in rather a sexist way, England thought.
"Yes, but I'm not on a date with you, am I?" England countered.
Romano waved his arms around, "Hey we're not here to judge!" he winked at Lily.
Lily smiled shyly back.
"Right… we'll have the full starters and bring lots of bread and some antipasta, beer for me, water for Lily, England will have warm beer…"
"I'm old enough for wine, bruder," Lily said.
"Is antipasta the opposite of pasta?" England asked.
Romano glared at him, wrote something which was probably very rude on his pad and stomped off to the kitchen where he shouted the order at the poor chef.
"Will it be like the ravioli I have at home?" England asked Lily.
Lily, who was still arguing with her brother, nodded absently at him.
"Like Heinz… I have it on toast," England continued.
There was a crash from the kitchen.
Lily frowned. Even Vash looked as if he were going to laugh. But then he didn't.
"So do you come here often?" England began.
"No she doesn't. But I do because we get a discount," Switzerland said.
"They do, don't they bruder," Lily pointed over at one of the booths in the corner that England had completely missed, even though the place was empty. A couple huddled together, holding hands over the table, a burning candle lighting up their faces, and a large tomato pizza.
"Is that Spain and Belgium?" England whispered.
"Yes it is. Leave them alone, Mr England. We all heard what you did. It was awful."
"Hey! It wasn't me who was driving!"
"I wasn't talking about that. I was talking about the advice you gave Miss Belgium and breaking them up!"
"Advice? What bloody advice?" England looked confused.
But their waiter reappeared with bowls of pasta, breadsticks and garlic bread which he slammed down in front of them. He smiled at Lily, only to have a rifle stuck in his face and then stomped off yelling in Italian.
England looked up suspiciously, "I have spaghetti on toast at home," he said slowly.
Lily put a finger to her lips, "Shush," she said with good reason.
The sound of the Italian argument in the kitchen was now reaching a crescendo. It appeared to be largely one-sided.
"I'm surprised you still cook for yourself now France is living with you," Lily said digging into her pasta.
"We're not a couple."
Before Lily could say something to this, Romano had reappeared and was berating Spain about something.
Belgium said to the Spaniard, "Why did we come here? I mean it's obvious you two can't leave each other alone."
Romano slammed something down and yelled, "I was only saying you should eat the damned pizza and stop staring into each other's eyes!"
"They don't like my pizza?" came a dramatic lament from the kitchen.
"See? You've upset the chef!" Romano said.
Spain looked torn between two lovers. Well, actually just the one lover and she looked as if she were about to leave.
"Er Romano? Can I have an espresso?" Lily asked, politely.
"Si Signorina!"
"What's that?" England asked, cutting up his spaghetti with a knife and fork. His beer was not nice. Honestly, foreigners could not serve up a decent beer. Lager, in his view, was just for louts or Danes or usually both. "I'm thinking of getting more acquainted with foreign food."
"It's a small cup of Italian coffee," Lily explained.
"And one for me!" England called to Romano.
"Tea bastard now drinks coffee…" Romano muttered only to shout in Italian at some poor soul in the kitchen. "Un espresso, fratello. Questo è stupido".
"Sei uno stupido!" someone countered.
There were further arguments about who was 'stupido' until Romano yelled something about 'potato bastard holding them back'.
England only knew this as Lily translated for him.
Romano slammed back out as a pan whizzed over his head.
"Germany is my best friend and he put a lot of money into this business!" Italy said as he emerged from the kitchen, a chef's hat askew on his head, a large pizza dough in his hands, his apron covered in tomato. He ran back in when Romano turned and glared at him.
Lily translated all this also.
"Wow… poor bugger. I thought Germany had more sense…" England said as Romano put a very tiny cup of something dark and hot in front of him. "What's this?" England asked.
"Espresso," Romano said and walked away, scowling at Spain as he did so.
Spain was by now on his knees in front of Belgium and begging her to stay. "But Lou… I've always loved you… even when I was married to Austria. He meant nothing to me… but don't tell him that, he's sensitive…"
"Foreigners…" England muttered and downed his espresso in two gulps.
"He should have some dignity," Switzerland said, shoving breadsticks into his jacket pockets.
"Two more cups of this expresso stuff!" England called.
"Idiota!"
"It's very strong," Lily cautioned.
Four espressos later…
"Can any of you read these texts? I've had four today. I think there's something wrong with my phone…" England twitched, his knees jiggling beneath the table, his eyebrows were going up and down like restless caterpillars.
"There's something wrong with your brain," Switzerland said grumpily.
A good free dinner was being ruined by England.
"Can you see, can you, can you, can you?" England jigged over to Belgium's table where Spain was attempting to woo Belgium back.
"How many coffees have you had, Arthur?" Belgium asked.
"Go away, England! I'm trying to get Miss Belgium back!" Spain said, ineffectually trying to shove England away.
"Oh Antonio…"
"About four, Lou. Just small cups," England jerked and twitched and then spun round, "Can anyone hear a buzzing?"
"Has he been texting you or ringing you? He can't keep away from you!" Spain said jealously to Belgium.
"I can't bloody work out how to bloody ring or text anyone! It's mental! Mad! No keyboard!" England exclaimed, oblivious to Spain's jealousy. Belgium shook her head, "It's onscreen," she said trying to be patient. She turned to Spain, "No he hasn't and it's nothing to do with you anyway. You're one to talk, I know you still love Romano."
Belgium shook her head, "It's onscreen," she said trying to be patient. She turned to Spain, "No he hasn't and it's nothing to do with you anyway. You're one to talk, I know you still love Romano."
Romano came out, clunked a large bill in front of Spain, hit him on the head with a metal tray and stomped back to the kitchen.
"Onscreen keyboard? What's that? How can that be?" England was talking so fast he was barely comprehensible. But to England, everyone else was moving and talking very slooooowly.
Belgium sighed and showed England the basics of a smartphone.
"You need to swipe it," Belgium said.
England did and the phone shot across the room and landed in Switzerland's pasta.
Lily was watching all this as if it were a cabaret.
Belgium retrieved the phone and apologised to Switzerland who immediately insisted on a refund from Romano, who promptly ignored him.
"There, I rang your house!" Belgium told England.
"How do you know his number?" Spain asked, rubbing his head where Romano had hit him. Belgium ignored him. In fact everyone ignored him.
England put the phone to his ear, inadvertently putting the phone on speakerphone (for everyone's entertainment), fearful of who might answer.
It was France.
"Bonsoir! Je suis Francais. Zis is Francis Napoleon de Chevalier Bonnefoy, you have got ze household of Monsieur Kirkland but he is not here, non? I can take a message, especially if it is very saucy… Oh lala!"
There was a complete cacophony of noise down the phone.
"Bagpipes!" England hissed. He had to hold the phone away from his ear.
"My God! It sounds as if someone is torturing a cat," Spain gasped.
"While falling downstairs!" someone else added.
It did. The sound was indescribable. Yet the Nations who heard it decided to try to describe it.
"It sounds like an ill cow," Belgium said.
"It sounds like a riot," Lily said, looking very excited at the prospect.
"A huge party without you, I bet. You should go home," Switzerland said.
"Has someone died?" Romano asked, coming in.
"Died? My cooking is wonderful!" Feliciano cried, looking close to tears. He came in, wringing his apron in despair. Romano shooed him back into the kitchen.
"France! You bugger. Why is my bloody brother, Hamish, there? I'll bloody kill you both!" England yelled down the phone.
There was sudden silence on the other end and then "Please leave a message after the bleep… bleeeeep," and the phone went dead.
"So it was just an answering machine then?" Spain said dozily.
"You're so stupid, tomato bastard," Romano told him.
"Oh Romano, why are you being so mean?" Spain said sadly.
The phone then rang and England dropped it in shock. Somehow 'La Marseillaise', as bad as it was in England's eyes, had been replaced with a tune far worse as a ringtone. The opening bars of 'Is this the way to Amarillo' rang through the restaurant.
Belgium very quickly picked it up and swiped the screen. A very loud angry German voice yelled at them all.
"How did you do that, Signore Inghilterra?" Italy said, wide-eyed.
"Wut? I mean what?"
"Potato bastard…" Romano muttered.
"What?" England repeated.
Switzerland turned to Lily, "Time we were going…"
"Oh bruder, this is so much fun. More fun than we had that time we visited the Pope with Prussia and he put a whoopie cushion underneath…"
"Now!"
"Your bill!" Romano yelled, running after them in the midst of the German tirade that never seemed to end.
"Switch it off!" England yelled.
"Luddy…" Italy said sadly as Belgium switched off the German.
"You can't leave without paying," Romano yelled at Lily and Switzerland.
"France is paying," Switzerland told him.
"Why is Germany ringing and texting me? I mean why? It's ridiculous if he thinks him and Chancellor Merkel can bully me. They've got another think coming. Another thing coming. Or is it think?" England was still on a caffeine high and talking very very fast.
On the other side of the room, Romano was squaring up to Switzerland, "Why is France paying? France not here!" Romano shouted, waving his arms around.
"Don't yell at me, young South Italy," Switzerland said, brandishing his rifle.
England was still asking anybody who listened the age-old question, "Why is Germany texting and ringing me?"
"Arthur be quiet will you, this is serious," Belgium said.
"You never call him Mr England, do you?" Spain said dramatically.
"There is no France here!" Romano yelled.
"England, give them the credit card," Switzerland said.
"You're as mean as…" Romano struggled to think.
"Fratello please calm down and can someone ring back Germany? He sounded really upset," Italy looked anguished.
"…Austria!" Romano finished.
England dug in his pockets, "I say old chaps, just calm down eh?"
Belgium was trying to tell an inconsolable Spain that no, she didn't love England.
"Austria! I am nothing like him! You take that back!" Switzerland yelled.
"You're a cockblocker!" Spain told England.
"How dare you!" Switzerland yelled and fired his rifle in the air, bringing down a large part of the ceiling tiles.
"My beautiful restaurant!" Italy moaned.
"Just pay the damned bill, England. Lily - we're leaving!" Switzerland announced. "And I'm never setting foot in this place again."
"Good!" Romano said, opening the door for him.
"No!" Italy wailed. "I'm ruined!" he flung himself to the floor and lay there.
"You can come and live with me, Feliciano," Spain said consolingly. An act of kindness that hit him in the face.
"Oh yes! I know you tried to swap me for him!" Romano exclaimed.
"You just can't keep your hands off them, can you?" Belgium shouted and stormed out.
"Lou!" Spain leapt to his feet, "Don't leave me!" he turned to England, "This is your fault!"
"Me? What did I do?" England was honestly confused and then he said, "Wait! Is that Belarus outside?"
They all turned to see the shadow of a blue dress and long platinum blond hair backing away from the window and merging into the darkness.
"And you spurned her too, Mr England," Lily said in a hushed tone.
"Spurned?" England went pale.
"Right, that's it, we're definitely leaving…" and Switzerland left, dragging Lily and calling for a taxi. He ran back, pocketed a load of cheese and bread and hurried back out, scowling at them all.
"You are under a shadow of doom, Signore Inghilterra," Italy said sadly, lying prone on the floor.
"You mean because Francis lives with me? Yes, I gathered that."
"No, I meant Miss Belarus is stalking you…"
Four hours later found England and Spain elbows-deep in soap suds. Neither had been able to pay for their meals and were washing up. England cursed France, Spain and all his fellow Nations. Spain cursed him back and several times they bumped each other into the sink.
Romano stood over them yelling, "Tea bastard! Tomato bastard! Wash up properly! You keep missing bits!"
Feliciano fell asleep while stirring bolognese sauce and had to be woken up. The food was delicious but frequently an hour late. And the excitement of the two Italies when actual customers walked in ("Humans! We have real human customers!" Romano had yelled) was not to be missed.
England finally left at past midnight, exhausted, soaking wet, covered in dried bolognese sauce. He shared a taxi with Spain, who promptly fell asleep on his shoulder. He got out at the Embassy and left the Spaniard in the taxi and told the driver to drop the sleepy Nation at the Vatican. "Let them sort him out," England thought.
When he climbed into bed he failed to see a strand of platinum hair and a blue ribbon lying on his pillow….