Chapter 99
The Art of Belief
They entered the place.
There was noise and warmth and garlic.
Opera music could be heard softly in the background. An old mechanical fan whirred away on a reception desk. A smiling, moustachioed ma?tre d’ in a black shirt greeted them both.
‘Buonasera.’
‘Buonasera,’ responded Wilbur, smiling apprehensively. ‘We have a reservation for eight p.m. The name is Wilbur Budd.’
The man checked inside the large leather-bound book and shook his head. But then: ‘Ah yes. Here you are.’
And they were led a little way into the dim-lit restaurant.
‘I like this place,’ Maggie told Wilbur with a small nod of approval as they sat down at a table beside the window.
He agreed. ‘Isn’t it amazing?’
It was a large menu. Probably about eighty dishes in total.
‘What is the bigoli?’ Maggie asked as the waiter returned to take their order, and Wilbur’s heart skipped a beat.
‘It is like spaghetti … but bigger than spaghetti.’
‘That sounds interesting. I’ll have that.’
Wilbur was taking this in. Turning to the next table, he saw the bald man his ghost had pointed out, the one with the birthmark on his scalp.
He had seen this precise scene. This precise restaurant and its décor.
This was way beyond déjà vu. But these growing signs and tells were merely confirmation that he had seen this before.
It was impossible. But, at some point, you had to trust your own feelings over logic, if logic had nothing to add to the argument except incomprehension.
And so, as they ate their food and drank delicious Italian wine, he decided to believe.