Aldo called to his secretary the moment he came in the door of his personal quarters at the Sicilian Saturday morning. “He doesn’t answer his phone. Where’s my e-mail? Why don’t you know why I haven’t heard from him?” “Mr. Patrizio, did you call me down here on a Saturday because you’ve forgotten how to retrieve your messages?” Ernie paused on the gold-and-white marble entry in front of a tile mosaic of the waterways of Venice. After years as a semiprofessional gambler, Ernie had come to work for Aldo last spring. He was the first secretary—correction, personal assistant, as Ernie preferred to be called—with any backbone. It was a rare day he didn’t talk back at his boss. Who would have thought Ernie had such gumption? “I haven’t forgotten. You don’t program the things properly,” Aldo grumbled, pushing his worthless BlackBerry across his desk. It wasn’t his responsibility to figure out all the buttons on the gadgets he owned.
What do You think about A Marriage Between Friends?
