“I’m supposed to call her when we get to Rome. By the way, do you have anywhere to stay tonight?”
“I reserved two rooms in a hotel near Piazza del Popolo.”
“Then we’ll have to take a taxi to Nicoletta’s apartment. She lives over by Via Ostiense.”
She paused, then said, “Why did you reserve two rooms? You could have saved some money and just reserved one room. Are you afraid to be alone with me?”
We had just turned onto the highway, and the traffic was heavy, but I couldn’t keep from turning to look at her. She burst into laughter.
“Come on, don’t make that face. I was just kidding.”
I tried to think of a witticism to defuse the situation, but I couldn’t come up with anything. So I concentrated on driving. There was a huge semi right ahead of me, in the right lane. I pulled out to pass the truck when it veered sharply left into the passing lane to pass yet another truck ahead of it, cutting me off. I stomped on the brakes and hit the horn hard. Caterina screamed. I glanced into my rearview mirror, hoping I wouldn’t see someone chatting on their cell phone while coming up fast behind me. I managed to avoid hitting the behemoth in front of us by a few inches, but it was so close that I felt the terrifying virtual impact of the accident I’d been sure was coming.
When the huge truck pulled back into the right lane I accelerated and passed it. Caterina lowered her window and gave the driver the finger, holding her hand out until distance must have made it completely invisible. As a rule, I’m opposed to this method of manifesting one’s dissent, especially when the guy driving the other vehicle easily weighs over two hundred pounds. But in this case, his driving had been so insanely homicidal that I couldn’t really blame Caterina. In fact, I almost did the same.
“What an asshole. I hate those fucking trucks. The drivers would kill you as soon as look at you,” she said.
I nodded, waiting for the adrenaline surging through me to ebb. As often happens in these cases, an idiotic thought had come to mind. If we had been involved in an accident and the police had come, they would have discovered that I was about to fly to Rome with a twenty-three-year-old girl, unbeknownst to anyone. They would have assumed questionable intentions. If I had died in the crash, I would have been unable to tell anyone about the real reasons for that trip, and-in the world’s recollections of me-my death would forever be linked with a tawdry trip with a young woman more than twenty years my junior.
That demented thought brought up an old memory from years earlier.
One of my friends from the eighties and nineties was getting married. He was the first of our group to tie the knot, so we decided to organize a big bachelor party for him. Since it was our first bachelor party, we had no idea how squalid and unseemly the whole business is. Somebody said we should get some hookers or at least some strippers, or it wouldn’t really be a bachelor party worth holding. All-or nearly all-of us agreed, but it turned out that none of us had the contacts, the knowledge, or even the self-confidence to contact hookers or strippers. After further consultation, we changed plans. We’d get some porn films and show them at the party. It was much easier to get porn flicks-and much less awkward. Each of the organizers managed to get at least one videotape. For reasons that now elude me, I was appointed to transport the batch of pornography to the party location.
I was driving alone in the dark to the restaurant out in the country where the party was going to be held, and it suddenly dawned on me that if I was involved in a crash, I would be found dead in a car full of videocassettes with titles like Clockwork Orgy, Ejacula, The Sexorcist, Edward Penis-hands, Breast Side Story, Free My Willy, and Sperminator.
I realize that I may give the impression of being completely mentally unbalanced, but I had a sudden powerful urge-that I was barely able to resist-to toss out all the porn tapes so it wouldn’t happen. I imagined my mother and father learning in one fell swoop not only that their son was dead, but that he’d been a professional pervert. I imagined my girlfriend-who would become my wife, and later my ex-wife-learning in a single tragic moment that she had loved a compulsive porn addict. I wouldn’t even be able to apologize, as I’d be dead. The best I could hope for was to end up in purgatory. From there, I’d be forced to watch their suffering, yet unable to do anything to alleviate it.
I swear, every one of these stupid thoughts went through my mind. In the end, I didn’t throw all the porn movies into a ditch, but I did drive the whole way to the restaurant with the speed and caution you might expect from an eighty-year-old nun.
We got to the airport, made it through check-in and security, and found ourselves at the gate with plenty of time to spare. There was no place to hide, so I started to look around for familiar faces, especially fellow practitioners of the law, who might notice me traveling with a girl half my age and turn it into a prize piece of gossip.
I figured I could reduce the risk by strolling around to look at the shops by myself. Caterina remained seated near the gate, listening to music on her iPod, with an expression that looked like a vacant gaze into a deep void.
I drank an espresso I didn’t really need. With exaggerated interest I examined all the articles in a leather goods store. I bought a couple of newspapers. Finally, I heard the announcement that our flight was boarding, and I walked back unhurriedly.
Caterina was where I had left her, and her expression remained unchanged. When she saw me, though, she smiled, removed her earbuds, and told me to sit down next to her.
“The flight is boarding,” I said, remaining on my feet and picking up my overnight bag.
“Why should we stand in line and wait with everyone else? Let everyone else get seated, and we can just be the last to board.”
No thanks. My natural anxiety keeps me from doing anything so perfectly rational. I prefer to stand in line, for fifteen minutes or even more, ready to catch and scold disapprovingly anyone who tries to slip ahead of me. Lest all the seats fill up, for fear the plane might leave without me.
That’s not what I said, though. I sat down and started leafing through one of the newspapers I’d bought. After a couple of minutes, during which time the line of passengers boarding had not budged an inch, Caterina tapped me on the shoulder. I looked over.
“Do you like hip-hop?”
As she said it, she plucked one of the earbuds from her ear and handed it to me, leaning her head very close to mine. I put the earbud next to my ear, so that my cheek was almost grazing hers. Then the music exploded. It took me about ten seconds to recognize it.
“It’s Mike Patton doing ‘We’re Not Alone,’ if I’m not mistaken.”
She looked at me with an expression of genuine astonishment. The idea that I might know that music, and in fact that song, clearly didn’t fit into her worldview. She was about to say something when someone nearby called my name.
“Guerrieri!”
I looked up and saw, right in front of me-make that right in front of us-the uniform of a policeman, and above that uniform, the face of a man who knew me but whose name I couldn’t conjure up.
I awkwardly got the earbud out of my ear and stood up, grasping the proffered hand and shaking it.
“Are you going to Rome, Counselor?” he asked, looking at Caterina, who had remained seated.
“Yes, apparently they’re boarding the plane now,” I said in the most nonchalant tone of voice I could muster, as I wondered whether I should introduce Caterina and, if so, how I should introduce her. I couldn’t think of a good solution. What could I say? Let me introduce my daughter? Let me introduce my colleague? Let me introduce my latest steamy affair?
“I’m working here at the airport now. I’m with the border police. I left the judicial police. I was exhausted. You can’t work like that your whole life,” said the policeman, continuing to look over at Caterina, who just kept listening to her music and ignoring him, me, and everything that was happening around her.