Page 111 of Two Chances With You

She starts hitting me, furiously, with both fists, sobbing, shouting, forgetting that she’s in church, or perhaps feeling all the more justified in consideration of that fact. “Why? Tell me why? Why did you do it? Why?”

And she goes on like that, in despair, falling to her knees and continuing to weep, searching for an answer that I can’t give her. Then she turns and runs away, leaving me standing there in that church, even emptier now, before the eyes of all those ancient women who, for a fleeting moment, have forgotten about their prayers and are now fully focused on me.

They turn back to the altar and silently resume their prayers. Maybe they’ve forgiven me. With Gin, it’s not going to be that easy.

Chapter 47

Mamma, I’m going out.”

“All right, Gin. Call me though if you’re going to be late. I need to know if you’ll be here for dinner. I want to make you that pizza you like so much.”

She goes on but I don’t even hear what she says. “Yes, thanks, Mamma.”

I put on a sweatshirt and decide to go out, to just get lost, without any sense of time. Only I can understand. I so deeply wished for all of this. And now? Now I have nothing. Now I find myself empty-handed, deprived of my dream. But was everything I dreamed of for so long even real? I don’t feel like thinking about it. I’m in such bad shape.

Sheesh, there’s nothing worse than finding yourself in a situation like this. You can talk and talk about it, from an outsider’s perspective, when you hear about all these absurd situations that concern other people, I don’t know why but you always assume that nothing of the kind could possibly happen to you, but instead, bam, there you are, right in the middle of it! It happens to you, it concerns you directly, as if you’d jinxed yourself, cast your own hex on your personal fate.

Christ, Gin, you need to face some kind of reckoning with your pride and your determination to go on being with Step. But I’m yearning for him, all the same.

I’m at the Ponte Milvio. I stop my car and get out. I remember that night, those kisses, my first time. And then here, on this bridge. I stop in front of the third lamppost. I see our padlock. I remember when he tossed the key into the Tiber. That was a promise, Step. Was it really that hard a promise to keep? I start crying. For a minute, I wish I had brought something with me to break that padlock. I hate you.

I get back in the car and leave. I drive around like this, without any clear idea of where to go now for a good, long while. I don’t know how long. All I know is that now I’m walking by the sea. Lost in the wind, distracted by the singsong of the maritime currents. But I feel so damned stupid. I can’t believe it, this just can’t be. I miss that asshole so bad that it’s killing me. I miss everything I dreamed of.

Yes, I know someone might perfectly well say to me,But Gin, what were you expecting? Step left for America to try to forget how upset he was over breaking up with Babi. It’s just normal that he’d fall for her again. Oh, is it? I don’t feel that way, and what’s more, I don’t give a damn about what’s normal. Because I’m crazy! That’s right, I’m crazy about him, and crazy about everything I dreamed of. You can’t even begin to imagine how much I’ve wanted him.

Chapter 48

The male nurse on duty is sitting in front of a monitor. He’s the same one as always. He finishes typing something on the computer and then sees me come in. He recognizes me.

I walk down the corridor. From the rooms lining the hallway, I hear labored, pained breathing. All around is a smell of cleanliness and lavender. But also a certain something, a sense of falsehood. A man drags himself along in pajamas with whiskers unshaven and eyes dull and lifeless. Under one arm, he’s carrying the sports daily, theGazzetta dello Sport, pink and crumpled. Maybe the team he roots for might purchase a new player, and such an event might somehow bring a sparkle to his gaze. Who knows. In pain, even the simplest and most ordinary things take on an unexpected importance. Everything becomes a way of grasping on to life, an interest that can in some sense help to distract us.

There she is. She’s resting. Lost in a pillow much larger than her small face. She sees me and smiles. “Ciao, Stefano.”

I pull up a chair that’s sitting nearby, and I put it at the foot of her bed.

“Well?” She looks at me quizzically. I already know what she’s referring to.

“No good, I couldn’t do it. I’m sorry. I told her.”

“And how did that go?”

“She punched me.”

“Oh, finally, a girl who’s willing to hit you. You’ve chosen the hardest path there is. Is she a very special young woman?”

I describe her.

“And I have a photo.”

I show it to her. She’s curious. Small wrinkles appear on her face. Then a smile of surprise. Then, again, a grimace of pain somewhere in her body, tucked away, well concealed. Unfortunately.

“I have something to tell you.”

This worries me, and she notices it. “No, Stefano. It’s not important. That is, it’s important, but it’s not something for you to worry about.”

She lies there in silence for a moment, apparently uncertain about whether or not to tell me. We seem to have gone back in time to long, long ago, when I was small and she was hale and healthy. She would play little tricks on me, hide things from me, tease me, and we’d laugh together. Now I feel like crying. I don’t want to think about it. “Well, Mamma, will you tell me?”

“I know her, this Ginevra.”

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