Page 80 of Two Chances With You

Music. 107.1 FM. Radio TMC. The sound of the DJ’s voice fades away, replaced by the melody of U2. And Gin, of course, knows the song. “And I miss you when you’re not around. I’m getting ready to leave the ground…”

“But you know all of these songs!”

“No. Just the ones that are about the two of us.”

The Tiber, racing down the Lungotevere. Then we cross the bridge. A right, then a left, then Piazza Cavour, and Via Crescenzo. The restaurant Papillon. Mario, the proprietor, greets us. “Hello, just the two of you?”

“Yes, but two very special customers, eh?” I smile at Gin and pull her close.

The guy looks at us. He narrows his eyes a little. He must be thinking,Wait, do I know this guy? Who is he? Is this someone important?

But he can’t come up with an answer, in part because there is none. “Come right in. Let me put you over here. You’ll be more comfortable.”

“Thanks.”

In his momentary indecision, he’s apparently decided to just treat us like two people who, in any case, get the best. Whoever we turn out to be, in other words.

We walk through a dining room with a big tableful of people, most of them women, and good-looking ones too. Blondes, brunettes, redheads, they smile, they laugh, they talk loudly, but they eat politely and with refinement. They share slices of pizza, piping hot and fresh from the oven, served on a single large central tray. Not far away, forks are plunged into slices of prosciutto, just sliced, pink and airy, the offspring of who knows what pig.

Mario has appeared behind Gin. “So, what can I have them make for you?”

“We’ve come to try your biggest, rarest, most delicious T-bone steaks, sliced and laid out beautifully. We’ve heard so much about them.”

“Perfect.” Mario smiles, happy that he’s famous for his steaks.

“And please bring us a nice cabernet,” I say.

“Will a Piccioni be acceptable?”

“We’re in your hands.”

“Excellent.”

When Mario comes back to set down the two plates of sliced steak in front of us, Gin sets right to work with fork and knife.

And we continue eating, pouring ourselves more cabernet, chewing and savoring slowly, laughing, telling each other insignificant stories and facts that seem, however, compellingly important to us. Bits of our lives, my life or hers, we never took part in. Diverse and euphoric moments with friends from the past that, looked back upon objectively from the present, actually don’t seem like such a big thing after all. Or maybe it’s the fear of not being sufficiently amusing.

Gin pours me some wine. And the mere fact that it’s her doing the pouring already makes me forget everything.

***

Mario arrives at our table, looking concerned. “What are you two doing? Are you leaving already? All you ate was a main course. I have a delicious dessert, homemade right here with my own two hands. Actually, truth be told, my wife’s two hands.”

That last confession catches me off guard. I’m tempted to tell him everything, explain that we’re not dissatisfied with his food, but that I’ve had this great, magnificent idea, a special dish in every place, in each restaurant or café that’s famous for the dish in question. And now the cabernet, too, has had its effect and is an invited guest at the party. So I decide to just go for a lie, plain and simple.

“No, we just have an appointment to meet up with our friends, and if we don’t go now, they’ll leave without us.”

Mario seems to accept that explanation with equanimity. “Arrivederci, in that case, but I want to see you back here soon.”

“Certainly, certainly.”

Gin plays her part too. “The steak was delicious.”

“Come on, we still haven’t had dessert…”

Gin lets herself be led along. Then, all of a sudden she stops short. She holds me by the hand and moves her lips, puckering up, a funny little duckling, pouting ever so slightly. “Why, are you saying I’m not dessert enough for anyone?”

I try to come up with a response, but she doesn’t give me the time. She slips out of my hand and takes off, running fast, chest thrust forward, leaning into it, legs pumping, laughing gleefully at her freedom.

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