Page 85 of Two Chances With You

So she rests her head on my shoulder again. This time, I’ve convinced her of it. Still, I can’t even say why, but seriously, I’m convinced of it myself.

Gin starts talking again. “So we’ve written a piece of history, our history.” She smiles at me and gives me a kiss on the lips. Soft. Warm. Loving.

Forget about the twenty euros. I think that, when all is said and done, Gin really robbed me of my heart.

Chapter 29

Stop here. Put on the brakes.”

I don’t stop to think. I just do as Gin tells me. Suddenly, screeching to a halt, on the fly. It’s a good thing there was nobody right behind us. I’d never hear the end of that from my brother. Well, okay, we could always blame it on the car thief.

Gin quickly gets out of the car. “Come with me.”

“But where are we going?”

“Just follow me. You really like to ask questions, don’t you?”

We’re facing the bridge of Ponte Milvio in a small piazza on the Lungotevere, overlooking the river right at the beginning of Via Flaminia, which runs from there to Piazza del Popolo.

Gin runs along the bridge and stops halfway across, at the foot of the third streetlamp. “Here, it’s this one right here.”

“What is?”

“The third streetlamp. There’s a legend about this bridge, Ponte Milvio, or Ponte Mollo—the soft bridge—as the poet Giuseppe Gioachino Belli liked to call it.”

“What are you doing now, acting the scholar?”

“But I am quite scholarly! About only a very few things. Like about this, for instance. Do you want to listen or don’t you?”

“First, I want a kiss.”

“Come on. Just listen. It’s a beautiful story.” Gin turns around and heaves a sigh of annoyance.

I hug her from behind. We lean against the parapet and look into the distance. Not far away is another bridge. The Corso Francia bridge. I gaze, lost in the view. And no memory comes to disturb me. Are even the ghosts of the past capable of having respect for certain moments? So it would seem.

Gin joins me in a kiss. Beneath us, the Tiber flows, black. The faint light of the streetlamp illuminates us gently. We can hear the slow lapping of the river water along the banks. Its flow is suddenly broken around the columns of the bridge where the water gurgles, rises, seethes, and mutters. Then, past the bridge, the water comes together again and silently continues on its journey to the sea.

“Well, will you tell me the story?”

“This is the third streetlamp facing the other bridge. And do you see this, wrapped around the base?” Gin asks.

“Yes, but it looks to me like someone did a bad job of securing their scooter.”

“What a jerk you are. That’s not it at all. This is calledthe lovers’ chain. You’re supposed to fasten a padlock to this chain. Then you lock it, and you throw the key into the Tiber.”

“And then?”

“You never break up.”

“How do people come up with these stories?”

“I don’t know. This story’s been around forever, even Trilussa tells it.”

“You’re just taking advantage because I don’t know about it,” I say.

“True. It’s just that you’re afraid to put a lock of our own.”

“I’m not scared.”

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