Page 102 of Two Chances With You

“But which one? I just made three separate suggestions!”

“All three of them are wonderful.”

“Sometimes I really think you’re making fun of me.”

“Why do you say that? You’re beautiful.”

“You see, you’re making fun of me.”

I sit down beside her, and I give her a kiss. A long kiss. An impossibly long one. Eyes shut. A totally liberated kiss. And the wind tries to whisk between our lips, our smile, our cheeks, our hair…Nothing, it’s no good, it can’t get through. Nothing separates us. All I can hear are little waves breaking beneath us, the respiration of the sea, which echoes our own breaths, which taste of salt and brine…And of her. And for an instant I’m afraid. Am I trying to lose myself again like with Babi? And what will happen then? Who knows? I let myself go. Because it’s a fear that I like, a healthy fear.

Gin suddenly pulls away from me, steps away, and stares at me. “Hey, why are you looking at me like that? What are you thinking about?”

I gather her hair, pushed forward by the wind. Then I pull it back, uncovering her face, which is lovelier than ever. “I want to make love with you.”

Gin stands up. She picks up her jacket. For a moment, she seems angry. Then she turns around and gives me a dazzling smile. “I’m over my hunger. Shall we go?”

I stand up, set some money down on the table, and join her. We start walking along at the water’s edge. I put my arm around her. The night. The moon. An even gentler breeze. Boats far off, in the open water. White sails luff. They seem like handkerchiefs, fluttering in our direction. But no, we’re not leaving. Not yet. Small waves from the sea caress our ankles, making only subdued sounds. They’re warm, slow, and silent. They’re respectful. They seem like a prelude to a kiss that wants to venture further. They’re almost afraid to make themselves felt.

A waiter arrives with a trayful of plates at our table but we’re no longer there waiting for him. Then he sees us. Far away now. He calls after us. “Tomorrow, you’ll eat tomorrow.” The waiter shakes his head and smiles. Yes, this island is beautiful. Here everyone is respectful of love.

Chapter 40

When I was little and I came home from the holidays, Rome always seemed different to me. Cleaner, more orderly, with fewer cars, with a direction of travel that had suddenly changed, with an extra traffic light or two. This time, it seems identical to what it was when I left.

It’s Gin who seems different to me. I look at her, and she doesn’t notice. She waits obediently in line for our turn to catch a taxi. She moves her hair now and then, thrusting it back, pushing it away from her face, and her hair, still redolent of the sea, complies. No, not different. Simply more of a woman.

She holds her duffel bag between her legs and a backpack, not too heavy, slung over her right shoulder. Austere and erect, but soft featured. She turns, looks at me, and smiles. Is she a mother now? Omigod, is she actually expecting a baby? I must have lost my mind. She looks at me curiously, perhaps trying to divine my thoughts. I look at her instead, trying to divine her belly. Are there already two of her?

I remember a TV show I saw when I was just a kid. The story of Ligabue. But not the singer. The painter. Looking at one of his models, painting her on a canvas, Ligabue realizes, by a change in the light of her eyes, from the soft features of her body, that she’s pregnant. But I’m not a painter. Even if I may be even crazier than Ligabue.

“May I ask what you’re thinking about?”

“It might strike you as absurd, but Ligabue.”

“Oh, seriously? You can’t imagine how much I like him, both as a singer and as a man.”

She sings a few bars from several songs, cheerfully and perfectly in tune. She knows all the words to “Certe notti” but she hasn’t guessed one of my thoughts. Luckily. At least not this time. “Hey! You know something? I like Ligabue as a director too. Have you seenRadiofreccia?”

“No.”

Our turn has come. We put our luggage in the trunk and get in the taxi.

“Too bad, at a certain point in that movie there’s a great line…‘I think I have a hole inside of me, but one that rock and roll, a few girlfriends, soccer, the satisfaction from my job, and fucking around with my friends, well, every so often, that’s enough to fill that hole.’”

“Sounds great. You certainly do remember a lot of the lines, don’t you?”

Gin persists. “How aboutDa dieci a zero?”

“Nope, not that either.”

“But are you sure you were thinking of the singer, and not Ligabue the painter?”

She looks at me, curiosity piqued and mocking. I tell the taxi driver the address of Gin’s house, and he nods his head and takes off. I put on my sunglasses.

Gin laughs. “I caught you red-handed, didn’t I? Or don’t you know who that is either?”

She doesn’t expect an answer. She decides to leave me be. She leans on my shoulder the way she did during all our flights on the various airplanes. Like all the nights of the past few weeks. I see her reflection in the cab driver’s rearview mirror. She shuts her eyes. She seems to be resting, but then she opens them again. She meets my gaze, even through the sunglasses. She smiles. Maybe she’s figured it all out.

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