Page 12 of Two Chances With You

The bike is already in second gear. I’m holding the clutch handle tight with my left hand. Okay, this is the moment. I release the clutch handle. The motorcycle stops practically dead. But I continue pushing, and the bike starts to grumble. I grab the clutch handle and then release it again. And the bike sputters.

Once again, pushing harder still. I’m starting to sweat now. One last push, I can feel it. And in fact, this time, it turns right over. It lurches forward. I clench the clutch handle with my left hand, and I rev the engine with my right hand. The engine comes fully to life and roars in the night, up to the windows, filling the dark street with noise.

I rev it again. Old smoke pours out of the mufflers, huge clouds that cough out the past, the long months of sleep. I give it more gas. I climb on and turn on the lights. Then I release the clutch and tear off, into the nocturnal wind.

I dry the sweat off my body as I race away toward the Farnesina. I shoot under the overpass. I take the curve, leaning into it as I downshift without braking. I let up a little on the gas and then twist the handle again midcurve and lean into the acceleration. The motorcycle fishtails. I give it more gas and, like an obedient dog, the bike roars away with me toward Ponte Milvio, past the church, the Pallotta, the thousand pizzas I ate there, the Gianfornaio on the left and that florist’s shop right next to it. Fuck, all the flowers I sent from that florist’s, the florist who offers more discounts than anybody else. Lots of flowers, all of them different, but all for the sameher. I don’t even stop to think about her, I don’t want to think about her.

Then there’s Pistola, the watermelon vendor, standing out front. I honk twice, and he looks over at me. I wave but he doesn’t recognize me. I’ll go pay a call on him later on and remind him of who I am.

I just keep on going, indifferent right now, and I slide away into the night. Fuck…Rome is so beautiful. I missed you, city of mine.

I twist the throttle again, and off I go, down the Lungotevere, the riverfront avenue. I zip around the cars. Right, left. And then I swerve wide, zipping along down the far edge of the road. I brush past the pine trees of the Foro Italico. There are a few prostitutes out for business, next to their steel can fires, not yet burning. One prostitute, either actually educated or faking it, is reading a newspaper. She laughs, mouth hanging open, at some idiotic witticism found in those pages. Another prostitute is already sitting in a small folding chair, and in one hand, she’s holding the crossword puzzle, filling it in rapidly with a pen.

I rev the engine again and, at the same time, downshift. Fifth gear, fourth, third, tight curve on the right. I brake to a slower speed a little farther on, in front of the multiplex cinema. I put down the kickstand, and I get off the motorcycle.

Groups of young women laugh heartily as they smoke cigarettes, unseen by some deluded parent. A blonde with short hair and excessive makeup looks at me, elbowing her friend. A brunette, with hazel eyes and a pageboy haircut, sitting with her legs crossed on a petroleum gray SH 50, stares at me in astonishment, and her jaw drops.

I reach back and touch my short hair on the nape of my neck. I’m bronzed and skinny. I smile. I feel good. I’m relaxed. I want to drink a cold beer and watch a movie. I want something else, to be honest, but I know I can’t have that.

“Step, I can’t believe it!” The brunette gets off her SH 50 and comes running toward me, screaming like a lunatic.

I look at her, trying to focus. Then all of a sudden, I recognize her. Pallina. I can’t believe it. Pallina, my best friend’s woman. Pollo, my buddy who was there the first time I got drunk, the first time I had a woman, my companion of a thousand fucked-up pranks, laughter and fistfights, wrestling on the ground, in the rain, in the mud, in the nights, in the cold, in the heat, on all the vacations of my life. And cigarettes by the carton and hundreds of quarts of beer. That’s right, Pollo of the thousand motorcycle races, and then that last one…

“Pallina.” She throws her arms around my neck, hugging me tight with a strength that reminds me of him, my friend who’s no longer with us. I try not to think about it. I hug her tight, tighter and tighter, and I inhale through her hair, trying to catch my breath, to get back to the present, to my life. “Pallina.”

She pulls away and stands there, gazing at me, her eyes glistening. I have to laugh. “Fuck, you’ve turned into a complete babe on me, here!”

“Oh, you finally figured it out!” She laughs happily, laughing and crying, as usual, crazy as she is, and beautiful as she’s become.

Then she wipes away her tears with the back of her hand and sniffs loudly.

“Who would even have recognized you!”

She spins around in front of me, her eyes filled with loving warmth. “So how do I look? Do you like my hair short like this? What do you think? Do you know this hairstyle?”

“No, absolutely not.”

“What the fuck? Come on, this is the very latest! I mean, you’ve just been to America and you don’t know about it?” She laughs like crazy. “I’m the height of fashion right now! I copied it fromCosmopolitanandVogue. You know Angelina Jolie and Cameron Diaz? Well, I just mixed them together and then outdid them!”

The most difficult moment is past. She punches me in the shoulder. “Oh, I missed you, Step.” And she gives me a hug.

“I missed you too.”

“Hey, you look fantastic yourself. Let me take a look at you. You’ve lost weight. Do you still have these?” She reaches out to touch my T-shirt and runs her hand over my abs. “Oh, I’ll say you do…Better than ever!”

She tickles me.

“Hey, no, stop.”

She laughs. “Damn, you’re in shape. Come here, let me introduce you. This is my friend Giada.”

“Ciao.”

“He’s Giorgio, and she’s Simona.” We exchange glances and nod hello. My gaze lingers a little too long on Giada’s face, and she blushes, giving that last tiny touch of rouge to her cheeks, already too made up.

Pallina notices. “Oh, great. You’ve only just landed, and already you’re slaying the ladies.”

Giada turns away, letting her hair fall over her face. She conceals herself, smiling, her green eyes poking from between her blond locks.

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