Page 11 of Two Chances With You

“By age thirty-three?”

“That’s what she said.”

“Then you still had two years to do as you please.”

“I didn’t want to be a perfect case study.”

“Well, good for Fabiola.” I go into the bathroom. “So which gym are you going to?”

“The Roman Sport Center.”

Silence. I stick my head back out the door. “And was that Fabiola’s decision too?”

“No.” He smiles. “I just…well, actually, truth be told, she was already a member there.”

“Ah, I see…” I go back into the bathroom and shut the door. I can’t believe it. There couldn’t be anything worse than going to the gym with your woman. There you are, thinking of her lifting weights too, checking to see who comes over and talks to her, what they say, some guy who doesn’t know what he’s doing pretending to teach her the right move. Just terrible. Every once in a while, I see those couples. A kiss at the end of each set. And then, when they’re done working out, the standard question, “What do you want to do tonight?”

I turn the shower faucet and get in. Cold water. Now the water splashes off, a little warmer. Then I tilt my head back, mouth half open, and the water suddenly changes its course. A small impetuous river that finds curves and hiding places between my eyes, between nose and mouth, between teeth and tongue. I spit the water out of my mouth as I breathe.

My brother who goes to the Roman Sport Center. My brother with his new Audi A4. My brother who works out with his girlfriend, between laughs and deciding what to do that night. Now it’s all clear. He is Papà, beyond a shadow of a doubt. The older he gets, the clearer the photocopy becomes.

I step out of the shower. I put on the bathrobe and dry my hair with the light blue towel, just as he wants me to. I scrub my short, newly cut hair good and hard, and in a minute, it’s dry. I leave the towel on my head and go to my room.

Paolo sees me. “Amazing how much you look like Mamma. Call her. You’ll make her happy.”

“Sure, later on.” Today I don’t feel much like making anyone happy.

Chapter 4

Paolo is there, watching TV while he talks on the telephone, stretched out on his bed, his legs sticking out a little and his thumb dancing over the buttons of the remote control, looking for something that interests him more than whoever’s on the other end of the line.

“Ciao, I’m going out.”

“Where are you going?”

For once, I look at him without smiling. “Just to get some air.”

He already regrets asking me and immediately scrambles to make amends.

“The extra copy of the house keys is there in the kitchen inside the cabinet on the left right before the door, in a little terra-cotta pot.” His usual precision. Then he explains to whoever’s on the other end of the line what he’s doing, for who, and why. I’m the brother who’s just come back from America. Then he shouts at me from a distance. “Did you find them?”

I put the keys in my pocket, and then I go by him again. “Found them.”

He smiles. He’s about to go back to talking when he suddenly covers the receiver with his left hand, tense as a violin string: “But do you want me to lend you my car?” He’s visibly worried as he says it, sorry to have suggested it, desperate at the thought I might say yes.

I let just a few seconds go by. And I enjoy it. After all, it wasn’t me who asked. “No, don’t worry about it.”

“Ah, okay, okay.” He heaves a sigh. Now he’s more relaxed. In any case, he still does his best to solve the issues of my life. “Did you see, Step? I brought your motorcycle over, and it’s parked downstairs in the garage.”

“Yes, I saw it, thanks.” But the issues of my life aren’t all that easy to solve.

I take the elevator, and I head down to the garage. Under a gray tarp, all the way back at the far end of the courtyard, I see a wheel poking out. I recognize it. Slightly worn but still alive, a little dust and lots and lots of miles under its tread.

With a move befitting a toreador, I whisk the tarp away. And there she is. My metallic dark blue custom Honda VF 750. I run my hand over the gas tank. My fingers paint a soft sign in the dust sleeping atop that paint job.

Then I lift the seat, attach the cables to the battery terminals, and I lower it again. I climb on. I pull the keys out of my jacket pocket and insert the ignition key into the lock down below. Next to the engine. The keychain dangles lightly, swinging, bouncing every now and then, clicking against the cool engine. Farther up, a faint green and red light illuminates the ignition display. The battery is dead. I give it a try, just for fun, but there’s no way on earth it’s going to turn over. I push the red button with a finger of my right hand. Vain hopes now confirmed. Nothing doing. I’m going to have to give it a push.

I emerge from the garage with the motorcycle sloping to one side, leaning against my body on my right, pressed against my legs. My quadriceps strain. One after another, light footsteps, faster and faster. The beat of my footsteps alternates with the sound of the gravel, one, two, three. I emerge from the courtyard and push it down the street. Faster now. Just a few more steps.

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