Читать книгу The Errant Child - Ozzie Logozzo - Страница 14

Rome, central Italy Leonardo da Vinci Airport

Upon leaving the airport terminal, Emily begins a litany of ‘should have’ proclamations.

The taxi ride from the international airport of Rome to Michelangelo, a bed and breakfast lodging just behind the Vatican wall, is approximately fifty minutes. I begin to wonder if the time will bring more pain or pleasure. I resolve to daydream about Ali and ignore the pain rambling beside me.

“What a miserable flight. We should have flown on a reputable airline not that ‘no frills’ contraption. They should not have flown us so high just to save fuel while freezing us to death. They should have provided us with another free blanket and a hot beverage. You should have checked what

reviewers have said about this shoddy company. Those flight attendants need lessons in customer service.”

I snub Emily and lead my family to the limousine queue. I discount the first two waiting vehicles and request a mini-van to house my family and luggage.

‘There is a little bit of a wait, signore. Maybe five minutes,” says the affable attendant at the checkpoint.

“It’s so hot and humid. It’s intolerable. You should have pre-ordered our transfer.” Emily’s pestering is persistent to the point of persecution.

Mark Anthony and Christina are listening to their iPods. Their aural contraceptives keep them oblivious, though already immune, to their parents’ squabbles. I gaze at the traffic and get a glimpse of a lady’s waving hand from the back seat of a passing black car. It is Ali. She is smiling at me, not my situation. I relax but feel sorrow. I wanted so much to get to know her better but did not have the opportunity. Emily smothered me with indignation from the point of touch down.

“Here comes our ride now,” I announce doing my best to regain my composure.

The friendly faced cab driver dismounts leaving his door wide open and runs to the passenger side to welcome us.

“Buongiorno (good day). Welcome to Rome. You are smart to engage me. I am efficient. My auto is comfortable and I speak very good English. And, most important, of all, I do not rip you off.”

Emily answers in a practiced lighthearted

laugh. I furrow my brow in skepticism.

“Allora, where to?” asks the taxi driver.

“Michelangelo, on Via Allessandro,” says Emily with an exaggerated grin and soprano voice.

“Ah, sì, sì signora. I know the place. It is very nice. You can walk to the Vatican from there.”

With everyone and everything in place, the driver shouts ‘Avanti’ as if he’s the good shepherd tending to his flock.

My thoughts are with Ali. When deplaning, I admired her deliberate steps to baggage claim. She did not dally. Just once, she had turned and caught me ogling. She is statuesque and energetic. I wanted to say something more, but family duties called. Actually, Emily did her best to preoccupy me. Within minutes, the taxi driver’s two phones starttoring—sometimesinsequence and sometimes concurrently. He answers one and ignores the other.

During subsequent rings, I detect him reversing the process.

I stare, thinking this comic character’s performance is only missing a costume, balloons, and an ear-to-ear ludicrous smile painted on his face.

During a rare moment of respite, Emily probes, “Why do you have two phones? Are you running another business on the side?”

“No, no signora. One phone is my dispatcher, sometimes my wife. The other is from my mistress.”

There is no hint of shame in the driver’s confessions, mostly satisfaction.

My curiosity cannot be contained.

“What happens if your wife calls you? I see

your wedding ring, and you admit having a mistress.”“Ah yes, that is tricky. Of course, my wife

thinks I have a mistress; sometimes I have two. However, it is not nice to…how you say it? Flaunt it? When Nadia, my wife, calls, I once forgot and answered as if it is my mistress, Franca. I had to spend the night on the couch for three nights. I am much more careful now.”

As an afterthought, the driver adds a footnote.

“At least, Giuseppe, Franca’s husband, doesn’t know. You know, maybe he does. Maybe, he’s too busy with his own mistress.”

“That is very civilized behavior,” says Emily. “You flirt, cheat and lie to your wife and she understands you. Everyone gets along and there’s no big deal.”

“Signora, this is Italy. All men have mistresses. All wives have children to take care of. Mistresses are just the spice to living La Dolce Vita, not the main meal.”

Stunned, I query our minstrel. “Your wife condones?” Offended, the driver counters.

“Of course not, I buy my own protection. It’s not right for a wife to do that.”

“No, you misunderstand. I am not talking condoms. I’m asking if your wife excuses your unfaithfulness.”

The driver is thinking and snubs his ringing

telephones.

I add, “Doesn’t it contradict your religion?”“Religion?” sings the driver. “You Americans

take religion too seriously. There is religion and then there is religion. Many priests have boys and women and many nuns have men and other women. Life is too short, my friend. It needs to live. Let me tell you about religion in Italy. It is our business. You have Niagara Falls, and Disney, and big tall buildings. We have the Vatican, religious art, architecture, excellent food, fashion and more. We love to live. Like you Americans say all the time, you can’t sweat the small stuff, life is too short.”

“What do you think about women who flirt?” enquires Emily.

“Aye, all women flirt and men enjoy it too. What a crazy world it would look like if it weren’t so. God takes me now if that’s the way it’s coming to be,” says the cabbie as he makes the sign of the cross and kisses the back of his hand.

Emily sits upright in her seat, amusement on her face. I guess she sees my disturbed and betrayed look. Moments of silence persist in the cab broken only by occasional outbursts by our driver about other drivers not giving way to his breakneck speed and treacherous passes and last second turn on to the off-ramp.

Finally, our destination is in sight. The B&B is right at the corner of a very busy intersection with traffic lights that most Italian drivers view as suggestions rather than laws. At this junction, an officer is directing traffic given the congestion and chaos.

The mini-van comes to a full stop in the southwest corner of the intersection, effectively blocking any hope of a right turn from the north or a

safe left turn from the south.

“Hey, che cazzo?” (What the fuck) shouts the woman officer. “You can’t stop there!”

“Take it easy, Madonna. Can’t you see I am working? I have tourists to drop off here at that albergo. Don’t give me a hard time. Go direct traffic.”“You are my traffic and you’re blocking

passage. Get that auto out of here, now!”

“Yeah, yeah. Right away. As soon as I unload these people and luggage. Ok?”

“You better hurry it up or I’ll have to give you a ticket?”

“Why? So, we can both feed the government and waste our time going to court? Two more minutes, please, and I am out of here. Maybe we can have a drink together later, sì?”

“Hurry up,” shouts the officer as she walks back to the middle of the crossroads.

‘”Fifty Euros,” says the driver to Emily.

I am surprised and speak, some would say foolishly.

“Didn’t you say sixty at the airport?”“Yes, but I like you folks. I give you a discount.

You are family.” The driver smiles while ogling Emily, breasts to butt.

“Renzo, give him sixty, plus a big tip.”

I pull out bills from the travel wallet collared inside my shirt.

“Sure, here are sixty Euros. As for a tip, your morals are like cement, rubble and sand mixed together and hardened. Look for better support for yourself and your country. My sympathies to your wife and mistress, and all Italian men and women.”

Emily reviles, “Why do you have to be such a bastard?” then turns and kisses the befuddled driver on both cheeks before he departs, with shrugged shoulders, discounting further shouting from the patrolwoman waving a pad and pen.

“It’s conclusive.” Emily snarls. “No one shares your standards or outlook in this country. Italians do what is pleasurable. Like the man said, life is too short.”

I am too tired to fight. I mumble.

“Yes it is, and perhaps I should decide not to waste it anymore.”

Emily does not hear me, chooses to ignore me, or simply does not understand the import of my sentiment. She and the kids are already through the open door of the pasticceria selling Italian gelato. I sit on one of the luggage and marvel at the traffic policewoman’s personal pleasure and pain as she struggles to untangle the intersection knot. Miraculously, she survives standing amid the crazed drivers.

I shout at the traffic clogged spectacle, using the patrolwoman’s own words. “Hey, che cazzo? (What the fuck). You have not driven in my shoes. You don’t know the true meaning of chaos.”

I turn my head to view the posterior wall of the Vatican grounds. Do I really want to play tourist tomorrow? Having met a depraved, presumably religious Italian, perhaps the Pope is the decadent leader of the whole lot.