Читать книгу The Errant Child - Ozzie Logozzo - Страница 25

Tarquinia, central Italy Piazza Cavour

Like a bee diving in for the sting, a black Vespa scoots into the intersection, mounts the pavement and careens to a stop underneath the rustic, iron, three-lights lamppost on the edge of Piazza Cavour. The male driver and female rider squeal louder than any motorbike. The attention they crave comes swiftly. Pedestrians turn to look, as do I, sitting a mere four meters away from the finish line.

Certainly, the scooter is a mechanic’s prize. It looks pristine and has zip. The driver, dressed in Capri pants and an unbuttoned short-sleeve shirt, is striking. His chestnut hair matches his olive complexion. His muscular physique, from defined abdominals to bulging biceps to carved calves,

exudes athleticism. The passenger is my petulant wife.

Emily is indeed beauty in motion. Her black tights leave nothing to the imagination. Every curve and crevice of her taut legs, buttocks and groin are carved. Her blue athletic bra is more suitable for a strip tease than exercise. A spectator might wonder only what color of cutoff socks Emily wears inside her white and pink trimmed runners. She sparkles fashion, sexuality and backroom, casting couch aspirant.

The young man kisses Emily on both cheeks and waves her ciao Bella (a fond goodbye). Emily watches her companion vanish back into the town’s network of streets. She knows I am watching and lingers, wanting to implant the moment in my memory.

Unabashedly, Emily walks over. “Where are the kids?”

“In the museum across the street. I thought you were going for a walk.”

“I did.”

“And?”

“And, what?”

I look at the smirk on my wife’s play-acting face and respond with contained anger.

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I’m going to see what the kids have learned.”

Unruffled, my wife turns and exits before I have the opportunity to elaborate on my statement. Four old men perched on a small bench next to the small pharmacy absorb the drama with despondency. Itossmynewspaperonthetable,decapitating

my cappuccino cup from its saucer. I march across the street toward the Museo Archelogico hoping some Vespa will run into me so I can punch the motorist senseless.