Today is your lucky day. You know why?
No. Sir, I can get off here.
You can get out anytime you like. This is not Hotel California. His foot pressed further on the accelerator. We zipped past a red light and other waiting cars.
Then you can stop here. I couldn’t move. I just tried looking for his eyes in the mirror.
But this car’s not stopping, not tonight, he said. You didn’t ask why you’re so lucky?
Why?
Because you’re the last person to talk to me. Fifty-seven years screwing around and I end my life with you. His eyes weren’t red, they were aluminum grey. The wheels were scorching tarmac. Coltrane couldn’t keep up with us.
When we got to the GRA highway, he explained like a doctor studying my haemorrhoids: I’ll drive off the bridge. Imagine, this taxi flying through the skies and crashing on the rails below. You like that?
I wanted to get out of there. But I also wanted skies filled with planes, like a tangerine dream of industrial smog. I wanted the Colosseo torn down and replaced by black gleaming video game arcades. I wanted African genocide in Europe with Berlusconi whoring out every woman and then moving on to her shocked brothers.
You can jump out if you want. I’ll slow down and you could jump, he offered.
But I couldn’t tell him what I wanted. So I kept quiet and stayed still.
What do you want to do? I unbuckled my seat belt. I wanted a world made of celluloid-Instagram mountains and cats being choked on strings.
The GRA flew up to us. He needled the car to the right, the taxi slammed against the border railing and I was flung against the opposite door. Everything was jerking violently and I was plastered to the back of the seat. Then the car battered to a stop and I was folded on the floor.
Hey, the driver leaned over, and through the shower of his hair I saw blood slithering out of his mouth. Hey. I waited for the bones in my body to stop jangling.
Which is your favourite Beatle? he asked me.
George Harrison.
Great stuff. I heard his CD player clicking and then the guitars rolled gently into “Here Comes the Sun.”
When we got to the hospital, he dug me out of the back and carried me into the emergency section though I might have managed to walk on my own. But I couldn’t move my right leg without being washed over in pain. And from the salt in my mouth, I knew a couple of teeth were coming loose.
You knew I was joking, right?
About what?
About driving off the bridge?
I wasn’t sure. It would have been quite a sight.
My name is Federico. Fede for short: it means faith.
I’m Krantik. Don’t ask me what it means.
Why would I do that?
When I got back home (Fede gave me a free ride), so stuffed with painkillers I couldn’t even feel my ass, the stench of dried scrambled eggs on the frying pan welcomed me.
I texted Chiara.
You’re not answering my calls because you don’t know me.
And I want to see you. Because I don’t know you.
There was no reply. I sent one more.
Did you know that if you die of rabies, on the last day you have the most astonishing automatic orgasms of your life? Up to thirty times in a day.
And then the phone rang.
Why are you texting me random shit?
What else do you want me to say?
Come to Via Galvani, the corner with Via Marmorata.
I half-limped, half-crawled (I exaggerate, but only a little) there in twenty minutes.
What the hell? You’re bleeding?
Yes, I said. And I’m broken. But there’s nothing to protect inside, so it’s okay.
She held my hand and dragged me to the giant nineteenth- century doors of her building. Before she had turned the key, I pressed against her and kissed her. I sucked so hard I could feel my tooth unhinging a little more.
SWEET SPOT
Have you ever felt a sweet spot? The kind you remember, not just as a recorded memory, but as a vibration. You strike a cricket ball or a baseball just right. Feel the tingling bat talk straight to your heart. The ball looping through the air, the bat swinging in your hand, your stretched arms, your waiting body, the ground beneath your feet (sounds dramatic, but that’s how it feels), everything is perfectly aligned. Everything is moving, but perfectly still. Or you’re playing football (I don’t call it soccer, never could) and take a free kick. You have the top right corner of the goal in your head. You drive your lower foot through the ball. It scythes through the air, a silver spoon in clear soup. Beyond the goalkeeper’s flailing arms, your ball arrows into the net.
Everything is just as it should be. And you know you’ve hit the sweet spot. Doesn’t happen often, but when it does you know it.
But you’re not interested in my knowledge of sports. You only want to know what happened, don’t you? I mean about the sex. Did we? Did we not? I don’t like talking about that: I’m very private that way. I mean, it’s messed up enough, my life, without you meddling around. And why’s that always the first question: did you?
But yes. Yes and no.
We were at it. On her single bed. I was looking at her from below, she was looking away. I could see little lines popping up on her brow, above the bridge of her nose. But when I moved up from her gently tingling breasts, she turned and kissed me, our lips sloppy and smacking into each other. I pulled my pants down, and my underwear was still drying in India.
And then she said Stop.
So I stopped. Still throbbing like a dog on heat, but I stopped.
She threw her arms around my back. Pulled me closer till we were cheek to cheek. Rubbed her hands down my back. The lines on her wrists melting into me. I was limp now.
Hold me, she said.
I moved my arms below her neck, till her head was raised. In midair, between locked arms, we waited.
I don’t know if sex brings us together. Either Hugh Hefner-style, all one big happy family. Or Bible-style, seed of the lamb and go forth and multiply for the Lord will provide. I don’t feel any closer to anyone or anything with sex. If I’m in you (or if you’re in me: that hasn’t happened yet, but you never know), I don’t even remember who I am. How am I supposed to love you? Or even particularly care? Sometimes, when I’m alone in bed, I think of all the people in the world who’re having sex right now. And how they all think everything’s going to be great just because they’re about to come.
Maybe that’s why Chiara stopped me. I could hear her breathing. In. Out. And then I was breathing with her.
That was my sweet spot.
In a Virginia suburb, a fifty-year-old is thrusting into his wife. He wants to get it over with soon, because there’s the meeting with Steve from head office early in the morning. She’s thinking about blueberry muffins.
Chiara and me? We were just waiting. Breathing.
Or in Egypt, a young girl has sneaked her boyfriend in for the night. While he goes down on her, she’s moaning, but she also remembers all the angry hot men she saw during the revolution. He remembers his last koshari meal, with extra onions and chickpeas, because that’s what it smells like down there.
Just hold me, Chiara said.
Sure.
There was a little blood from my still-aching mouth on her breast. I wiped it off.
You don’t have to do anything. Just hold me.
What are you thinking of? I asked her.
Nothing. And you?
Gelato. I made up the answer, but since I made it up, I guess I was thinking of it.
Which flavour?
Anguria. Or cannella.
Then let’s go.
Where?
I know a place that’s still open.
Seriously? You want gelato now?
No, you want gelato. You’re the one thinking about it.
I’m just thinking, like randomly.
So, let’s go. Or are you going to be upset because we didn’t hav
e sex and we’ll be having gelato instead?
Why would I be offended?
You know, the male infantile super-ego thing. But I just wanted to be with you for a while, not . . .
I didn’t want to have sex either.
Then why did you pull your pants down?
Yours were down too. I was following the dress code.
Okay, then put them on. The dress code just changed, she said.
We were still cheek to cheek, breath to breath. Then I got up and put on my trousers.
We took a night bus and then walked towards Santa Maria Maggiore. I dragged my right leg behind us. On our side of the road, a church that stretched for half the block was being restored. They erected a faux-front over the repair, so you only see the rich mauve and beige structure and a glorious sunny day painted on canvas. Even in the middle of the night. But we were walking below the scaffolding, and could see behind—we could see the real walls peeling off.
You know, if we don’t meet again, I think I might remember this forever, I said.
What? Us making out?
No. Just you and me walking here.
You’d only remember it if we didn’t meet again?
I might remember it if we do meet again. But the memory of a moment can be perfect. Not the memory of years.
What other perfect memory do you have?
I know one. My dad singing Dylan to me: ‘Blowing in the Wind.’ I remember his fingers strumming the strings.
And you didn’t see him much after?
I was a kid. He died. So he remained incomplete. Perfect.
In front of a park, a group of Bangladeshis were sitting around and chatting. The immigrant smell of illegal piss and legal alcohol wafted from the corner.
Aren’t you going to ask for directions? Chiara asked me.
No, you know the way.
But you don’t know where we’re going.
I don’t need to know where I’m going. I only want to know where I am.
You’re weird.
I’m weird? You’re the one who has a huge blowup picture of a pussy above her bed.
It’s the origin of the world.
What is?
The painting, that’s what it’s called: The Origin of the World.
That’s so self-obsessed.
Just because it’s a woman’s vagina?
No. Just because we came from there doesn’t mean it’s the origin of the whole world. That’s so anthropocentric. And we didn’t come from there. We sort of passed through. It should be called Route of the Human Species, or Inevitable Thoroughfare in the Origin of One Specimen of the Human Species.
You’re scared of vaginas, aren’t you?
How old are you? Like 107 years? Why’re you still talking all Freudian.
Don’t be patronizing.
I’m not being patronizing. I’m just being a dick.
We’re almost there.
Where?
Gelato. In that bar, they have a counter.
Bar L’Esquilino. It was filled with Italians. In such places, I don’t talk much. I don’t want to be the stupid foreigner who never learnt Italian. I want to be the taciturn guy who doesn’t say much. And I’m not a stupid foreigner anyway, I’m the overpaid expat who doesn’t need to learn their language. I speak English. We should all stop learning other languages—Darwinism and efficiency of operation and all. Learn fucking English or don’t say anything. There’s not much to say anyway.
Should we go in?
Sure. And then I saw Leonardo, so I stopped.
Hold on, I said.
What?
That guy. I pointed to Leonardo. His neck was craned up to the TV. He was still in uniform, and his hand moved blindly from peanut bowl to mouth.
The old man?
Yes, he’s my landlord.
So?
He’s supposed to be in Brazil. He has a flight to Brazil every two days. Works for Alitalia.
Maybe he missed his flight.
He’s the pilot. Can’t you see? There is no flight if he’s not on it.
Do you want gelato or not?
Can we go get a drink instead? Somewhere else.
Sure. If you have issues with your landlord, we can stay away.
I looked back while we were walking away. Leonardo hadn’t moved in a minute. His eyes were glued to the TV And it was only showing commercials. The crowd swirled around him. Cheeks kissing, people saying the same things to each other every evening: Ciao, che bella, non mi credo, did you see Balotelli and his bicycle kick? And Leonardo is watching commercials.
Are you okay? Chiara asked me.
He should be in Brazil, I said. I liked Leonardo: he kept calling me to his terrace and offering wine. Not in an over-familiar way, in a we’re both nice guys, so let’s hang out way. He’s almost sixty, but it doesn’t matter. After twenty-two, I don’t think I’ve ever felt older. I thought there would be a time when I’d wake up and know I was grown up. I’m still waiting. Maybe the whole system’s delaying adulthood. Buy a Wii, get the new iPhone, get Fruit Ninja installed. Stay young and unsatisfied and you can buy all the shit there is to buy. Is it just our generation? My parents were adults in their twenties. They were ancient when they turned thirty.
My dad smoked a pipe. And started sentences with ‘In my days . . .’ But Leonardo was different. He didn’t feel any older than me. He loved his wine and his coffee. He said he loved Rome the moment he saw her (which is when he was born) and wouldn’t give up the city for anything. He also liked to sit on the terrace and watch his turtles fuck. He had nine of them. I grew up with them, he would say, started with three, a mother and her two kids. And now they’re almost a football team. Mom fucked one of her kids, and then the family kept at it. They’re like hillbillies. Or royalty. Fed them every day of my life. And they don’t even know who I am. They don’t care. Maybe that’s why I love them. Leonardo would sit there with his Chianti and watch them all evening. That’s when he was in town. He said he had his flight three times a week. But I saw him in his uniform most days. Office work, management meeting, he explained, sometimes pilots have to stay on the ground.
He should be in Brazil, I said to Chiara again.
We got to a bar. I didn’t get gelato. But I wasn’t thinking of it anyway, it was just a word that came up. Maybe I was thinking of the word, but not of the actual gelato. If I was thinking of the actual gelato, I wouldn’t be thinking of the word. She got a vodka tonic. I got a vino spritz: orange and bubbly. I liked it.
Are you married? Chiara asked me.
Why’re you asking me? Does it matter?
No, it doesn’t.
No, I’m not.
Do you have any questions for me?
I do, actually. Leonardo has nine turtles on his terrace, I said.
And?
I keep wondering: what do the turtles think about when they have sex?
WHAT DO LEONARDO’S TURTLES THINK ABOUT?
When Federico called me the next day, I should have been surprised. But I was crouching over the toilet bowl examining the mucus that had slithered out with my shit. Mucus is not a good sign: it’s supposed to stay inside the body. Stage I: five-year survival rate of 74 percent. Everyone’s in with a chance.
Hello? Krantik?
Yes. It’s me.
How’re you doing? This is Federico.
I know. I’m okay. Great.
It may be Crohn’s disease, which isn’t fatal. Maybe in the long run. But then everything is fatal in the long run.
Do you want to come and watch the game?
What game? I don’t watch much football.
Relax, deep breath, be aware of body and of the universe flowing through chakras. This can be dealt with. Have I been losing weight? Or putting on weight? Why do I keep smoking? Don’t do this. Don’t self-diagnose. Go to a doctor. If you have inflammatory bowel syndrome, you’re at heightened risk. I’ve always had IBS.
You’re in Italy. There’s no greater religious experie
nce than watching a Roma-Lazio game. That was Federico’s voice.
Maybe it’s not mucus at all. The world is filled with light. If I imagine a blue light in front of my eyes, it can heal everything. It’s not mucus! It’s just the steroid cream, and I’ve been using too much. What does mucus feel like? I look for some plastic to wrap around my hand.
Hello? Are you there?
Yes, sorry. I was working on something.
I’ll get you a beer. Come over. I’ll teach you how to be Italian.
I know how to watch a game of football. That’s not being Italian. That’s being a passive consumer of a spectacle brought to you by the monster advertising industry that endows superficial meaning to the sight of twenty-two men chasing a piece of leather.
You’ve read too much post-modern analysis to enjoy anything anymore. Just come for a beer!
If there’s a bowel obstruction, then I’m in deep shit. I never feel like I’ve emptied out totally. There’s always a little knot of stuff left. There is an overhang in my belly. Stage III B: survival rate of 46 percent.
So are you coming? We’re meeting at a bar near your place.
No story that started with “I was having a drink with a psychopathic taxi driver . . .” can ever end well. But a story that starts with “I was bent over the toilet bowl looking at my mucus-covered-shit . . .” can’t get any worse. I needed some air.
Yes, hold on. I took off the plastic bag. Give me the address.
I should be rooting for Roma since the city is such a mag- nificent host. And Federico knew my address; I didn’t want to piss him off.
Of course, the bar wasn’t close to my place. It was a twenty- minute walk away. I had to stop thinking about my bowel, time to get my head out of my ass. Below my building, I could hear voices and, from above, music from the terrace. Maybe Leonardo had guests over. The turtles must be terrified, all the new faces. Those poor buggers have never left the terrace. And they could live for a hundred years. Either they were all having great sex or some crazy conversation. Maybe Turtles 8 and 9, the youngest ones, were still figuring things out.
Turtle 8: Hey, guess what we have for lunch? Lettuce; slightly rotten.
No Direction Rome Page 4