One Step to You (The Rome Novels #1)(86)

She picked it up. The stalk of wheat crumbled between her fingers, like some old thought, like gossamer dreams, like feeble promises.

*



Step leaned over the stove and examined the espresso pot. The coffee still wasn’t bubbling up. He turned the flame a little higher. Nearby, there was still a small pile of ash and one last piece of yellowed paper. His beloved drawings, the graphic novel panels, from the hand of Andrea Pazienza. They were originals. He’d stolen them from the newsroom of a new newspaper, Zut, when Andrea was still alive and was contributing to the paper.

One night, he’d broken a pane of glass in an upstairs window with his elbow and then climbed in. It had been easy. He’d only stolen the panels drawn by the legendary Paz and then made a quick escape out the door.

But just as he was leaving, someone had emerged from the adjoining room and had grabbed him by the shoulders. “Stop!”

Step had the panels pressed against his body, and he’d given whoever it was a shove, shaking them off and then throwing a punch. A hard, straight right to the face, followed by a bitter surprise. It was a woman. Her name was Alessandra, and she was an unfortunate graphic artist, an unlucky volunteer. She was working late, laying out the publication. That night she’d thrown in the towel early, but certainly through no fault of her own.

Step leaned over and picked up the panel that was supposed to be coming out in that week’s issue and made his way into the night, happy, with the drawings of his idol clutched tightly in his hands. It wasn’t long after that that Andrea Pazienza died.

That was in June. A photograph of Andrea in a newspaper. Gathered around Andrea was the whole newsroom staff, including the graphic artist that Step had punched. That photo must have been taken a few days after his burglary. In fact, Alessandra was wearing a large pair of sunglasses.

Step picked the scrap of paper out of the metal grate over the burner. He wondered which panel it had been. It must have been the one with Zanardi’s face. It no longer really mattered. He’d taken them all and burned them that night, after the phone call.

He’d watched those colors burn, the faces of his heroes crumple up, embraced by the flames. The legendary words of unknown poets vanishing into slow fades of smoke.

Then his brother had walked in. “What are you doing? Have you lost your mind? Look, you’re burning the kitchen hood, the fan…” Paolo had tried to put out the flames that were leaping too high but Step had stopped him.

“Step, what’s going on? I’m going to have to pay for this. Go do this bullshit outside.”

That was it. Step had seen red. He’d slammed his brother against the wall next to the window. He’d placed his hand around his brother’s throat, practically suffocating him. Paolo had lost his eyeglasses. They’d flown far away, landing on the floor and shattering.

Then Step had calmed down. He’d set his brother down and let him go. Paolo had collected his broken eyeglasses and left the room without a word. Step had only felt worse at that point. He’d heard the front door slam. While he’d stood there, staring at his drawings as they burned, ruining the hood over the stove, he’d suffered like he’d never suffered before. Was lonely like he’d never been lonely before.

He was reminded of a song by Lucio Battisti. To punch a man in the face just because he’s been a little rude, knowing that what burns most are never the insults. It was true, Lucio had been right. And it only burned harder. That man was his brother.

The coffee came up suddenly, burbling, as if it wanted to chime in with its own two cents. Step poured it into the cup and then threw it back in a gulp. It left a hot bitter taste in his mouth, the same taste as the memories abandoned in his heart.

August. Riding on a motorcycle to go see Babi when the air was still cool from the night wind. Stopping on the highway to call her. A cappuccino and then he was off, back on his motorcycle, accelerating, devouring the kilometers, starving for her kisses, for her embrace, still warm from sleep. Tapping at her window, hearing the sheets rustle, her bare feet on the floor, her light footsteps. Seeing her appear behind a wooden blind, just rolled up into the morning light. There Babi would be, in the dim light of the bedroom, rubbing her eyes, thinking that this, too, might still be a dream, only nicer, sweeter than her other dreams.

September. Babi’s parents had bought her a ticket for London. They’d made an arrangement with Pallina’s mother. They wanted to get their daughters away from these bad new friendships.

It hadn’t taken much to foil that project. A well-devised plan. A visit to a friend at police headquarters. A new set of passports. And on that charter for England, the two of them did board, but the tickets, changed just a few days earlier, now featured different names. The two of them who boarded were Pollo and Pallina.

It had been fifteen unforgettable days for everyone. For Babi’s parents, laboring under an illusion but happy there, with their minds finally at rest. For Pollo and Pallina, rocking around London, in pubs and discos, sending everyone postcards purchased back home in Rome at the Lyon Bookstore. English postcards, already signed by Babi.

And meanwhile, Step and Babi, far from them all, on the Greek island of Astypalaia. It had been an epic journey. By motorcycle to Brindisi and then the ferryboat, arms around each other under the stars, lying on the bridge in their colorful sleeping bags, singing English songs with foreigners from everywhere, working to improve their pronunciation, but definitely not in the setting her parents would approve.