One Step to You (The Rome Novels #1)(89)

In a car, that time that the police had interrupted their surreptitious kisses, and she, exasperated, had had to provide her ID to prove her age. Step had bidden farewell to the policemen, once he was at a safe distance, with an amused “Jealous bastards!”

They say that you see all the most significant moments of your life flash before your eyes when you die. So Step tried to push away those memories, those thoughts, that sweet suffering. Then, all at once, it became clear to him. It was pointless. It was all over.

He continued walking for a while after that. Almost by chance, he found himself looking at his motorcycle. He decided to go to Schello’s house. His friends were all there, celebrating Christmas.

His friends. When the door swung open, he had a strange sensation.

“Hey, ciao, Step! Fuck, I haven’t seen you in forever. Merry Christmas. We’re playing horsie. You know how to play?”

“Yes, but I’d rather just watch. Is there any beer?”

The Sicilian handed him one, already open. They exchanged a smile. Water under the bridge.

He took a sip as he sat down on a low step. The television was on. Against a festive background, competitors with colorful ribbons were playing some idiotic game. An even stupider host took far too long to explain the rules of the game, so he lost interest. He noticed music was coming from a stereo hidden somewhere. The beer was cold but it soon grew warm.

He looked around. His friends. They were all dressed up nice, or had at least made the effort. Lots of oversized navy-blue blazers over pairs of jeans. This was them in fancy outfits. A few of them wore suits; another guy wore a pair of too-tight corduroy trousers.

Suddenly he remembered Pollo’s funeral. They’d all been there, and plenty of others as well. Better dressed, with a more serious look to them. Now they were laughing, joking around, tossing fresh figs and colored paper, burping, eating huge slices of Christmas panettone.

That day, at the funeral, they’d all had tears in their eyes. A farewell to a real friend, a sincere, sorrowful goodbye from the bottoms of their hearts. He saw his friends again in that church, their muscles aching, in shirts that were too tight, with serious faces as they listened to the priest’s sermon, and then walking out in silence. In the background, girls who had skipped school to be there were weeping. Friends of Pallina, companions for nights out or midnight escapades or just beers at the local stand.

That day, everyone had really mourned. Every tear shed had been heartfelt. Concealed behind Ray-Ban Baloramas or Wayfarers, mirrored sunglasses or dark Persols, their gazes had all glistened as they looked at that wreath of pink chrysanthemums spelling out Ciao Pollo. Signed Your Friends. God how he missed him.

His gaze turned clear for an instant, and he recognized a smile. It was Madda. She was in a corner, her arms around a guy that Step had seen regularly at the gym. She smiled at Step but then looked away.

Step drank another slug of beer. He missed Pollo so bad. That time in front of Club Gilda when, pretending to be valet parkers, they’d made off with a Maserati with an onboard telephone. They’d driven around all night, calling everyone, phoning friends in America, women they barely even knew, and cursing out relatives who were still half-asleep.

When they went to return the dog to Signora Giacci, Pollo didn’t want to give it back. “Fuck, I’m just too crazy about Arnold. This dog is a legend. Why do I have to give him back? I’m certain that, if Arnold had any say in the matter, he’d stay with me. Fuck, that dog has never had so much fun in his life. He sleeps in my bed, he eats like a king, what more could he want from life?”

“Yes, but you never could train him to fetch…”

“Another week and he would have had it down cold. I’m sure of it.”

Step had laughed and then buzzed Signora Giacci’s apartment. They left the dog for her fastened to the front gate with a rope around his neck. Then they’d hidden nearby, behind a car. They’d spotted Signora Giacci come running out the front entrance, free the dog, and hug him tenderly. She stood there, sobbing, clutching Pepito to her chest.

Then the unbelievable happened. Signora Giacci had taken the makeshift leash off the dog and thrown it as far as she could. And that’s when it happened. Pepito bounded out of her arms and took off at a furious run, barking like a nut. A short while later, he had returned to Signora Giacci with the rope in his mouth, tail wagging, proud of his perfect fetch.

Pollo couldn’t contain himself. He’d leaped out from behind the car shouting with joy. “I knew it! Fuck, I knew it! He mastered it!”

Pollo had wanted to take Pepito back but Step hauled his friend onto the motorcycle, pulling him by the arm. And then they were off, escaping at top speed, shouting like a thousand other times. By day, by night without headlights, shouting at the tops of their lungs, bold and brazen, the masters of all they beheld, the heroes of their lives. They felt immortal.

“How are you?”

Step turned around. It was Madda. Her smile was hidden behind the rim of a glass full of bubbly, her hair as wild as her eyes.

“What are you doing tonight? Where are you having dinner?” She stepped a little closer.

“I don’t know yet. I haven’t decided.”

“Why don’t you stay here? All of us together. Like in the old days. Come on!”

Step stared at her for a minute. Then he saw a young man in the distance looking at him curiously, wondering whether he needed to intervene. And he saw a young woman even farther away, somewhere in that city, in a car, at a party, with some other man at her side. He wondered how that could be. And yet it was all there, in his heart.