THE GIRL
It was the summer of ’88.
As he came around the bend of the road, he saw the girl. She was crouching under the shade of a large fig tree. At first, all he could make out was the white of her floppy trousers, the colorful Indian shirt, the leather sandals. She gave a last bite to a plump fruit she must’ve picked from the tree, threw half of it behind her and waved her open palm forcefully, as if she owned the road and were ordering him to stop the car. He did, and as he turned off the engine the only sound he heard in the blazing afternoon was the hysterical song of the cicadas screeching at their highest pitch.
The girl bent over, peeked inside the battered station wagon, and glanced at the bright red interior. He caught a flash of her green eyes, her chestnut hair tied in a wispy braid. She looked to be in her early twenties. An acrid smell emanated from her skin, like hay and dust. Once she determined that he was alone, or maybe that the car was to her liking, she placed a hand on the door.
“I’m going just a few kilometers up the road.”
“Get in,” he said.
She pulled a canvas bag from behind a bush and threw it next to the large wooden crates that took most of the space in the back. She sat in the passenger seat and made another gesture with her hand, pointing at the road ahead of them. She didn’t smile or thank him.
“It’s very hot today,” he said, but she didn’t answer, just nodded and pulled up the bottom of her shirt to wipe off the sweat from her forehead, revealing a strip of white flesh beneath her belly button. There was a protracted silence as he drove on the narrow road that zigzagged through the olive trees and the prickly pears protected by low stone walls. The girl kept looking out from her side, as if she were searching for something. She stretched her arm outside the window and moved her hand, clutching and opening her fist, moving her fingers against the hot air as if she wanted to grab it. He glanced at the nape of her neck, taking in once again the smell of her unwashed hair. He noticed the rings, the cheap jewelry on her wrists.
“Do you live around here?” he asked.
“No. Not anymore. My parents do.”
“Are you visiting them?”
The girl nodded.
“Just for a couple of days. My sister is getting married.”
“And where do you live now?”
“Here and there. I was in Greece for a few months. I took the ferry back and hitched all the way up here.”
“Where are you going back to? After you visit your parents, I mean.”
She looked at him warily. Her voice hardened.
“I’m meeting some friends in Naples next week. Maybe we’ll go to France. We know some people we can stay with. They live on a farm.”
“You don’t have a job? I mean, how do you make your money?”
The girl shrugged.
“We work where we can. In Greece we sold these bracelets on the street.” She pulled up her wrist to show him. “In France we may work in the vineyards. Pick fruit. I don’t know—we’ll see.”
He registered the “we.” It was supposed to let him know she wasn’t alone. He didn’t want to alarm her, so he drove on, quiet again. She pointed at a turnoff.
“Here. You can leave me here, by that red pole.”
“Here? I can drive you all the way to your parents’ place.”
“It’s fine. It’s only a ten-minute walk.”
“It’s blistering hot. Let me take you,” he said.
She stared at him—was she gauging whether she could trust him? She had seemed relaxed up until then. He tried not to look at her tiny breasts pushing through the cotton of her shirt. His heart skipped a beat. He mustn’t lose her so soon.
“I’m not in a hurry,” he said.
The girl had already grabbed her bag from the back seat. She let it go.
“Okay. Follow that road.”
He took the turn by the red pole and drove slowly on the narrow drive, winding through the unkempt fields.
“The house is a short way up the hill.” She pointed ahead.
A couple of abandoned toolsheds appeared through a large olive grove. He turned to her.
“How are you planning to go to France? Will you hitchhike again?”
“I don’t know yet. Why?”
“I could give you a ride if you need one. I’ll be heading north in a couple of days.”
She didn’t answer, just raised her shoulders as if she weren’t interested. They had come to a half-broken gate. He could see a house behind a large walnut tree.
He insisted.
“A train to France? It’ll cost you money.”
“You can stop here.”
The girl grabbed her bag from the back seat and reached for the door handle.
“It depends. Maybe we’ll take the train, maybe we’ll get a ride. I don’t know.”
She slid out before he could say anything. He watched her open the gate and walk toward the house. After a few steps she turned around, gave him a last look and raised a hand, impatiently, to wave him off.
* * *
As she walked away, she listened to the rusty station wagon reverse behind her and turn around. At last he had given up. Anybody could smell his loneliness. He looked old, although he was probably only in his early forties, but the way he was dressed in that oppressive heat—tight fuchsia shirt, fake crocodile shoes, hair dyed with what seemed like matte shoe polish—made him look ancient. Or maybe just ridiculous. He had spoken with a foreign accent, German or Russian—she couldn’t tell. On the way up she had caught him glancing at her nipples showing through the shirt—but she had hitchhiked several hundred kilometers and was used to men doing that.
The house looked different. The paint was peeling off the walls and the garden seemed overgrown. Everything had aged: the dogs, the rusty tractor under the shed, her parents, who came out to greet her, uneasily, as usual. They weren’t sure they should kiss her.
The girl hadn’t seen them in two years, but she immediately recognized her father’s acid breath, the smell of car grease on his skin. Her mother’s furrow between the eyebrows had dug in deeper and her mouth had become a thin line. Something had always been eating her from the inside—probably unhappiness gnawing at her core—and now it had turned her into a dry, brittle husk.
The three of them ate in silence the same midday meal they were used to having every day since she could remember: tomatoes with dried oregano and onions, bread, a slice of fresh ricotta, some leftover beans. Even the oilcloth that covered the table—the yellow one with the cherries—was the same one they had been using since she was a child. The girl recognized nearly every stain like a map she knew by heart. Some things changed so fast and others never did.