From his house, he phoned Pollo. He warned him not to come by, not to call on the phone, and especially not to start trouble of any kind. “Listen, your life depends on not screwing this up. Actually, it’s more serious than that. Our friendship depends on it, and I’m not kidding!”
Then he drew up a grocery list, went to the supermarket downstairs, and bought just about everything that came to hand, even a box of those English butter biscuits his brother liked so much. After all, Paolo deserved it. All things considered, he was a good brother.
By eight o’clock, everything was ready. Step had listened to the latest American hits on the radio. He hadn’t put on Babi’s apron, but to make up for that, he’d laid it out on a chair nearby, ready to lie brazenly when the time came.
He looked at the results of his hard work. Carpaccio with Parmesan cheese and arugula. A mixed salad with avocado and a fruit salad seasoned with maraschino liqueur. Memories surfaced. He’d eaten that fruit salad often when he was a boy…
He let the memories slip away. He was happy now. This was going to be his special evening, and he didn’t want anything to ruin it.
Pleased and satisfied, he checked the table, adjusting the placement of a napkin. He really was quite the chef.
He started wandering around the apartment, a little nervous now. He washed his hands. He sat down on the sofa. He smoked a cigarette, and then he turned on the television set. He brushed his teeth. A quarter after eight. Time didn’t seem to be passing at all.
In fifteen minutes, she’d be here, they’d eat dinner together, and they’d chat comfortably. They’d have the sofa to themselves without anyone to disturb them. Then they’d go into his bedroom and then…
No, Babi would never do it. It was too soon. Or maybe she would. There’s no such thing as too soon for certain things. They’d spend some time together, and then maybe it would happen.
He tried to remember the words of a song by Lucio Battisti. How did it go? “What a sensation of faint madness I feel coloring my soul, the record player, the lights down low, and then…iced champagne and the adventure can…” Damn it. That’s what I forgot! The champagne! It’s essential!
Step went quickly into the kitchen and pulled open all of the cabinets. No good. There was nothing but a pinot grigio. He put it in the freezer. Well, that’s still better than nothing.
At that very moment, the telephone rang. It was Babi. “I can’t come.” Her voice was cold and annoyed.
“Why not? I’ve prepared everything. I even put on the apron you gave me,” Step lied.
“Signora Mariani called. She’s missing a gold necklace with diamond settings. She blames me. Don’t ever call me again.” Babi hung up.
A short while later, Step was at Pollo’s house. “Who the fuck could it have been? Do you realize? Nice fucking friends I have.”
“Come on, Step, don’t talk like that! How many times have we all gone to someone’s house and stolen things? Practically at every party we’ve ever been to.”
“Yes, but never at one of our girlfriends’ houses!”
“Well, that wasn’t Babi’s house…”
“No, but she’s being held responsible for it. You need to help me make up a list of everyone who was there…”
Step pulled out a sheet of paper. Then he frantically hunted around for a pen.
“Oh, don’t you ever have anything to write with around here?”
“There’s no need. I know who took the necklace.”
“Who?”
Then Pollo said a name, the one name that Step really wished he hadn’t heard. It was the Sicilian who’d stolen it.
* * *
Step was riding his motorcycle in the night. He’d chosen not to ask Pollo to come with him. This was a matter between him and the Sicilian, and no one else.
Going to his house and demanding that necklace back was tantamount to calling him a thief. No one would be especially happy to be accused of such a thing, least of all the Sicilian. He was especially touchy about things like that.
When the Sicilian came downstairs, his smile promised nothing good.
“Ciao, Sicilian. Listen, I don’t want to fight with you.”
A fist hit Step right in the face. Step staggered backward. This was definitely not what he’d expected. He shook his head, trying to see clearly. The Sicilian came right at him but Step stopped him with a straight-on kick.
Then while he was catching his breath, Step thought about the dinner he’d prepared, the flowered apron, and how he had wanted everything to be different tonight. He wanted a relaxed evening at home with his girlfriend in his arms. But that’s not how it had turned out.
The Sicilian was there, in front of him, in position. He was gesturing with both hands, urging him to come forward. “Come on, then, let’s do this.”
Step shook his head and took a deep breath. Fuck, he thought, I don’t know why it is, but my dreams never seem to come true.
At that very moment, the Sicilian lunged forward. This time, Step was ready for him. He darted to one side and smashed his fist into the Sicilian’s face with a powerful, precise punch. He felt the Sicilian’s nose crumple as his fist dug in, the already soft, battered cartilage crunching again. The Sicilian’s eyebrows furrowed in pain. Then Step saw his face, that grimace, the lower lip as he tasted his own blood. He saw him smile, and, at that moment, realized how difficult this was all going to be.
* * *
Babi was sitting on the sofa. She was listlessly watching TV while sipping a rosehip herbal tea when someone rang the doorbell. She got up to answer the door.
“Who is it?”
“Me.”
Step was there in front of her. His hair was tousled, his shirt was torn, and his right eyebrow was still bleeding.
“What happened to you?”
“Nothing. But I found the necklace.” He raised his right hand. Signora Mariani’s gold choker was there, glittering in the dim light of the landing. “Now can you come out to dinner?”
Babi, after giving Signora Mariani her necklace back and inevitably losing her position as a babysitter, let Step take her to his house. But when they opened the door, they were faced with a terrible surprise. At the little table in the middle of the living room, illuminated by a romantic candle, sat Manuela. A moment later, Paolo came in from the kitchen. He was carrying the fruit salad that Step had prepared and, as if that weren’t bad enough, he was also wearing the flowered apron that Babi had given him.
Paolo looked at Step, who was standing, frozen in disbelief, at the door. “Ciao, Step. Sorry, eh…but I called, and there wasn’t any answer. So we came home, and we waited awhile but by then it was ten o’clock. So we said to ourselves, ‘They’re not coming, after all.’ So we started to eat. Isn’t that true?”
He sought out Manuela’s confirmation, and she nodded and gave him a feeble smile.
Step looked at his plate. There were still bits of his fruit salad. “And you polished it off, too, I see. Well, how was the dinner, at least? Was it good?”
“Delicious.” Manuela seemed to mean what she said. Then she fell silent again. She’d realized that it was a question that wasn’t really asking for an answer.