Step sat there, head hanging low. He looked down at his denim-clad knees. Then he shut his eyes. Oh God, Mamma, why don’t you say something? Why don’t you help me? I love you so much. I’m begging you, don’t leave me.
“I’m sorry, counselor. I don’t have anything to tell you. I don’t know anything.”
At his mother’s words, Step felt a stab of pain in his heart.
“Do you think that, if I had anything to say, if there was anything I could do for my son, I wouldn’t do it? Now, excuse me, I need to go.”
Step’s mother got to her feet. The lawyer watched as she left the room. Then he made one last appeal to Step. “Stefano, are you sure you don’t have anything to tell us?”
Step didn’t even reply. Without so much as a glance at him, Step went over to the window. He looked out at that top floor, right across the way. He thought about his mother. And at that moment, he hated her, just as he’d loved her so much in the past.
Then he shut his eyes. A tear rolled down his cheek. He couldn’t seem to choke it back, and he suffered like he’d never suffered before, on account of his mother, on account of what she hadn’t done that day, on account of what she had done.
Chapter 4
There were lots of young people lining the sides of the broad road with the steep uphill curve on the Via Olimpica in Rome. Young men whose hair looked like it had been dyed blond, all strikingly similar in appearance with American T-shirts and baseball caps and tan, muscular physiques, were pretending to be genuine surfers and health nuts as they struck statuesque poses and handed each other beers.
A short distance farther on, next to a convertible VW Beetle, another small group, much less ambitious in their beliefs, were hunched over, busily rolling a joint. A guy with long hair and a happily dazed look on his face had just burned his hand with a lighter. A young woman with a premature smile plastered on her face was rolling up a small piece of cardboard that featured a winking black bird. Precut joint filters that only a club like Le Cornacchie—literally “The Crows”—would hand out to its customers, encouraging them, as if there had been any need, to get high.
There they were, lining the road and watching the racers risking certain death on their motorcycles. Always them—only them—inept spectators in life as well.
Farther along, a few gentlemen out in search of a thrilling evening were clustered around a Jaguar. Near them, another couple of friends were watching an absurd procession in amusement. Scooters popping wheelies, motorcycles roaring past at blinding speed, and screeching brakes, guttural exclamations. Young men riding past, standing on their foot pegs, craning their necks to see if there was anyone they knew, and others waving to friends. Some of the luckier ones were focusing on a new girlfriend.
Babi rode up the gentle slope with her little souped-up Vespa. When she got there, she was speechless. The panorama that stretched out before her was incredible. All kinds of different horns were honking, some deep, others shrill, in a deranged symphony. Roaring engines called out to each other in corresponding dull rumbles. Headlights glared, colored in different hues by indelible felt-tip pens, navy blue, yellow, or red, contrary to the rules of the road and, for that reason, even nicer to look at, lighting up the road as if it were one huge discotheque.
She proceeded slowly, descending the slope with her engine revving gently. There were a few Nissan four-wheel-drive jeeps with their doors wide open, blaring music toward the sky. Girls crammed into jeans that were too tight danced sensually, the owners of that small patch of space. Bad boys, young but utterly convincing, were smoking cigarettes, like models in a commercial, except that nobody was paying them to be there.
Babi continued rolling along. Every yard of forward progress was greeted by a different piece of music. Different cars, different tastes of their various owners. Rock music by the German band the Scorpions and, directly after it, the latest piece by Phil Collins. From a bright yellow Golden Eagle with a ragtop, there was no mistaking the voice of Madonna.
In front of that car, a young woman all in black, with a skimpy top and a stretch skirt very similar to the attire of that singer, was hanging off her boyfriend’s neck. The young man smiled at her. The young woman smiled back. She craned her neck in search of a kiss. He leaned down, complying with her request. He touched her short, soft, blond hair with a slight permanent designed to make her more closely resemble the famous singer. Their tongues started up in a frenzied byplay, taking turns burrowing into the other’s mouth.
Babi looked ahead on her left, where the fence surrounding the villa had been ripped open. There was a group of guys. They were on a slight rise. Some of them were seated while others stood around talking.
There, in that small open space, was one of those stands in a trailer that sold cold drinks and hot sandwiches. It was doing a booming business. Babi continued in that direction. Far away in the distance, motorcycles arrived, competitors and rubberneckers for that strange event. Babi looked around, distracted. She bumped into a guy with a buzz cut, wearing a black leather jacket and a single earring in his right ear, who seemed to be in a tremendous hurry.
“Watch where you’re going, okay?”
Babi apologized. At a certain point, she saw Gloria, the Accados’ daughter. There she was, sitting on the ground, on a jean jacket. Nearby was Dario, her boyfriend.
Babi walked over to them. “Ciao, Gloria.”
The young woman turned to look at her. “Ciao, how are you doing?”
“Fine, thanks.”
“Have you met Dario?” Gloria asked.
“Yes, we’ve seen each other around.”
They traded smiles, trying to remember where and when.
“Listen, I’m so sorry about what happened to your father,” Babi said.
“Oh, really? Well, I don’t give a damn. Serves him right. Maybe getting beat up will teach him to mind his own business, for once. He’s always meddling. He always wants to have his say.”
Dario lit a cigarette. “I agree. In fact, why don’t you give Step my thanks? Although if I was the one who’d headbutted him, it would have been a bad situation for me.” Dario burst out laughing.
Gloria took a drag and then glanced at Babi with a smile. “So, what, are you dating Step?”
“Me? What, are you crazy? I’ve got to go, take care. I need to find Pallina.”
Babi kept on walking. Finally, she saw one of Step’s friends. He was sitting on a powerful motorcycle, chatting cheerfully with a young woman whom he held tightly between his legs. The young woman was wearing a navy-blue baseball cap with a visor and the NY logo in front. Her black hair, tied in a ponytail, stuck out the back of the cap, through the space above the strap. She was wearing a jacket with patent leather white sleeves, like the typical American cheerleader. Her Camomilla double belt, a pair of dark blue leggings, and a pair of Superga shoes in the same shade made her look a bit more Italian.
That lunatic who kept laughing and twisting her head around to kiss him every so often was her best friend Pallina! She’d finally found her. Babi walked over to her.
Pallina saw her coming. “Hey, ciao, what a surprise!” She ran straight over and threw her arms around her. “I’m so happy that you came.”
“Not me. In fact, I can’t wait to get out of here!”