The Rotten Bridge, A Gypsy Love Story (novel excerpt)

Yes, I want, I want, I want. It is an ugly chant after a while, to always be wanting, to never be satisfied, to never have what it is you need, to drink it by the drop or by the gallon and never quench your thirst; always, but never when you need it, often, but never enough; to be flat on your back in the dead sea looking up at the sopping clouds as they pass and the sun is pulling sand across your eyelids.
What do you want? The hot sirocco blows a hole in your head. What do you want? The greedy sea holds you like clay. What do you want? It is an ugly question to have to answer sometimes.

After a couple of days I take the train ahead of YaYa to Bologna for our little overnighter.
It is one-thirty in the morning and her arrival is delayed. I double-check my information and pace the platform. She was vague on the phone and as always there is the idea that I have missed something. Half past one she said. Of course I know where she is coming from, but when you are as tired as I am and thrust from a moving train to face a sleeping station, you wonder if you are even there at all, let alone where you should be.
I sit down on a bench facing two rolled up bums who are waiting for their sickness to call them from sleep. The entire scene at the station is under a similar spell, starving for a twitch. It is a static chiaroscuro of light suspended in a fog. I look down the empty length of tracks that dissolve into the animal darkness. There is a clock under a buzzing halo that is off by hours if not days. I walk under the platform, back to the ticket area to look at the arrivals and departures as they are updated. Here is something at least - something that moves, that clicks and whirls off numbers in the otherwise palpable stillness.
They make the announcement. The train from Rome is on the approach. I picture the sweaty struggle between the sheets just as I have for days.
I beat the train to the track. I imagine it out there struggling against the darkness, pushing all of night aside with sparks flashing above and below - the horrible screeching of souls as they are torn from the tracks - and then the emergent thunder, the lights, the emancipation out of darkness, the lifting of the dead. The platform is alive now. A pneumatic sigh from the long belly of the train. The doors open down the line and people trickle out dragging their luggage down the steps chained and shackled.
Suddenly I see YaYa. She bounces down out of the train like a child, kicking at the night, taking loose strides, waving her arms and laughing and slapping at the back of her friend who has ridden with her from Rome. The two of them look at me playfully and whisper inanities to one another as they approach, clinging to one another's arms and bouncing hips together as they walk.
She's passes me off to Heidi for inspection.
"You see, I told you he was a little older and fat too. What do you think ehum, he's cute?
"If you don't want him leave him here. I'll take him for a few days.
These two sisters of the dark are on another plane.
"Ciao Mac. Heh, heh, heh. She rubs her bony hands and forearms together in such a way that I am thinking she must be missing certain essential cartilage in her shoulders. Her whole body is wired together like that - in a loose way - the same way she smiles and drops her hips on the sidewalk when she walks. The way her feet are always coming out of her shoes.
I smile at her goofy punk. The clear plastic handbag with red hearts. The bamboo slippers. Her collarbones protruding out of the neck of her jersey like developing fins. Her deep red lips pulled back to her temples. Her ribbed cotton skirt, white and dirty already, hugging, elastic - stretched over her naked hips.
"This is Heidi, the friend I told you about.
I hold out my hand. "Piacere.
"So we are here! YaYa beams as she takes our hands and swings us into a trot. "Let's go make some trouble.
She stops and looks down at her feet, scraping her red toenails against the bamboo.
"Wait! Do you like them? I bought them for this trip so my dirty feet could breathe for a change. She pulls up her skirt and skips a few steps ahead, swinging her plastic purse.
"She has been like this the whole way, Heidi said. "She was even beating the Neapolitans at their own card games. It's too bad she didn't have any real money to play with.
YaYa hears this. "That's right, they didn't believe that I was Roman. They thought I was one of them. This makes her proud. She winks and clicks her tongue against her teeth, blows on her knuckles and taps her chest, leering at us with that stretched grin of hers. "Ya, ya, ya - you see?
She giggles and does a little jig, throwing her arms over me at last and kissing me. "Ciao Mac, all over again. Her hips squeeze into my hands and she flashes her dark eyes inches from my nose. I touch her cracked lips with mine and squeeze her and then we leave the station, the three of us arm in arm, scouring the red walls of Bologna looking for a late night something.

At the restaurant they sit us down in the very back of the place and agree to sell us two bottles of wine and some bread. We are hoping for more to eat but the kitchen is closed. YaYa sits opposite me so she can leer at the straight crowd as they finish off their colorful plates. She talks non-stop and occupies her hands undoing the lids of the salt and pepper shakers. The wine darkens her frenetic mood. She doesn't get out of Rome very often - that's part of it. I wonder if there's anymore of what she's been taking. I'm starting to shut down.
"So how did you meet? I ask.
"Well, YaYa began, "I was walking in the square one day minding those silly pilgrims when I saw this Heidi character dressed all in black and in a row with a crazy old Christian woman and I thought - now there is somebody I could make some trouble with. The next thing you know we are friends and she has me working at her office doing translations. Of course I didn't last very long.
"What about you Heidi?
"Same job. But it's better - they moved me to Bologna where I can make more money.
"And now, how often do you see each other.
"I have to go to Rome for work about once a month, Heidi said, "usually overnight, so I try to call her - but sometimes she's too busy with her man.
"Shit on him. I'm on my own now and as soon as he gets his things out I will get on with my life.
"Does he know you're here?
"Of course, I told him that I was coming to see my old friend Heidi.
"What about me? Does he suspect anything?
"I'll have to ask him when I see him again. But let's shut up about it and have some fun.
At three o'clock they kick us out of the place. We buy another bottle of wine to take into the street. We stop for a spliff, sitting on some student steps that are littered with the debris of higher learning - beer bottles, cigarette butts, fast food - and are being hosed down by those green-suited men who are all over western Europe at this hour paying off their debts to society.
Heidi gets up to show us a nearby statue of Neptune spitting water.
"If you stand right here you can see his penis and it's quite large. Sometimes at night I think of him.
I have a look. It's true. His missing anatomy is suddenly revealed by a trick of lines.
"You are still such a whore Heidi. I love it. YaYa beams.
As we are standing there in front of this renaissance marvel, two young men approach us flashing unsure smiles. I hand them the wine bottle and they talk with the girls. YaYa turns to me. "They have just taken their first trips and they are starting to feel it. They want to know if we want a hit.
"What did you say?
"I told them thank you but we had other plans. Now they just want to drink.
Thank god for that at least - she has her limits. Who wants to get involved with some kids on their first ride? Besides, acid in another tongue? I don't feel up to it. I have to stay focused. There is a prize at the end of this.
I'm glad when YaYa shows the penis to the two men and we leave them standing there with their chins dropped. We walk on under the red vaults that string together bookstores and cafes that are now closed. As we stumble arm in arm past a group of students YaYa tightens her grip and sneers at them. Somewhere in the back of my dim mind I consider the possibility that she dosed with those kids on the sly or worse yet, that she poisoned our wine.

It's a two bedroom flat. Heidi's roommate isn't home. We sit in the blow-up furniture and smoke another spliff of hash. I really shouldn't - I don't handle it very well - but here I am with two drunk girls who left the room and came back in matching slips and now they are pulled up in the same chair, loose and high, and showing off yards of tattooed flesh between them.
"Heidi is offering us her bed tonight but we can't wear any clothing.
"That's right, Heidi said, "and I'm afraid I'll need some proof.
They look at each other and share a sisterly laugh. They are considering something else, maybe the three of us, but they can see I'm too feeble. Finally YaYa buries her head in Heidi's satin lap and curls up. "Stanco, she said. "Sono stanco. She's tired. They've switched to plan B.
This is my cue to drag her off to the bedroom. Heidi yawns her consent. I stand up and unsteadily pull YaYa's surrendering form up to my waist before she empowers herself.
"My little clandestino, she whispers.
She winks and walks with me into the hall as Heidi calls out good night. The hash rattles against my skull and my stomach rumbles. I've had terrible pains in my gut since we reached the flat. I let go of a little. Horrible gas. My guts are exploding, making huge hungry sounds. When YaYa finishes in the bathroom I take my turn and try to relieve myself but the walls are too thin. I can't relax. Of course, the smoke in my head makes everything loud and dire.
I fight my way back to the room in the dark. YaYa is floating on top of the bed, moon-eyed and glowing, naked to her tattoos. I kiss her head and face, her eyelids, her ears. I bite her lips and her neck. She moans softly under my caress. Good. Nice and easy, I'm thinking. We have all morning and finally I'm getting some circulation back.
I undress and slide against her waiting body. Her face has softened for once. The grinning skull leaves a fleshy child - one whose lips and teeth are stained and dry from the wine, one whose eyes trace mine, wordless, ready to be loved.
We stare into each other. I hold a trembling finger up to her breathless rib. There is nothing else but this exact moment that we have squeezed ourselves into. Nothing, that is, until the rumble in my stomach shakes the bed and it all goes the other way and I am minutely, interminably aware of time.
Now my fragmented mind is watching and sharing the view with someone else. It's Cassi. She is heckling me. My caresses become inept. I linger for too long. My hands are idle while I suck her nipples. My cock feels sluggish. Nothing works in unison.
YaYa pulls me up from her blackness. My tongue has a cramp. Besides, my mouth is bone-dry from the hash and I can't feel her pipe well enough to stay on. The more I focus the worse it gets until finally I am lost among her kneecaps. I come up and feel Cassi over my shoulder, crawling up my ass, and it's a good trick, I think, from six thousand miles away.
Now my cock has gone into full retreat. Nothing. The fucking thing won't fuck. I have to stall. I use my finger for a while. I bury my face again. I suck her toes, her armpits, her tits. I even sneak a finger up my own ass, but nothing, not even a twitch, so I go through everything again - toes, chops, pits, tits, ass and again it's the same.
As the morning light floods across the room, I am caught up in its broad yellow smile and pinned to the bed. Round over. Somewhere a buzzer has been sounded. I feel like a fraud. If I could find my balls I'd jump out the window.
"What is it? she asks.
"I don't know. I don't feel right. I'm buckling under.
"Come here and put your head. It's OK.
But it's not. This is my chance to take her away, to posses her. She came here for that, to let me, and she expected a man, not an acorn. She has laid herself out for me, pleading and naked and moon white and I cannot pleasure her.
It's obvious why I can't but that doesn't make it easier. I want to soar. I want to beat my chest. I want her under me, full of my poison, trembling, moaning, fucking, speaking in tongues and quivering her sex at me. I want ecstasy for her, through her, with her. I wanted our souls to touch, to mingle, to kiss. I want to love her because I do even if I never tell her.
I'm laying in the crosshairs of the sun, watching her sleep. The hash is wearing off but the humiliation and the pain in my bowels are still duking it out. I watch her for hours. Her bulging eyes dart under their lids. I watch her chest heave. Her hips shift. Her hands grip the sheets. I watch her chipped toenails at the end of her long blue feet. I watch her ass cheeks resting. I watch her maritime tits - the ancient ink-fish circling and biting her nipples. She pats the dagger she wears on her naked waist. Her heart beats in her neck. I watch her fingers twist. I watch her swollen wine lips crack. I follow her spine up to her neck and her protruding collar, her extra bones as she calls them. She heaves and snores gently. She farts. She talks to someone and she sleeps, open and vulnerable to the world she is forever holding back, every beautiful scar laid bare.

chapter.

I've locked myself in the bathroom. I mean I'm really stuck. Last night Heidi warned us about the "Roman locks as she called them. "Sometimes they stick and there is more to it than simply wiggling the key. Of course, I immediately passed it off as a gender problem because to a man it is a lock and a key, old and temperamental maybe, but no mystery.
But she is right. I can't get the old bone to engage. It's spinning in the lock, fishing around loosely like a worn spike, and it is a replay of my performance earlier as the sun spread its sneer across the cool marble floor to the bedspread where I flopped and spun in an oversized shoe, in a big hat and beard.
As far as I know the girls are still asleep but it won't be long before I wake them with this racket. Every sound clops sharply against the cold stone floor. The ancient door moans its creaking timbers and hammered brass, and I might as well be forging the iron for another key because there is certainly nothing in either cabinet that I might use to pick the lock. I give it a few more spins still believing that everyone is entitled to a break now and then.
When Heidi calls out to me from the hall I am already out the window clinging to a chink in the brick and an old copper drainpipe. My next move will put me beyond the safety net but right now I can still go back. I am weighing those odds against my embarrassment when Heidi raps discreetly on the door.
"Mac, is that you?
"Heidi? Yes, I'm locked in. I climb back through the window and walk over to the door.
"Try putting it in halfway or so. You have to turn it slowly - you can feel it.
"I'm trying that now. No, still nothing. Can I pass you the key?
"It doesn't fit under the door because of the step. Go to the window. You can pass it to the kitchen."
Of course, I was just over there.
I lean out and hand her the key. She comes around and unlocks the door.
"Don't worry, this happens to everyone who comes here.
I wonder how long she and YaYa listened to my struggle before coming to my rescue.
"Did I wake you? I ask.
"No, I was up.
"And YaYa?
"I left her in there. She motioned back over her shoulder to that icy tomb.
So they did talk. YaYa is probably waiting for me, for round two.
I creep back into the room. YaYa is turned away on the bed laughing into her hands.
"Great! I can't fuck and I can't go to the bathroom without a rescue.
"Come here old man. Let me help you. She pulls me onto the bed against her.
"Hold me. Don't think about last night if you are. There will be other times. Our story is not finished.
Our story. What a unique way she had, but I wasn't feeling so sure.
"What do you know about it? I ask.
"I'm the vecchia, the old woman seer at the Villa Borghese, remember?
Most women wouldn't have taken it as a compliment, but she knew the Bernini marble of the sagging old peasant woman with the paunch and she also thought it was beautiful.
"So what do you see for us then?
"Nothing but trouble - but I don't care. I need this, you.
"Last night.....that doesn't happen, only once before.
"It's ok, I was tired anyway. I just wanted to lie down with you. Come on, let's get some coffee before Heidi drinks it all.

Heidi has already left so YaYa walks me through the nuance of Italian espresso on the stove. The aluminum percolator, called the macchinetta, is delicate, she insists. There is torque and temperature and grind and pack. We have the coffee and then brush our teeth over the dishes in the kitchen sink, taking pictures of each other foaming and spitting. Then she stretches out on the futon and lifts her skirt for me - it is a mock burlesque. I take a few photographs from the long perspective of her toes and then flip the camera to her and she catches me licking her heel. I have a sudden premonition of these pictures rendered hairy, stippled with black ink, and the negatives destroyed but that doesn't stop the fun.

We decide to take the train together as far south as Florence. She doesn't know that I intend to follow her to Rome. While we wait in line for my ticket she calls her man.
"It's ok, I hear her say, "it's nice to be out of Rome.
"Yes, she is happy. She has a nice place and a good roommate.
"No. Stop. What are you saying Morro? Morro?
She turned and spoke without lifting her eyes.
"He's hung up. A mutual friend has told him all about our weekend. He asked how you were. I'm afraid to see him now.
"But he's moved out?
"He has to get his things which he has not even started and anyway, I don't know what to do about it all.
"Don't see him if you're worried. Do you think he'll hurt you?
"No, not really, but he will make me feel like dirt and I don't want to feel that way about us, do you understand?
I kiss her head and step up to get my ticket. They make the boarding call for our train. YaYa runs. There is never enough time for us. This is the last train she can catch to make it back for work tomorrow, and because her boss is a friend to Morro's mother, her job is always a question. It's not just her job though - it's everything. She lives week to week, pooling together her meager earnings with his, just to afford a flat in the barrio. There are no extras. Whatever they have is the minimum. I am touched by her willingness.
I run off after her through the tunnels and across the platform, slowed somewhat by my pack. By the time I make the train she has staked two spaces between the cars where we can squat next to a young man who has already inhaled about half a joint for the ride. He is sitting down in the well of the steps and grinning at life. YaYa smiles at him and nudges me. Yes, I see him. So what I think, he's smoking some weed? But she keeps on digging him. He offers us a hit and we both decline, but she keeps right on. I think she's already had some and I don't get her just now. These are our last moments together for a while - at her request I should stay away from her and Rome until things settle - and she prefers to insulate herself in some sort of druggie camaraderie as the train creaks on toward Florence. I try not to dwell on it but delicacy isn't one of my strong points.
"I had a dream this morning, I said. "About us.
"And what?
The guy with the spliff is still more interesting and I can't blame her. I feel foolish talking about dreams but I go on.
"We were somewhere else. We walked into a pizzeria and there was my family at a table but they didn't acknowledge us.
"Do you remember how you felt?
I lied. "Well, I was fine. We took another table and I was proud.
But I wasn't. I knew the real life disappointment I inspired. I was always running up against their idea of what was best. In this case it was Cassi and they have been waiting for years for grandkids.
YaYa looked at my face and somehow got the message.
"The reason I ask is because they say that morning dreams are the true ones. It's good to know how you felt. I guess we're ok then.
We rode along, sitting on the floor, detached from our touching.
"When do you think we can see each other? I asked.
"I don't know. I have things to work out with my man and my living situation. I can't afford the extra rent if he leaves. And then there is us.
She paused and looked straight into me, and before I could look away she said it.
"The next time I see you I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to marry me.
I can see she is serious. I have to say something. I look out the window at her words plunging into the fertile hillsides.
"Really?
"Yes, really. I mean it that way.
"But that scares the hell out of me.
"Please, I'm sorry. I don't mean to do that, but I want you to understand how I feel.
I understand, I think, that this is a mistake. How can she talk like that? Is it a test? If so, it makes her seem desperate and weak, and I don't like it. Or does she think I am that simple - that I will just scoop her up and take her back to the States because she proposes to me on a train? Of course there is another possibility, and even more nagging, and that is that she means it. But what do you say to that?
"I understand how you're feeling, I think. But we both have a lot to take care of. We need time before we start talking like that.
I lean in to give her a hug. I am moved physically, despite her promise. YaYa notices and takes a subtle jab.
"You will like Firenze. You must go down to the river and think of me.
We kiss quickly and speaking with our lips pressed together exchange passionate tender maunderings good-bye.
"Here, I want you to have this.
She shivs me with her elbow and pulls a wooden bracelet from her wrist.
"It isn't much, but I have worn it as you can see, and it is special - you can think of me when you wear it.
It's a strand of faded wooden peas. The worn out thread of red elastic has been double knotted to accommodate her skinny wrist. She tries to put it over my hand but it's too tight.
The train slows down and stops. I hold the bracelet up and kiss it. I taste her - the scent of her skin and sweat and cigarettes.
"It smells just like you.
I kiss the back of her neck.
"I want to stay with you. She makes a three inch gesture between her thumb and finger and folds herself into my shirt pocket.
I smile. Those parting words that never come.
"Ok then, she says, "I will come along but only you will know. You can take me where you like now and show me things.
I gather up my pack and say one more goodbye. We are in the doorway blocking traffic in and out.
"Ciao clandestino - I will wait to hear from you!
This might mean something additional to her, speaking of her proposal, but I pretend it's business as usual, just in case.
"Ciao big eyes - I will see you very soon.
I hop out of the train and pass the window where she has quickly gotten a seat. She makes a bulging face in the glass as the train pulls out and I step into the stream of travelers on the platform.

chapter.

I phone Cassi from the station. I need to compartmentalize my indiscretion right away, before the guilt takes over, and a phone call is a good normalizer, especially from six thousand miles. Besides, it's been one thing after another today and I'm leery of going one step further. Cassi is my barometer. If I can hold it together on the phone with her I'm all right. At least she'll tell me if I am spouting into the receiver.
I get the answering machine - if ever there is an opportunity to deliver some unfettered nonsense - and as I start in at length with time of day, my coordinates, the visual lay around me and the supposed phantoms in her bed that she picked up at the bar last night, she answers.
"I was still asleep.
"Yeah well, it's a little late. You sure you were sleeping?
"What do you want? Did you call just to harass me?
"No - just checking in.
I think to myself that I'm about to level with her, to let her off the hook once and for all.
"Where are you now?
"Florence - I just pulled in. How's everything?
"Ok I guess. Busy at the shop.
Her boutique is in an up and coming boho neighborhood. We used to run it together. She sold retro and fetish fashions, art, lingerie, novelty sex toys and smut books. The longer I was gone, by her account, the more cock she added to the place.
"You have the street fair next month.
"Don't remind me. I'm sad about it already.
"You knew I wasn't going to be there.
"Oh shit what time is it? I forgot I have to go in early today. Your fuckin boy is keeping me up all night chewin on his ass and running outside 'bar, bar, baruuuuuue, baruuuuuuuue'
"And you want kids?
I've been playing with the wooden bracelet in my pocket and it's just come untangled. Unconsciously I bring it up to my lips and inhale the perfume of her sex mingled with old sheets and dishwater. It brings her back to me in an instant, ill-timed and yet perfect. I slip it on and hold it there under my nose.
"That reminds me - I sent you an email last night. I'm sorry if it rambles on but I was drunk and feeling sad.
She has that tone so I don't even ask.
"Ok, I'll check it out., I say, normalizing her. "First I have to get situated. It's late and it's pretty crowded here and I don't have a room yet. Wish me luck.
"You don't want to know what I wish for.
"You're right. Ok, I'll call in a couple.
"Miss you too.
"Give me a chance at least.
"............well?
"I miss you. And the dogs too.
"Did you hear that Shelley? Your daddy says he misses us. Boo hoo.
"Alright. I gotta go.
"Ok, I'll talk to you whenever you decide to call again.
"Or I'll see you in Rome, I said.
"Not if I see you first.
Click.
A drunken email. Great. I know what's coming. Not a Dear John mind you, but some sort of exacting reassessment breathed new life by our six thousand mile separation. Already this had not been the best of days - locked in a bathroom, facing a limp dick that couldn't, a marriage proposal and now this. So why not? Besides, we've been dancing around the issues for years. Marriage, kids, commitment - the usual bit. It was always there and I was never ready for it.
I need some night air. I throw my pack into a locker, buy a ticket on the red eye to Rome, and hit the street for a bottle of wine.

Florence is set up like an exhibit. That is, until you walk around behind the Duomo and discover that back there the show has been over for centuries. Back there the famed church is black with soot and held upright by cables and scaffolding. There it sits - squat, dejected and belching - and you can sense what it means to outlive your usefulness.
But there's something here all right, put away deep like a bad memory, like something burned at the stake. Especially late at night when the place clears out a little and you're drunk enough to ignore the street lights. Now you can imagine the halo of the renaissance, the solitude of candle stubs burning in low-roof attics, fraternities of men secreted away in basements or workshops around a single wooden table, and the salons and parlors of the wealthy with their velvet austerity and their lace manners.
The graffiti I find on a church column tells a better story. "Dante was here, it says in heavy metal lettering and today people can come to eat at McDonald's, climb a human ladder to the campanile, make videos of David's buttocks and lay farts in the bapistry and never see that lingering halo.
The best thing to do is drink a bottle of wine and stumble about on the mean streets until you find a little alleyway of night called the Piazza della Signoria. There you may nod to Perseus and his medusa lunchbox, tip your hat and offer your coat to the Sabine woman, and take a moonlight stroll between the Uffizi buildings where those statues are housed on either side as you glance up at the alcoves between the repeating vaults.
You can stop and praise each and every one of them for no one is there to remind you that you are a drunk American stumbling over the basalt cobbles, going from bumper to bumper like a bowling ball. And they are all there - all the dead ones, the great ones, buried in the very stone of their achievements.
Giotto, Donatello, Boccacio, Dante, Leonardo, Petrarch, Cellini, Machievelli, Brunelleschi, Giambologna, and all the rest of them. "Salute!, you say. "Buona Sera Signori. "Bravissimo!, and you bow and quietly consider what you remember of their lives with disbelief, getting more and more disgusted with how small your life is. You really want to know how the fuck they did it and what it was like to them, and you end up with the consolation that somehow this is a different race, one that passed us by a long time ago and then left without telling anyone.
I walk with head down balanced on wine legs back toward Signoria and stop to listen to some string musicians sitting under an acoustic vault along the Uffizi. They are doing a really nice job picking through bluegrass. The improvisation, once everyone is aboard, migrates into an insane double time and they really wind it up for several verses. It's exhausting just to hear it. I slump down next to a black Labrador, petting him and halfway smiling at his owner, but she is caught up in the crossfire volley of banjos busting Yankee Doodle Dandy out in quadruple time. I stand up and my head is spinning like some sawdust jug-junkie and so I start back to the train station to catch the overnighter.
The fresh air puts other ideas in my head once I am moving again. I follow a growing racket down a dark street and walk into this place only I can't believe my eyes. Here was the chink I was looking for behind the Duomo and I knew it was here somewhere the whole time - it just took a bottle of wine and some stupid luck to let my eyes see it. Yes and finally here they were - a bar full of drunken students from mediocre American colleges singing along with their father's music and spending their father's money. In this case it was Sympathy for the Devil but take your pick, the jukebox was loaded.
I stood there for a moment against the bar, stricken, paralyzed with homesickness and a tide of red washing over me, but mostly just drunk with incomprehension. I swirled from face to face, all of them masks of the black death, each one cruder than the last. I couldn't understand it - why would you bring all that with you? If I had a car I would have taxied each and every one of them to the Ponte Vecchio and helped them off into the Arno before they brought a quarantine down on the entire city and ruined everything.

Just before dawn I wake up on the steps of a church next to a statue of Dante Alighieri. There is a little brown dog asleep under my arm and he smells like he's been living inside a sarcophagus. As I stand up he lifts his eyes like Shelley does back home when I get out of bed, and when I start down the steps, he gets up. A half block later he is still with me, back a few paces and wagging his skinny tail. And so it goes through the early morning streets of Florence as we cross the Ponte Vecchio, past the Uffizi, the piazza, and the university - all the way to the steps of the Ospedale degli Innocenti, once an actual orphanage, where I threaten to leave him, except that the few others who are loitering at this hour have seen us come together and so I cannot.
We pass through the empty bookstalls and I toss a tattered binding for him a few times. The book was written by Luigi di something or other. I can't decipher the worn title so I eventually forget it along with the binding in the gutter. But the name Luigi sticks. It sounds like a good Florentine name, a name you can hang a few public works on. Luigi di Firenze - my new boon companion! I lead him back to the area around the station where we set about looking for a pensione.
It seems reasonable to at least have a hot shower and a bed before I make any decisions. I call Berto back in Rome and he is fine with the slight delay. He can use another day or two and besides, he agrees, Florence is not to be missed.
I'm developing a plan for Luigi, a good one, I think. First I have to get rid of that stink of death that is on him or no one will ever take him. I'll clean him up, make him presentable, and find him a new Florentine owner, preferably young and female, so I might have a little fun into the bargain. Meanwhile I'll get my dog fix - he even looks like Shelley - and a reasonable one at that because I could see that he was a straight shooter. Bright and faithful, and a good average size for these bustling over-polished streets.
I empty a travel size bottle of shampoo on his greasy coat and scrub him with an old sock. To keep him happy I give him soggy bread crusts but he seems more interested in the sock which he snags in his under-bite. We finish the bath and I throw him out onto the balcony to dry off in the sun.
Next I take him down into the street for a coffee. He gets half a biscotti and some milk. I'd say he's doing alright. No leash required. When I go in he sits and waits. When I come out, there he is, just where I left him. When he eats he is efficient and gentle. Not a crumb leaves his mouth. This one will be easy. Who wouldn't want such a dog? He's already trained it would seem. I might even be able to sell him - not that he's a breed or anything. But people can see a well-behaved dog is going cost them less down the road of re-covering furniture, and digging up flower beds, not to mention the high cost of footwear and lingerie these days. And let's face it - some things aren't about the money. You can't put a premium on loyalty, for instance, and this dog apparently has enough for both of us.
Meanwhile, Luigi and I decide that a brisk walk across town is what we need and so we cross back over the Ponte Vecchio where Luigi is immediately set to his traces from early this morning when the stalls were all closed. I have to stop him from lifting a leg on a particular jeweler who seems to recognize him. I apologize and compliment the man on his gold - very brilliant I say, and shiny. Fancy words in english sure, but I give all the credit to Luigi for showing some restraint.
Just to the other side of the bridge Luigi and I slip off down a quiet side street. He's got his gelato cup snagged between his teeth and I've got my weak heart and half a mind to call Cassi or YaYa, I don't know which.
The streets are narrow over here. This is the older, less stately, Florence, cramped and residential with small owner-operator boutiques. It occurs to me that we're window shopping during siesta. It's further proof that whatever I need they just don't have.
And then we see her. In fact we just miss her, stepping out into the street, as she buzzes by on her scooter and pulls to the curb in front of us. She's attempting to back her scooter into a tight spot between two others. Of course Luigi doesn't care but I see an opportunity and so I continue toward her.
She's hung up on the other scooter's directional only she doesn't see why it's not fitting. She just keeps at it - blindly ramming backwards into that space, straddling her seat for footing - and every time, as she plants her shiny platform shoes, her gray skirt rides a little higher on her thigh.
I take her in slowly, admiring the pressure behind the buttons of her blouse as her shoulders and breasts strain at the handlebars. She accidentally opens the accelerator and a curtain of blue smoke encircles us. Quite a show I might say, from where I stand, a few feet drop dead in front of her now, gawking.
When she finally notices me she trains her full-face visor on me and stops her noisy struggle. All that wondrous flesh relaxes against the vinyl seat. I can see between two buttonholes that she is tan and braless underneath. I raise my index finger and give her the international "un momento, fetching a quick look at those bronzed cups glowing behind the expensive pink linen.
I walk to the back of the culprit scooter and lift it. She watches me in her mirror and I make quick work of it, laying it aside for her, and then I grab the back of her seat and guide her in. I can't help but notice a soaking trail of perspiration that must be tickling the top of her ass. It's glistening there just below the cut of her blouse, pooling momentarily against a brown dimple in her back, before it travels through a forest of tiny sun-bleached hairs and disappears below the waist of her skirt.
She turns off the engine and removes her helmet, releasing a wave of brown sea grass, parting around a clear, young face.
"Grazie mille. Oh the voice. It fills my flea bitten ears with warm honey.
"Prego Signorina, con Piacere. With pleasure I say, smiling, offering my hand.
She straightens her look out, twisting her skirt front ways and tugging the bottom hem of her blouse. She gestures across the street at a little boutique and says something I don't understand. I gather she is returning from work, late from siesta perhaps. She has that exquisitely thrown together look of last minute panic, sweat and all, and I imagine her getting dressed, rising from the bed of her lover, her pink bosom still warm and reluctant to go and he is laying there with his purple jackhammer, smiling at her, arms behind his head as she smoothes the wrinkles in her skirt and steps into her shoe straps grabbing at the wall for support.
She takes my hand like it's a damp overused towel in the bathroom of a party and I've forgotten why I'm holding it out to her.
"Non capisco, I say. "I'm sorry....dispiace.
She pours some more honey in my ears and turns to cross the street. There are people lined up at the door to the boutique, taking in the Luigi show, whom I had forgotten for a moment. He's cleaning out the inside of a gelato cup, chasing it all over the sidewalk with his chin and snarling at it when it rolls away from him.
She leaves me standing there with my damp towel still extended and crosses over the street on those magic heels. She undoes the lock and lets the three shoppers pass ahead of her and then barks a little something at Luigi. When she looks back across the street at me, I wave and blow her a kiss. It seems like the perfect thing to do.
I stand there a moment longer and watch her through the glare of the shop window. Somebody, somewhere, must be sick of her shit. Maybe purple jackhammer is getting rid of her. Who knows? It's an ugly consolation - it really is, but what else can I do?
She's at the counter now laying things out for one of the customers. I don't know if she can see me - what with the sun bouncing off that window - but I don't really care. There's no way to give this a reasonable twist. I look down at the scooter for a trace of her and detect what I imagine to be a little thigh sweat, but it is quickly drying on the hot black seat.
I look over at Luigi with his gelato cup. Nothing like a happy tongue. He is the ultimate inspiration I suppose. I look around quickly. Sure enough, there are people about - shopkeepers, tourists, regular peds - and there is a chance of being caught and yet I think, what of it? I mean, is it really against the law to go around licking things in public? Maybe I should lick a car bumper first to throw them off. A few door knobs, light switches - you know those guys. It's funny when they do it. I ask you, what makes a door knob funny but not the seat of a scooter?
Well anyhow I do it. I do it because the seat is drying and Luigi is getting dangerously close to the intersection with that cup of his. I fumble in my purse and drop a cigarette between the two scooters. As I retrieve it to my mouth, bending back up, I take a broad flat lick at the spot on the seat next to my head, half covering my face with hand and cigarette and instinctively squinting my eyes to become less visible.
Straightening up, I feel new veins throbbing in my shoes. I smack my tongue against the ribs of my mouth, squeezing out the essence of her. I look down at the seat to the very spot where here sexed up ass and thighs have left their mark and I taste her secretions. The memory of every delicious musk I have ever pressed my face into fills my lips and nostrils and eyelids with that warm plunging sensation, that sweet dough of life.
I stand there in a white adrenal haze, my ears ringing, a block of stone crowning the zipper of my shorts. I light my cigarette and step out from behind the row of scooters and into the street and by the time I hear the revving two-stroke engine I am on my back eating smoke and the scooter is pulling away from me, down the block, without so much as a beep.

I get up and try to focus but my eyes are erasers. Everywhere I look there are ping-pong balls dissolving and regenerating.
I discover that if I use my periphery I can avoid the floaters. I cross the street in the direction of where I had last seen Luigi. My elbow seems ok. It was a bump and bruise kind of hit, spun me around and tripped me up, nothing deep.
When I find Luigi he is standing in a kaleidoscope of gelato cups. He has licked the printing clean from all of them. Eventually I grab the right one - the one that doesn't move when I focus on it - and get his attention. We leave the misery of that glaring sidewalk for another quiet street and a long walk around the block.
But before we leave the neighborhood Luigi and I make another pass of the shop. This time my dick stiffens in anticipation. Now the fucking thing is ready. I long to go back to yesterday before that sinking moment of failure with YaYa. I imagine a strong finish, crossing that bright window, right there behind the counter. I want to show her that her purple jackhammer has nothing on me. I want her to give him up for a moment, to want something besides her two slick fingers while she thinks about it.
She is dirty back there where no one can see. She wrings her lace out in the sink and leaves it. Standing there across the counter from a customer, she is ready to go. A guy like me can smell it when he walks by. I can see it on her face, the way she lingers with him because it is better while he's standing there. I can see the salty tension between her breasts gathering in her navel. I watch her ache and arch her little buttercup against the counter while she white-knuckles her pen and takes down his order.

In another minute the shop is empty and I decide I'm going in. She looks up just as I'm about to turn into the doorway. She has that look on her face. That little circle of drool, the one where the window shades are pulled down halfway and there is a night-lite on somewhere in the back of her head. It is two bottles of wine and two glasses later. That look.
I duck into the photo shop next door and buy some film. I have it out, inspecting it, as I pass her window again moments later. She is busy with another customer.