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“You will learn. I will show you. Do you drive manual?” I shook my head. “Is easy. I will teach you easy one or two days. Driving in Florence is not so bad as Americans think.” He handed me my helmet. A lady with a cat on a leash walked past, giving Donvino a look that nearly peeled off his tee and jeans. I shot her a laser-like glare. She moved on then.
“That’s right, witch, keep moving,” I mumbled under my breath. Donvino ruffled my hair.
“You are so greedy. She was only looking,” he teased, his fingers lingering in my hair for a moment too long.
“She can go look somewhere else,” I replied curtly after sliding my helmet back on. “Tart.”
Donvino laughed, leaned up, and allowed me to slink a leg over the seat. I wiggled in close. My arms around his middle, I whispered a prayer to the patron saint of Florence drivers and held on tight. We veered into traffic, zipping in front of a tiny delivery truck, then merging to pick up an exit. A car cut us off. Donvino shouted. The driver gave him two fingers in the air. Several motorbikes appeared out of nowhere, slicing into the rush of cars. One was driven by an old man with a flowing beard that fluttered along behind him.
“Easy.” Static. “Always.” Static. “Green.” Static. “Impatient.” Static. “Red.” Static. “ZTL.”
Not a clue what he was talking about, but I was starting to pick up certain tricks about driving in this heavily trafficked city. Impatient was right. People used their horns a lot here. And while it seemed to me that the drivers were lawless, once you began to truly watch the flow of things, it seemed a little less wild west. Maybe I could do this. Now that I had wheels, I was going to have to if I wanted to come into Florence by myself, which I did. I was used to being independent, so bumming rides all the time made me feel like such a pathetic loser.
“Have you ever seen the statue of David?” I asked as we sailed along, leaving the city chaos behind. The air was fresher here, and just a shade cooler.
“Oh yes, a few times. Would you like to go someday?”
“With you?” I enquired all flirty coy boy.
“Yes, with me.”
“I would love that.” I pecked the fine hairs on the back of his neck. He smelled of lime soap. I drew that citrus smell deep into my lungs. “Maybe we can go together! I’ll take you in my Bianchina!”
“You cannot drive into historical center of the city without special permit. We will take a train.”
“Oh damn. I wanted to chauffeur you for once.”
“I hear you saying you hate driving in Florence,” he reminded me, and I shrugged.
“It’s scary not knowing what the signs say,” I replied, leaning to the left as we rounded a soft corner. “And yes, the traffic patterns are intimidating, but I want to do it.”
“Good! I will show you. It is easy. You are clever. You’ll be driving like an Italian in no time.”
I hugged him just a bit tighter, simply because he was so wonderful.
Chapter Twelve
So the rapture of being the owner of my own vehicle earned with my own—sort of earned with my own money if begging cash off your father…oh forget it—the joy of having my own wheels soon turned to smoke. And not the smoke that encircled Uncle Dario’s head. The kind of smoke of a grand idea of independence catching aflame due to stupid governmental regulations. It seemed that someone—me—needed proof of residency to register a car in Italy.
I stood outside the local public registry office with Donvino on my right and Dario on my left, both sputtering about the laws or so I assumed. I walked away, my shoulders slumped, to the nearest little gelato shop I could find. It was tucked into a corner under a lively rainbow sign that read GELATO ARCOBALENO.
“Rainbow gelato,” Donvino said as he stepped up beside me. Dario arrived, nodded at his nephew, and pushed into the eatery. It was a small place with four tables but about a thousand flavors of gelato. I ordered a four scooper, then found a seat beside the window with a cooler of cold drinks at my back. I dove into the mint chocolate chip scoop first as my mind spun. Dario and Donvino arrived, each taking a seat, and we all ate in frustrated silence. After I had polished off the scoop of mint, the scoop of double mocha, the scoop of caramel gingerbread, the scoop of coffee chocolate chip, and the cone, I’d come to a realization.
“I’m going to have to ask my aunt to sign the papers and put the car in her name.” I sighed as I dabbed at my chin with a stiff yellow napkin. A family of four entered, the two kids chattering away as the parents ordered. How nice that must be to have adults want to put up with your gabbiness long enough to take a walk and get a cold treat. I vaguely recalled Mom taking me to a tiny chocolate shop when we’d been here many years ago. Nothing like that outing was ever recreated by my father. He was far too busy. Fucker. “I hate having to crawl to her for this.”
Donvino reached out to pat my shoulder. I wanted nothing more than to climb into his lap and be held, but that wasn’t about to happen with his uncle sitting at our table. Same old story, it seemed. When Arlo needed to be touched the most, he was always denied.
“Signora is very nice. I’m sure she will be most happy for you to have done this for yourself and the workers,” Donvino kindly said as he gave my neck a friendly squeeze. He was delightfully kind.
“Yes, I’m sure you’re right,” I replied with a forced smile that I wore the whole way back home. Donvino cut the engine on his bike in the street, waited for me to slip off the back, and then gave me a look of such longing that I wanted to weep. “I wish I could kiss you goodbye,” I whispered just as a car rolled past.
“Yes, I wish so too.” He kicked the bike over and off he went with a wobbly wave. Knowing I was going to have to grovel, I blew out a breath and sauntered through the gates, coming up short after a moment when I spied a sleek black Mercedes parked in front of the house. My aunt must be entertaining. An older man, dark-skinned, with a shiny pate and no time for chit-chat, emerged from the villa, greeted me in Italian, and then got in his car and drove off.
Stepping into the cooler interior, I saw Giada coming from the salon.
“Who was that that just left?” I asked her.
“Il medico,” she answered, wiping her hands on her apron nervously. “The doctor. He comes to see your aunt.”
