Later he learned that Sly and Trey had been driven away by a drunk uncle who couldn’t find Parma.
This was Pietro’s dinner. He had explained that he and Ivana were waiting on a newer, larger apartment, and the one they were presently in was simply not suitable for entertaining. He apologized, but he was also quite fond of Il Tribunale, his favorite restaurant in Parma. He worked for a company that sold fertilizer and seeds, and his boss wanted him to expand their business into Germany and France. Thus, he was studying English with a passion and practiced on Rick every day.
Ivana was not studying English, had never studied it, and showed no interest in learning it now. She was rather plain, and plump, but then she was expecting. She smiled a lot and whispered when necessary to her husband.
After ten minutes, Sly and Trey strolled in and collected a few of the customary second looks from the other diners. It was still unusual to see black faces in Parma. They settled around the tiny table and listened as Pietro practiced his English. A thick wedge of parmigiano arrived, just to munch on while food was contemplated, and soon there were platters of antipasti. They ordered baked lasagna, ravioli stuffed with herbs and squash, ravioli smothered in a cream sauce, fettuccini with mushrooms, fettuccini with a rabbit sauce, and anolini.
After a glass of red wine, Rick glanced around the small dining room, and his eyes locked onto a beautiful young lady sitting about twenty feet away. She was at a table with a well-dressed young man, and whatever they were discussing was not pleasant. Like most Italian women, she was a brunette, though, as Sly had explained several times, there was no shortage of blondes in northern Italy. Her dark eyes were beautiful, and although they radiated mischief, they were, at that moment, not at all happy. She was thin and petite, fashionably dressed, and...
“What are you looking at?” Sly asked.
“That girl over there,” Rick said before he could stop himself.
All five at their table turned for a look, but the young lady did not acknowledge them. She was deep in a troubled conversation with her man.
“I’ve seen her before,” Rick said.
“Where?” Trey asked.
“At the opera, last night.”
“You went to the opera?” Sly asked, ready to pounce.
“Of course I went to the opera. Didn’t see you there.”
“You were at opera?” Pietro asked, with admiration.
“Sure, Otello. It was spectacular. That lady over there played the role of Desdemona. Her name is Gabriella Ballini.”
Ivana understood enough of this to glance a second time. She then spoke to her husband, who did a quick translation. “Yes, that’s her.” Pietro was very proud of his quarterback.
“Is she famous?” Rick asked.
“Not really,” Pietro said. “She’s a soprano, good but not great.” He then ran this by his wife, who added a few comments. Pietro translated: “Ivana says she’s having a rough time.”
Small salads with tomatoes arrived, and the conversation returned to football and playing in America. Rick managed to contribute while keeping an eye on Gabriella. He did not see a wedding band or engagement ring. She did not seem to enjoy the company of her date, but they knew each other very well because the conversation was serious. They never touched — in fact things were rather frosty.
Halfway through a monstrous plate of fettuccini and mushrooms, Rick saw a tear drop from Gabriella’s left eye and run down her cheek. Her companion didn’t wipe it for her; he seemed not to care. She barely touched her food.
Poor Gabriella. Her life was certainly a mess. On Sunday night she gets booed by the beasts at Teatro Regio, and tonight she’s having an ugly spat with her man.
Rick couldn’t keep his eyes away from her.
He was learning. The best parking places opened up between 5:00 and 7:00 p.m., when those who worked in the center of the city left for home. Rick often drove the streets in the early evenings, waiting to pounce on a fresh opening. Parking was a rough sport, and he was very close to either buying or leasing a scooter.
After 10:00 p.m., it was almost impossible to find a space anywhere near his apartment, and it was not unusual to park a dozen blocks away.
Though towing was rare, it did happen. Judge Franco and Signor Bruncardo could pull strings, but Rick preferred to avoid the hassle. After practice Monday, he had been forced to park north of the center, a good fifteen minutes by foot from his apartment. And he’d parked in a restricted space reserved for deliveries. After dinner at Il Tribunale, he hustled back to the Fiat, found it safe and un-towed, and began the frustrating task of finding a spot closer to home.
It was almost midnight when he crossed Piazza Garibaldi and began prowling for a gap between two cars. Nothing. The pasta was settling in, as was the wine. A long night’s sleep wasn’t far away. He cruised up and down the narrow streets, all of which were lined with tiny cars parked bumper to bumper. Near Piazza Santafiora, he found an ancient passageway he had not seen before. There was an opening to his right, a very tight squeeze, but why not? He pulled even with the parked car in front, and noticed a couple of pedestrians hurrying along the sidewalk. He shifted into reverse, released the clutch, turned hard to the right, and sort of staggered back into the space, hitting the curb with the right rear wheel. It was a lousy miss, another effort was required. He saw headlights approaching but did not worry. The Italians, especially those who lived in the center, were remarkably patient. Parking was a chore for all of them.
As Rick pulled back into the street, he had the quick thought of moving on. The space was very tight, and it could take some time and effort to maneuver into it. He’d try once more. Shifting and turning and trying to ignore the headlights that were now very close behind him, he somehow allowed his foot to slip off the clutch. The car lunged, then died. The other driver then sat on the horn, a very loud shrill horn from under the hood of a shiny burgundy BMW. A tough guy’s car. A man in a hurry. A bully unafraid to hide behind locked doors and honk at someone struggling. Rick froze, and for a split second thought again about racing off to another street. Then something snapped. He yanked open his door, flipped the bird at the BMW, and started for it. The horn continued. Rick walked to the driver’s window, yelling something about getting out. The horn continued. Behind the wheel was a forty-year-old asshole in a dark suit with a dark overcoat and dark leather driving gloves. He would not look at Rick, but chose instead to press the horn and stare straight ahead.
“Get out of the car!” Rick yelled. The horn continued. Now there was another car behind the BMW, and another was approaching. There was no way around the Fiat, and its driver wasn’t ready to drive. The horn continued.
“Get out of the car!” Rick yelled again. He thought of Judge Franco. God bless him.
The car behind the BMW began honking, too, and for good measure Rick flipped the bird in its direction, too.
How, exactly, was this going to end?
The driver of the second car, a woman, rolled down her window and yelled something unpleasant. Rick yelled back. More horns, more yelling, more cars approaching on a street that had been completely silent one minute earlier.