Rick heard a car door slam, and turned to watch a young woman start his Fiat, shift it quickly into reverse, and thrust it perfectly into the parking space. One easy effort, with no bumps or scrapes, second or third tries. It seemed physically impossible. The Fiat came to rest with twelve inches between it and the car in front, and the same for the car in the rear.
The BMW roared by, as did the other cars. When they passed, the Fiat’s driver’s door opened, and the young woman jumped out — open-toe pumps, really nice legs — and began walking away. Rick watched for a second, his heart still laboring from the encounter, his blood pumping, his fists clenched.
“Hey!” Rick yelled.
She did not flinch, did not hesitate.
“Hey! Thanks!”
She kept walking, fading into the night. Rick watched her without moving, mesmerized by the miracle at hand. There was something familiar about her figure, her elegance, her hair, and then it hit him. “Gabriella!” he yelled. What was there to lose? If it wasn’t her, then she wouldn’t stop, would she?
But she stopped.
He walked toward her and they met under a streetlamp. He wasn’t sure what to say, so he started to say something stupid like “Grazie.” But she said, “Who are you?”
English. Nice English. “My name is Rick. I’m American. Thanks for, uh, that.” He was pointing awkwardly in the general direction of his car. Her eyes were large and soft and still sad.
“How do you know my name?” she asked.
“I saw you onstage last night. You were magnificent.”
A moment of surprise, then a smile. The smile was the clincher — perfect teeth, dimples, and her eyes sparkled. “Thank you.”
But he had the impression she did not smile often.
“Anyway, I just wanted to say, uh, hello.”
“Hello.”
“You live around here?” he asked.
“I’m close.”
“Got time for a drink?”
Another smile. “Sure.”
The pub was owned by a man from Wales, and it attracted Anglos who ventured into Parma. Fortunately, it was Monday and the place was quiet. They found a table near the front window. Rick ordered a beer and Gabriella ordered a Campari and ice, a drink he had never heard of.
“Your English is beautiful,” he said. At that moment, everything about her was beautiful.
“I lived in London for six years, after university,” she said. He guessed she was about twenty-five, but perhaps she was closer to thirty.
“What were you doing in London?”
“I studied at the London College of Music, then I worked with the Royal Opera.”
“Are you from Parma?”
“No. Florence. And you, Mr. ...”
“Dockery. It’s an Irish name.”
“Are you from Parma?”
They both laughed to relieve some tension. “No, I grew up in Iowa, in the Midwest. Have you been to the U.S.?”
“Twice, on tour. I’ve seen most of the major cities.”
“So have I. A little tour of my own.”
Rick had deliberately picked a round table that was small. They were sitting close together, drinks in front of them, knees not too far apart, both working hard to appear relaxed.
“What kind of tour?”
“I play professional football. My career is not working out so well, and now I’m in Parma this season, playing for the Panthers.” He had a hunch that her career might be a bit off track, too, so he felt comfortable being completely honest. Her eyes encouraged honesty.
“The Panthers?”
“Yes, there is a professional football league here in Italy. Few people know about it, mainly teams here in the North — Bologna, Milan, Bergamo, a few others.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“American football is not very popular here. As you know, this is soccer country.”
“Oh yes.” She seemed less than enthused about soccer. She sipped the reddish liquid in her glass. “How long have you been here?”
“Three weeks. And you?”
“Since December. The season ends in a week, and I’ll go back to Florence.” She looked away sadly, as if Florence was not where she wanted to be. Rick sipped his beer and looked blankly at an old dartboard on the wall.
“I saw you at dinner tonight,” he said. “At Il Tribunale. You were with someone.”
A quick fake grin, then, “Yes, that’s Carletto, my boyfriend.”
Another pause as Rick decided not to pursue this. If she wanted to talk about her boyfriend, it was up to her.
“He lives in Florence, too,” she said. “We’ve been together for seven years.”
“That’s a long time.”
“Yes. Do you have someone?”
“No. I’ve never had a serious girlfriend. Lots of girls, but nothing serious.”
“Why not?”
“Hard to say. I’ve enjoyed being a bachelor. It’s a natural when you’re a professional athlete.”
“Where did you learn to drive?” she blurted, and they laughed.
“I’ve never had a car with a clutch,” he said. “Evidently you have.”
“Driving is different here, so is parking.”
“You are superb at parking and singing.”
“Thank you.” A beautiful smile, a pause, a sip from the glass. “You’re an opera fan?”
I am now, Rick almost said. “Last night was my first, and I enjoyed it, especially when you were onstage, which wasn’t often enough.”
“You must come again.”
“When?”
“We perform Wednesday, and then Sunday is our last of the season.”
“We play in Milan on Sunday.”
“I can get you a ticket for Wednesday.”
“It’s a deal.”
The pub closed at 2:00 a.m. Rick offered to walk her home, and she easily agreed. Her hotel suite was furnished by the opera company. It was near the river, a few blocks from the Teatro Regio.
They said good night with a nod, a smile, a promise to meet the next day.
They met for lunch, and over large salads and crepes they talked for two hours. Her schedule was not that different from his — a long night’s sleep, coffee and breakfast late in the morning, an hour or two at the gym, then an hour or two of work. When they were not performing, the cast was expected to gather and grind through another practice. Same as football. Rick got the clear impression that a struggling soprano earned more than a struggling itinerant quarterback, but not by much.
Carletto was never mentioned.
They talked about their careers. She had begun singing as a young teenager in Florence, where her mother still lived. Her father was dead. At seventeen, she began winning awards and receiving auditions. Her voice developed early, and there were big dreams. She worked hard in London and won role after role, but then nature set in, genetics became a factor, and she was struggling with the realization that her career — her voice — had reached its pinnacle.
Rick had been booed so many times it didn’t faze him. But to get booed on an opera stage seemed unusually cruel. He wanted an explanation, but he did not bring up the issue. Instead, he asked questions about Otello. If he was going to watch it again the following night, he wanted to understand everything. Otello was dissected for a long time as the lunch went on. There was no hurry.
After coffee, they went for a walk and found a gelato stand. When they finally said good-bye, Rick went straight to the gym, where he sweated like a madman for two hours and thought of nothing but Gabriella.
Chapter 15
Due to a rugby conflict, Wednesday’s practice began at 6:00 p.m, and was much worse than Monday’s. In a cold, light rain the Panthers slogged through thirty minutes of uninspired calisthenics and sprints, and when they were over, it was too wet for anything else. The team hurried back to the locker room, where Alex arranged the video and Coach Russo tried to get serious about the Milan Rhinos, an expansion team that had played the year before in the B division. For this reason alone, the Panthers had no trouble dismissing them as a viable opponent. There were jokes and cheap shots and plenty of laughs as Sam rolled the video. Finally, he switched discs and went back to their game against Naples. He began with a sequence of missed blocks by the offensive line, and before long Nino was bickering with Franco. Paolo, the Texas Aggie and left tackle, took offense at something said by Silvio, a linebacker, and the mood turned nasty. The cheap shots grew more pointed and spread around the locker room. The squabbling took on sharper tones. Alex, handling the Italian now, offered scathing critiques of just about everyone in a black jersey.