uniform. More prepared this time, she rolls down her window, reaches deftly into her purse, and pulls out a green laminated photo I.D. The official scrutinizes it, then smiles at her flirtatiously and waves us through in a lackadaisical manner.
I wait for Marina to explain why we have been so effortlessly conducted into her country while the rest of the motorists have been detained at checkpoint. But the silence endures. So finally I ask.
“I do this drive so much that they’ve given me a badge. Not for privilege , but rather to just make it simpler when they do these checkpoints. Only because I often go to France on government business.”
I ask what sort and she says, “A cultural emissary of sorts. I am often invited. The French like the fact that I was once a politician.” As though to avoid further discussion of her ambassadorial role, she tells me, “Now, this is the part of the drive, from Ventimiglia to Tuscany, that I detest. Because of people like him.” She gestures at the rearview mirror. I turn around to find that an aggressive motorist has driven up to what seems to be only a few feet of the rear of Marina’s car, insistently flashing his lights. This is typical behavior of drivers who streak along in the left lane and muscle slower motorists to the right. But Marina is already in the right lane, so there’s nowhere she can go. “My God, this is madness! What do you want?” she demands. “Does he want me to drive off the road?” she asks me.
The car finally pulls up alongside us. The long-haired driver peers at us through reflective sunglasses and then races ahead. Out of my window, a sign for Ventimiglia proves that hundreds of kilometers behind us is thecity of Paris, where I’ve just spent a year and a half, and hundreds of kilometers ahead of us in Tuscany is Marina’s famous residence, which is called the Villa Guidi.
Crossing into Liguria, we follow a series of high overpasses and tunnels carved into the mountainside. “You don’t have so many tunnels in America,” Marina remarks to me. “They cost a fortune. That’s why our motorways charge such high tolls.” We descend along the coast, passing Genoa and La Spezia and the Gulf of Venus, where Shelley’s boat went down on the way from Livorno to Lerici. As I begin to think about untimely deaths, I wish that Ed had woken up before his heart attack, that he’d said something to me, given me a few words, however trivial, to hold on to. The last thing he told me before the sedative took hold and induced him to sleep was, “I feel funny, Russell.”
We finally turn inland right before the beach town of Viareggio, where Puccini spent his last days, and soon are heading in the direction of Florence. Partway to that Tuscan city, we quit the
autostrada
and only moments later arrive at a pair of tall iron gates. A long driveway lined with linden trees leads to an enormous villa with ocher-colored walls, a terra-cotta hip roof, and surrounding hedgerows of oleander and hydrangea. “At last!” Marina exclaims, and exits the car to be hysterically greeted by a pack of six dogs.
“Russell was absolutely fine until Italy. Now he sleeps all the time.”
“Doesn’t that make sense?” asks a man. “Think about it. Held at gunpoint, wakes up to find his lover dead of a heart attack.”
“Wasn’t a lover. Really more of a friend.”
“Oh, come on, Marina, you know what I’m saying.”
“I’m merely explaining the facts to you.”
“You’ve made them quite clear. Nevertheless—”
“If he doesn’t get up tomorrow like a normal person, I’m going to yank him out of bed and make him walk with me.”
Their voices fade as their conversation migrates to another part of the villa. Who could this other person be?
What is this fatigue that has endured for these last ten days? I’ve been sleeping in eighteen-hour increments, my sleep fevered with nightmare. The scenes are mostly Parisian, late-night excursions through a city of
I wait for Marina to explain why we have been so effortlessly conducted into her country while the rest of the motorists have been detained at checkpoint. But the silence endures. So finally I ask.
“I do this drive so much that they’ve given me a badge. Not for privilege , but rather to just make it simpler when they do these checkpoints. Only because I often go to France on government business.”
I ask what sort and she says, “A cultural emissary of sorts. I am often invited. The French like the fact that I was once a politician.” As though to avoid further discussion of her ambassadorial role, she tells me, “Now, this is the part of the drive, from Ventimiglia to Tuscany, that I detest. Because of people like him.” She gestures at the rearview mirror. I turn around to find that an aggressive motorist has driven up to what seems to be only a few feet of the rear of Marina’s car, insistently flashing his lights. This is typical behavior of drivers who streak along in the left lane and muscle slower motorists to the right. But Marina is already in the right lane, so there’s nowhere she can go. “My God, this is madness! What do you want?” she demands. “Does he want me to drive off the road?” she asks me.
The car finally pulls up alongside us. The long-haired driver peers at us through reflective sunglasses and then races ahead. Out of my window, a sign for Ventimiglia proves that hundreds of kilometers behind us is thecity of Paris, where I’ve just spent a year and a half, and hundreds of kilometers ahead of us in Tuscany is Marina’s famous residence, which is called the Villa Guidi.
Crossing into Liguria, we follow a series of high overpasses and tunnels carved into the mountainside. “You don’t have so many tunnels in America,” Marina remarks to me. “They cost a fortune. That’s why our motorways charge such high tolls.” We descend along the coast, passing Genoa and La Spezia and the Gulf of Venus, where Shelley’s boat went down on the way from Livorno to Lerici. As I begin to think about untimely deaths, I wish that Ed had woken up before his heart attack, that he’d said something to me, given me a few words, however trivial, to hold on to. The last thing he told me before the sedative took hold and induced him to sleep was, “I feel funny, Russell.”
We finally turn inland right before the beach town of Viareggio, where Puccini spent his last days, and soon are heading in the direction of Florence. Partway to that Tuscan city, we quit the
autostrada
and only moments later arrive at a pair of tall iron gates. A long driveway lined with linden trees leads to an enormous villa with ocher-colored walls, a terra-cotta hip roof, and surrounding hedgerows of oleander and hydrangea. “At last!” Marina exclaims, and exits the car to be hysterically greeted by a pack of six dogs.
“Russell was absolutely fine until Italy. Now he sleeps all the time.”
“Doesn’t that make sense?” asks a man. “Think about it. Held at gunpoint, wakes up to find his lover dead of a heart attack.”
“Wasn’t a lover. Really more of a friend.”
“Oh, come on, Marina, you know what I’m saying.”
“I’m merely explaining the facts to you.”
“You’ve made them quite clear. Nevertheless—”
“If he doesn’t get up tomorrow like a normal person, I’m going to yank him out of bed and make him walk with me.”
Their voices fade as their conversation migrates to another part of the villa. Who could this other person be?
What is this fatigue that has endured for these last ten days? I’ve been sleeping in eighteen-hour increments, my sleep fevered with nightmare. The scenes are mostly Parisian, late-night excursions through a city of
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