Dutch on the head. He catches it, smiles, then heads it back into the game.
“Signor!” In a stream of Italian, one of the teenagers invites him to join in. Dutch pauses for a moment, then says to me, “Two minutes.”
As he joins the game, he instantly becomes utterly absorbed in it, and I watch, fascinated by seeing him in a different setting.
He seems to understand what the teenagers are yelling, even though they’re speaking Italian. (I guess they’re all communicating in the international language of “football.”) When one of the players slams into him with an aggressive tackle, Dutch brushes off his apology with an easygoing nod. He has a natural authority, too, I notice. The kids are deferring to him, even while they’re challenging him. Everything is another clue to who he is. Everything is another insight.
At that moment Dutch glances over at me and says, “I have to go now, guys, thanks for the game.”
The teenagers start exhorting him to stay (even I can translate that), but Dutch lifts a hand in smiling farewell and comes to rejoin me. “Well played!” I say, whereupon he laughs, takes my hand, and we turn our steps toward the car.
As we drive away with the evening sun still baking through the windscreen, I look back, trying to imprint this precious place on my memory, until we’ve turned the corner and are speeding along a main road.
“I wish we could have brought the pebble tower with us,” I say wistfully, and Dutch laughs again.
“I’m serious!” I say. “It would have been an amazing souvenir of the holiday.”
“You would have carried those eleven heavy stones back to the car?”
“Yes.”
“And all the way back home on the plane?”
“Of course!”
“And how would you have remembered what order they were piled up in?”
I pause, because I hadn’t quite thought that through. “I would have had a system,” I say at last with dignity. “And then every time I’d seen the pebbles back at home, I would have remembered—”
I break off abruptly, because if I’m not careful, I’ll say too much. I’ll open my heart too wide; I’ll scare him off.
I would have remembered the most amazing man I’ve ever met.
I would have remembered the most perfect day of my life.
I would have remembered heaven.
“It would have been nice,” I say at last, in lighter tones. “That’s all.”
* * *
—
As we arrive back in town, I still feel heady, as though I’m in a dream. A blue-skied, filmlike dream, spiked with adrenaline and lust and sunshine. I’m lolling against the hot plastic seat of the car, sipping an ice-cold Orangina we picked up en route. My hair is mussed up, my skin is salty, and I can still feel the imprint of Dutch’s mouth on mine.
I know there’s a delicious free supper waiting for us at the monastery, but when Dutch says, “Shall we grab some pizza?” I nod. I don’t want to share him with anyone. I don’t want to have to explain anything or make small talk. Farida is right, it distracts from the main event, which right now is Dutch.
Dutch parks the car in a deserted quarter of the town, with shadowed squares and stark streets lined with studded wooden doors.
“Found a pizza vendor yesterday,” he tells me as he leads me along. “It’s not a restaurant, it’s just a guy in a booth….Is that OK?”
“Great. Perfect!” I squeeze his hand and we round the corner into a smaller backstreet, even less well lit.
We take a few steps along the street. Ten, maybe. And then, in an instant, everything changes. From nowhere, two teenagers appear in our path. Skinny and tanned, like the guys Dutch was playing football with, but not like them, because they’re sullen and pushing at Dutch and saying aggressive things in Italian. Are they drunk? High? What do they want?
I’m trying to rationalize what I’m seeing, so my brain takes forever to realize the truth—this is a situation. An actual situation. In the space of three seconds, my heart goes from calm to pumping in fright. Dutch is trying to lead me past the boys; he’s trying to be amicable, but they won’t— They’re angry— Why? I can’t even— What—
And now—no, no, please, God, no—one of them has reached into his jacket and I see the heart-stopping metal flash of a knife.
Time stands still. A knife. A knife. We’re going to be stabbed, right here, right now, in this backstreet, and I can’t even move. I can’t