Read Online A Private Venus by Giorgio Scerbanenco - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Giorgio Scerbanenco
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to go to Florence, but going this way is a bit scary.’
A girl who pretends to be waiting for a bus, next to a parking space, and is actually waiting as patiently as a fisherman for whichever man, young or old, comes to collect his car, as long as he’s alone and makes it clear he doesn’t have any urgent business to attend to, shouldn’t be scared of much, but she seemed genuine enough.
‘It’s the first time someone has ever said they’re scared of me.’ They were almost at the end of the Corso Lodi and he had to make up his mind. He gently stopped the car and with a distracted, elegant gesture, without showing either wallet or money, managed to take a couple of notes and pass theminto the handbag, or wallet, that she was holding on her knees, keeping them clutched in his hand in such a way that the transfer happened without any vulgar banknotes being seen. In many cases, money is a quick-working tranquilliser, an antidote to fears, anxieties, and states of depression. The Davide that had emerged from his subconscious, dripping with instincts, knew that.
‘Let’s go,’ she said, but her voice remained harsh, and even a little bitter now. ‘There are lots of ways to get to Florence, clearly I had to go like this.’
Until they got to the tollbooths on the autostrada he drove slowly, and for another ten kilometres or so after taking out the ticket he kept up the same dull pace, but he was just psyching himself up. She had put her glasses on again and let the curtains of her hair fall, and was intelligent enough not to lean on his shoulder. ‘Go faster, I like it.’
He humoured her, pushing the Giulietta to its limit, the autostrada was fairly clear, but she didn’t see him make even the slightest mistake, or be the slightest bit careless, and despite the figure on the speedometer she didn’t have the slightest feeling that she was at risk.
And he didn’t say a word. She must know men: she didn’t tell him that she really liked driving like this, she didn’t tell him anything about herself or ask any questions about him, in short, she had no desire to make conversation, having understood that he was one of those men—maybe they were the best—who do only one thing at a time. For now he was driving, and only driving. She didn’t like one-man bands, like those performing dogs that played the drum with sticks tiedto their tails, the cymbals with their paws, and bells with their heads. That constant, calm silence was good for Davide, it unblocked him completely, his deepest instincts strained in him like cats closed up in a basket for half a day: hot, aggressive, precise. He wasn’t interested any more in whether or not he broke his record from Milan to Florence and back, as his superego had first suggested, and at the service station in Somaglia he stopped outside a hut festively bedecked with flags.
‘Let’s have a drink.’
Obeying silently, she followed him, they were thirsty and drank a mint cordial, strong and iced.
‘Near here there’s a nice walk by the river.’ He had been here once before, alone, and had realised it was a place that was good for certain things, but he had never thought he’d one day bring a girl here. And yet here he was, with a girl.
Leaving the car in front of the cheerful little hut, they left the area of the service station. There was a road that led to the river, then there was a path that went alongside the river, and then there were tracks that disappeared amid tall bushes and secluded undergrowth. As they walked along the river, she took off her glasses and wiped the lipstick from her lips with a Kleenex, rolled up the little square of soft tissue and threw it in the water: she followed it with her eyes as it floated on the current until he took her by the arm and led her into the bushes.
Being perhaps the more practical of the two, she was the one who chose the place, squatting on the ground in the most sheltered spot. He stood there, smoking a
A girl who pretends to be waiting for a bus, next to a parking space, and is actually waiting as patiently as a fisherman for whichever man, young or old, comes to collect his car, as long as he’s alone and makes it clear he doesn’t have any urgent business to attend to, shouldn’t be scared of much, but she seemed genuine enough.
‘It’s the first time someone has ever said they’re scared of me.’ They were almost at the end of the Corso Lodi and he had to make up his mind. He gently stopped the car and with a distracted, elegant gesture, without showing either wallet or money, managed to take a couple of notes and pass theminto the handbag, or wallet, that she was holding on her knees, keeping them clutched in his hand in such a way that the transfer happened without any vulgar banknotes being seen. In many cases, money is a quick-working tranquilliser, an antidote to fears, anxieties, and states of depression. The Davide that had emerged from his subconscious, dripping with instincts, knew that.
‘Let’s go,’ she said, but her voice remained harsh, and even a little bitter now. ‘There are lots of ways to get to Florence, clearly I had to go like this.’
Until they got to the tollbooths on the autostrada he drove slowly, and for another ten kilometres or so after taking out the ticket he kept up the same dull pace, but he was just psyching himself up. She had put her glasses on again and let the curtains of her hair fall, and was intelligent enough not to lean on his shoulder. ‘Go faster, I like it.’
He humoured her, pushing the Giulietta to its limit, the autostrada was fairly clear, but she didn’t see him make even the slightest mistake, or be the slightest bit careless, and despite the figure on the speedometer she didn’t have the slightest feeling that she was at risk.
And he didn’t say a word. She must know men: she didn’t tell him that she really liked driving like this, she didn’t tell him anything about herself or ask any questions about him, in short, she had no desire to make conversation, having understood that he was one of those men—maybe they were the best—who do only one thing at a time. For now he was driving, and only driving. She didn’t like one-man bands, like those performing dogs that played the drum with sticks tiedto their tails, the cymbals with their paws, and bells with their heads. That constant, calm silence was good for Davide, it unblocked him completely, his deepest instincts strained in him like cats closed up in a basket for half a day: hot, aggressive, precise. He wasn’t interested any more in whether or not he broke his record from Milan to Florence and back, as his superego had first suggested, and at the service station in Somaglia he stopped outside a hut festively bedecked with flags.
‘Let’s have a drink.’
Obeying silently, she followed him, they were thirsty and drank a mint cordial, strong and iced.
‘Near here there’s a nice walk by the river.’ He had been here once before, alone, and had realised it was a place that was good for certain things, but he had never thought he’d one day bring a girl here. And yet here he was, with a girl.
Leaving the car in front of the cheerful little hut, they left the area of the service station. There was a road that led to the river, then there was a path that went alongside the river, and then there were tracks that disappeared amid tall bushes and secluded undergrowth. As they walked along the river, she took off her glasses and wiped the lipstick from her lips with a Kleenex, rolled up the little square of soft tissue and threw it in the water: she followed it with her eyes as it floated on the current until he took her by the arm and led her into the bushes.
Being perhaps the more practical of the two, she was the one who chose the place, squatting on the ground in the most sheltered spot. He stood there, smoking a
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