Read Online Solea by Jean-Claude Izzo, Howard Curtis - Free Book Online Page A

my heart, where right now someone was crying. An eight-year-old boy and his grandfather.
    I took a long swig of Lagavulin. Sonia’s laughter, and then her voice, echoed in my head. Everything fell back into place. Clearly. Her laughter. Her voice. And her words.
    â€œThere’s a place they call the
Eremo dannunziano
. It’s a belvedere where Gabriele d’Annunzio often stayed . . .”
    She’d started talking about Italy. About the Abruzzi, where her family came from. The stretch of coast between Ortona and Vasto which, according to her, “was unique in the world.” Once she started she couldn’t stop, and I’d listened, letting her pleasure flow into me as gladly as the glasses of
pastis
I was knocking back without a thought.
    â€œThe beach where I spent my summers when I was a kid is called Turchino. Turchino, because the water is turquoise. It’s full of shingle and bamboo. You can make little junks out of the leaves, or fishing rods . . .”
    I could see it all. And feel it. The water flowing over my skin. The gentleness of it. And the saltiness. The salty taste of bodies. Yes, I could see it all, so close I could touch it. Like Sonia’s bare shoulder. As round, and as soft to the touch, as a pebble washed smooth by the sea. Sonia.
    â€œThere’s a railway line all the way down to Foggia . . .”
    She gazed fondly into my eyes. As if inviting me to take that train with her, and glide down to the sea. To Turchino.
    â€œLife’s so simple down there, Fabio. The rhythm of the train passing, the sound of the sea, pizza
al taglio
for lunch, and”—she added with a laugh—“
una gerla alla stracciatella per me
toward evening . . .”
    Sonia.
    There was laughter in her voice. Her words were full of the joys of life.
    I hadn’t been back to Italy since I was nine. My father had taken my mother and me to his village. Castel San Giorgio, near Salerno. He’d wanted to see his mother again, one last time. He’d wanted her to see me. I told Sonia about it. I told her how I’d thrown the worst tantrum of my life because I was pissed off eating pasta for lunch and dinner every day.
    She laughed. “That’s what I’d like to do now. Take my son to Italy. To Foggia. The way your father did with you.”
    She lifted her gray-blue eyes to me, slowly. It was like the dawn coming up. She was waiting for my reaction. A son. How could I have forgotten that she’d told me about her son? Enzo. I hadn’t even remembered when the cops had questioned me. What was it I hadn’t wanted to hear when she’d said “my son”?
    I’d never wanted a child. With any woman. I was afraid I wouldn’t know how to be a father. It wasn’t that I couldn’t give love, it was just that I didn’t think I could teach a child trust—trust in the world, in me, in the future. I didn’t see any future for the children of this century. Spending so many years in the police had a lot to do with it. It had distorted my vision of society. I’d seen more kids get into dope and petty crime, then graduate to bigger crimes and end up in jail, than succeed in life. Even those who liked school, who did well at it, eventually came to a dead end. And then they either banged their heads against the wall until they almost died, or they turned around, ready to fight back, to rebel against the injustice that was being done to them, and ended up in the same old cycle of violence, and guns. And jail.
    The only woman I’d have liked to have a child with was Lole. But we’d told each other that we didn’t want children. We were too old, that was our excuse. Often, though, when we were making love, I found myself hoping that she’d stopped taking the pill, without telling me. And that she’d announce one day, with a tender smile, “I’m expecting a baby, Fabio.” A gift, for the two of us. For our