"You were at opera?" Pietro asked, with admiration. "Sure, Otello. It was spectacular. That lady over there played the role of Desdemona. Her name is Gabriella Ballini." Ivana understood enough of this to glance a second time. She then spoke to her husband, who did a quick translation. "Yes, that's her." Pietro was very proud of his quarterback. "Is she famous?" Rick asked. "Not really," Pietro said. "She's a soprano, good but not great." He then ran this by his wife, who added a few comments. Pietro translated: "Ivana says she's having a rough time." Small salads with tomatoes arrived, and the conversation returned to football and playing in America. Rick managed to contribute while keeping an eye on Gabriella. He did not see a wedding band or engagement ring. She did not seem to enjoy the company of her date, but they knew each other very well because the conversation was serious. They never touched--in fact things were rather frosty.
Halfway through a monstrous plate of fettuccini and mushrooms, Rick saw a tear drop from Gabriella's left eye and run down her cheek. Her companion didn't wipe it for her; he seemed not to care. She barely touched her food.
Poor Gabriella. Her life was certainly a mess. On Sunday night she gets booed by the beasts at Teatro Regio, and tonight she's having an ugly spat with her man. Rick couldn't keep his eyes away from her.
He was learning. The best parking places opened up between 5:00 and 7:00 p.m., when those who worked in the center of the city left for home. Rick often drove the streets in the early evenings, waiting to pounce on a fresh opening. Parking was a rough sport, and he was very close to either buying or leasing a scooter. After 10:00 p.m., it was almost impossible to find a space anywhere near his apartment, and it was not unusual to park a dozen blocks away. Though towing was rare, it did happen. Judge Franco and Signor Bruncardo could pull strings, but Rick preferred to avoid the hassle. After practice Monday, he had been forced to park north of the center, a good fifteen minutes by foot from his apartment. And he'd parked in a restricted space reserved for deliveries. After dinner at II Tribunale, he hustled back to the Fiat, found it safe and un-towed, and began the frustrating task of finding a spot closer to home. It was almost midnight when he crossed Piazza Garibaldi and began prowling for a gap between two cars. Nothing. The pasta was settling in, as was the wine. A long night's sleep wasn't far away. He cruised up and down the narrow streets, all of which were lined with tiny cars parked bumper to bumper. Near Piazza Santafiora, he found an ancient passageway he had not seen before. There was an opening to his right, a very tight squeeze, but why not? He pulled even with the parked car in front, and noticed a couple of pedestrians hurrying along the sidewalk. He shifted into reverse, released the clutch, turned hard to the right, and sort of staggered back into the space, hitting the curb with the right rear wheel. It was a lousy miss, another effort was required. He saw headlights approaching but did not worry. The Italians, especially those who lived in the center, were remarkably patient. Parking was a chore for all of them.
As Rick pulled back into the street, he had the quick thought of moving on. The space was very tight, and it could take some time and effort to maneuver into it. He'd try once more. Shifting and turning and trying to ignore the headlights that were now very close behind him, he somehow allowed his foot to slip off the clutch. The car lunged, then died. The other driver then sat on the horn, a very loud shrill horn from under the hood of a shiny burgundy BMW. A tough guy's car. A man in a hurry. A bully unafraid to hide behind locked doors and honk at someone struggling. Rick froze, and for a split second thought again about racing off to another street. Then something snapped. He yanked open his door, flipped the bird at the BMW, and started for it. The horn continued. Rick walked to the driver's window, yelling something about getting out. The horn continued. Behind the wheel was a forty-year-old asshole in a dark suit with a dark overcoat and dark leather driving gloves. He would not look at Rick, but chose instead to press the horn and stare straight ahead. "Get out of the car!" Rick yelled. The horn continued. Now there was another car behind the BMW, and another was ap proaching. There was no way around the Fiat, and its driver wasn't ready to drive. The horn continued.
"Get out of the car!" Rick yelled again. He thought of Judge Franco. God bless him. The car behind the BMW began honking, too, and for good measure Rick flipped the bird in its direction, too. How, exactly, was this going to end?
The driver of the second car, a woman, rolled down her window and yelled something unpleasant. Rick yelled back. More horns, more yelling, more cars approaching on a street that had been completely silent one minute earlier. 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."