It’s only after the second turn he takes way too fast, that it is apparent Giovanni cannot drive. Then he blows right past a stop sign without even slowing down.
“Giovanni, you must stop when you see that sign. Do they not have stop signs in America?” I know that they do because I have seen them, but perhaps he doesn’t realize it’s the same here.
“Master said I only have to stop if there are people around or cars.”
“No, you must stop fully, every time, whether there are others or not. That is the law. It’s to prevent you from being hurt or hurting others in an accident. And,caro, you must stay in your lane.”
“What lane?”
I gesture to it. How can he not know this? “The right side is your lane. You cannot drive in the middle of the road.”
“But there’s no one else coming.”
“Giovanni.”
It is a harrowing journey to say the least, and we arrive back at the villa half an hour later unharmed through my prayers to theMadonnaalone.
“Where did you learn how to drive?” I ask when the car is parked safely back in the garage. Perhaps they have different rules in America.
“Master taught me, here on the island.”
“I can’t believe the Office of Motor Vehicles issued you a license. Did you take the written exam and finish the lessons?”
“What lessons?”
“Master let you drive without a license?”
“No, he bribed someone at the office to give me one.”
I demand to see this license and Giovanni produces it. It is authentic-looking, and I suppose if it was issued by the OMV then itisauthentic, which brings into question all his other paperwork. Was it all procured through bribes? Is he even a real citizen? What sort of obstacles will we face if we choose to travel with his documents?
“Sir, are you mad at me?” Giovanni asks, noting my frustration.
“Yes, I am upset, at you and Valentin both. This is not the way to accomplish things. What if you’d gotten into an accident? What if someone realizes your paperwork is false?”
“Master told me that my documents are good, and he only let me drive on the island, not on the mainland.”
“What if you needed to one day, or wanted to?”
“But I don’t.” I snort at his mulishness and Giovanni says, “You should punish me.”
“Punish you for what,caro?”
“For the sins of my Master.”
He is taking responsibility, in a way. Or he wishes to test my authority. The punishment is clearly something he desires, so perhaps it is time.
“What would your Master do to punish you for something like this?” I ask. I’ve seen some of Valentin’s methods—effective but distressing.
“Well, because I admitted my transgression promptly, he’d probably make me write sentences or stand in the corner or gag me and give me some menial chore to accomplish as a way to reflect on my misbehavior.”
None of those sound terribly appealing to me, except perhaps the last one.
“Come with me. I have an idea.”
Giovanni sitson the fiberglass decking of my boat surrounded by a massive tangle of nylon rope. I try to keep my gear organized, but I am only one man. Now, he is meticulously untangling the knots, bit by bit, while I quiz him on the traffic rules and regulations that I recently made him study.
“Who has right-of-way at an intersection?” I ask, going through an online practice test.
