It’s funny, I didn’t even know who thetheywas we were talking about. I probably assumed the Carabinieri, although I now realize the situation was much more complicated. During Italy’s “Years of Lead,” it was not uncommon for neofascist terrorist organizations to plant bombs in public places, then use left-wing terrorist groups like the Red Brigades as scapegoats. What’s worse is that the explosives in the bombs could often be traced back to the U.S. government, because somewhere along the way the CIA had decided that giving C-4 out to neofascists wasn’t much different from making campaign contributions to the DC. The goal, like I’ve said, was keeping the communists out of power through any means necessary.
It’s probably good I didn’t know all this at the time. If I had, I might have packed my bags. All I really knew, standing there in the middle of the Moriaris’ living room, was that Francesca and Bianca were hurting and that nothing I could say would make them feel any better. So I kept quiet and we listened to the rest of the radio program.
Eventually, Francesca introduced me to Bianca, but there was a limit to what we could say to each other, since she didn’t speak English and my Italian wasn’t much better. I tried to throw a couple of compliments Francesca’s way, telling Bianca that her mother was veryintelligenteand also verysimpatica, but none of us was in the mood to muddle our way through a bad conversation, so we rescheduled the lesson, and I bade them goodbye.
64.
A WEEK LATER,we got the good news that Paul’s Chevelle had arrived in Olbia and was ready to be picked up. Our instructions were to take the ferry to Palau, a bus to Olbia, and a taxi to the port office, where—God willing—the car would be waiting for us, no worse for wear. We were so desperate to get behind the wheel, to be able to go where we wanted, that if the NSO’s Motor Vehicles Office had told us we needed to skip rope all the way to the port office, we would have done so, gladly.
Thankfully, it didn’t come to that. When Bobby heard that Paul was planning to take Friday afternoon off to go pick up the car, he offered to give him a ride—on the condition that they stop in Porto Cervo on the way home to play a round of golf at the Cervo Golf and Tennis Club, which accepted vouchers they could buy for pennies on the dollar at the NSO Tour Office.
Porto Cervo sounded fun and I asked if I could tag along, but Paul convinced me I’d be bored. “Do you know how long it takes to play eighteen holes?” he asked as he shined his shoes that morning.
Thankfully, Laura called me at the hotel, soon after Paul’s departure, and said, with no preamble, “Let’s go get drunk.”
So, that’s what we did.
We bounced around to a few different places, but ended the night at Club 56, a tiny cavern of a bar that sat in the shadow of the church. “This might be the last time I do this,” said Laura as she held a glass of white wine up to the light.
“Why?” I asked.
“Don’t tell Bobby I told you, but he said we can try.”
I was a little slow on the uptake, probably on account of all the wine. “For what?”
“A baby, dummy.”
“Oh,” I said, “that’s great! Congratulazioni!”
She gave me a wide grin, and we clinked glasses, but she didn’t drink from hers, just put it back down on the table.
“Wait, you’re not pregnant now, are you?” I was confused, since she’d been drinking like a fish all night.
“No, no,” said Laura. “Not yet. We’re just working on it.” She stifled a nervous laugh. Laura was twenty-six that spring, only two years older than I was, but she seemed so much wiser and more experienced—on every front.
“Did it take you long to get pregnant… before?” I asked.
“About six months.”
“That seems like a lot.”
“It felt like it. At the time. Though, in hindsight, it wasn’t that bad.”
“Just a lot of sex, I guess?”
Laura laughed at that, maybe surprised I’d said the wordsexaloud. “Yeah, but it’s funny how quickly it can begin to feel like a chore.”
I must have nodded in agreement or understanding or something, because she immediately narrowed her eyes at me. “What would you know about sex being a chore? You’ve been married for two seconds.”
I pretended to be offended. “Twomonths, actually.”
She rolled her eyes. “Same thing.”
I took a sip of wine.
“You guys are probably having sex constantly,” she said, in a too-loud voice.
“Shhh,” I whispered, looking around at the other—mostly empty—tables.
