Project MUSE - Wolf's Mouth
Chapter 26
| 235 26. S aturday afternoon Valeria was waiting outside my hotel room when I returned from the swimming pool. She carried a folded umbrella and was wearing a raincoat, jeans, and boots that went almost to her knees. “You look more relaxed,” I said. “I’ve always loved European women’s love of boots.” “You look quite relaxed yourself,” she said as I unlocked the door with my key card. “The bathrobe is compliments of the hotel,” I whispered. “I’m considering stealing it.” “Bored?” “Why would you say that? I’ve gone swimming twice. I’ve talked to my wife on the phone twice. I watched one football match. If you’re interested, Inter beat Lazio, two-nil.” “I thought you’d like to get out for a bit.” “Give me half a minute,” I said, stepping into the bathroom. She went into the room and sat in the chair by the window, while I left the door slightly ajar as I dressed. I was about to ask where are we were going, but then realized she wouldn’t give me a straight answer. 236 | John Smolens Her gray Audi seemed to move silently through the streets of Berlin, while Mozart’s Requiem played from speakers all around us. “I’m surprised you’re not playing Verdi,” I said. “How did you know I love Mozart, too?” She only smiled, without taking her eyes off the road. “Your car isn’t bugged?” “I don’t think so.” “Just us?” Still she wouldn’t look at me. “Where are we going?” “You had a tough day yesterday, so I want to take you someplace I think you’ll like. Besides, I wanted you all to myself for a while.” “Giannopoulos will be jealous.” “He’ll join us later.” “Pomeroy?” She shook her head. “I’m feeling better already.” And she laughed. When we were on the autobahn leaving the city, I said, “Did you know that I’m a distant relative of Giuseppe Verdi? And that when I was a boy, there was a fleeting moment when I had dreams of being the second great Verdi composer? But I proved to be a ham-fisted pianist and I had no gift for composition. In my teens I wasn’t a bad midfielder, though. That was several lives ago. Then there was a war, and I was captured, brought to America, and it has gone on and on until right now, sitting in this car.” I stared at her, but she wouldn’t take her eyes off the road. “You can’t tell me everything. I understand that.” She looked at me then, her eyes apologetic, even sad. ■ ■ ■ Soon we were driving through rolling farmland. Valeria shifted expertly through the curves in the narrow road, putting the car through a healthy and necessary exercise. After an hour we entered hill country, and the road climbed to a castle overlooking a vast plain. We toured the castle, reading about battles and sieges, some of which dated back to the twelfth century. Valeria talked about her family, how they had been Austrian until after World War I, when the borders were redrawn and Alto-Adige became part of Italy. She talked about the divided sense of loyalty in her family, how her grandfather fought for the partisans, while some of his brothers fought in Mussolini’s army. The castle was magnificently eroded by time, and when we encountered steep cobblestoned paths, she would take my arm as if she was the one in need of assistance. Wolf 's Mouth | 237 In the early evening, we drove into the village below the castle. Valeria knew of a trattoria there, run by a family from Tolentino that had emigrated north generations earlier, and I realized that this was the true purpose of our road trip. Giannopoulos was waiting for us at a table in back. Dinner lasted more than three hours, ending with Varnelli mistrà, a liqueur that is difficult to find outside the Le Marche region. When we were finished, Valeria went to get the car, which was parked on a side street across the plaza. Giannopoulos was staring at his glass of mistrà. “It’s popular in the region I come from,” I said. “This is why Valeria brought me all the way out here, for this digestivo.” Giannopoulos continued to stare at his glass. “If you can’t take it straight,” I said, “pour it in your coffee.” He did so, and...
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