Giorgio Scerbanenco - A Private Venus

But that morning none of the willing ladies standing in the avenue managed to intercept the Giulietta: the fear was stronger, and Davide headed towards the centre, and drove for a long time, feeling quite sad, through the Foro Bonaparte, the Via Dante, the Via Orefici, the Piazza del Duomo, the Corso Vittorio, San Babila, the Corso di Porta Venezia, having no other plan, beyond that failed one, then returned to the Via Palestro, reached the Piazza Cavour and decided to go to the Alemagna in the Via Manzoni to eat something. One instinct having failed him, the instinct for food had returned even more strongly.

He got to the Via dei Giardini and had no difficulty finding somewhere to park the Giulietta because during those scorching August days the metropolis was considered uninhabitable by a large number of its citizens, who, for some reason, found it perfectly habitable in fog, smog, and snow. Even at the Alemagna, he had the place-the bar counter a few dozen metres long for the drinks, a counter a dozen metres long with sandwiches of egg, salmon, caviar, the two counters of pastries and ice cream in quantities reminiscent of Versailles and the Tuileries-almost completely to himself, apart from two other customers who floated like him in the mountain-cold yet unrefreshing air conditioning.

He ate three substantial sandwiches and drank a beer, without daring to look too closely at the five assistants and two cashiers, all women, just as he never looked too closely at anyone, only at inanimate things, provided they weren’t dolls or toy dogs with eyes that frightened him as much as human eyes frightened him. However, he did spend some time looking at the assistant on the pastry counter, a specialist in pralines who was somewhat behind with the fashion, with her bouffant hairstyle: the one she wore that day was not the most bouffant, the previous week he had seen one even more bouffant, and the size of that hair suddenly gave him the urge to go back to the park and this time stop. But it was only a sudden whim, the various hidden censors inside him blocked that resurgence of passion and suggested something more spiritual: going to Florence and back, along the Autostrada del Sole, trying to beat his own record of the month before, which was already a very short time. He would eat in Florence and get back to Milan in time for an aperitif. He liked the idea and immediately left the Alemagna.

In the Via dei Giardini, the Giulietta, improbably, was the only car parked in a stretch of about twenty metres near the bus stop. He paid the parking fee to the man in the peaked cap, who immediately walked back into the shade, and he was about to squeeze himself back into his car when he heard that voice.

‘Excuse me.’

He turned. A girl in a sky-blue suit, with large, perfectly round dark glasses, was smiling at him, but with a hint of anxiety about her mouth, which apart from her small nose, was the only part of her face that was visible, covered as it was by those large glasses and by her brown hair that descended over her face like two half-closed curtains.

‘Excuse me, signore, I’ve been waiting for a bus for half an hour, I have an important appointment and I’m already late-could you possibly give me a lift to Porta Romana?’

Davide Auseri nodded and opened the door for her. She got in and sat down composedly, placing on her knees a light brown leather handbag which looked more like a large man’s wallet, and he set off.

‘What street exactly?’ he asked.

‘Oh, right at the end, if you’d be so kind.’

‘Of course, I was going that way myself.’

‘I’m so pleased, then I won’t be making you waste too much of your time.’

His guest’s knees were not completely uncovered, but they were visible and he could look at them as he drove.

‘I know it was shameless of me, but you can never find a taxi when you need one.’

Maybe it was her voice that put him on the right track, but not only the voice. He was a solitary man, and solitary men think a lot. Above all, even though he was no expert, he had the impression that the bus that went through the Via dei Giardini didn’t go to Porta Romana. And right next to the bus stop there was a taxi stand, and he had seen a long line of them. All the traffic lights in the centre had been on his side, and now he was in the Piazza Missori. The closeness of the girl and the sight of those knees, not to mention the heat, must have made his censors give up the ghost.

‘Do you like travelling by car?’ he asked her.

‘Very much, with a good driver.’ Her voice continued to change, its softness had turned inviting.

‘I’m going to Florence, along the autostrada. We can be back by six this evening, seven at the latest.’

‘Florence is a bit far.’ The softness of her voice had diminished a little, but she made no mention of the important appointment she was supposed to have had.

‘We’ll be back before dinner,’ he said. All his censors had vanished by now, and the real Davide Auseri emerged from the depths of his subconscious.

Her voice turned a little harsh. ‘I wouldn’t like to be dumped in the middle of the road.’

‘I don’t do things like that.’ His voice, too, had turned harsh, it even slightly resembled his father’s voice.

The girl took off her glasses and threw back her hair, her eyes were a little tired and a bit afraid, but her expression was sweet, almost innocent, and she said innocently, ‘I’ve always wanted to go to Florence, but going this way is a bit scary.’

A girl who pretends to be waiting for a bus, next to a parking space, and is actually waiting as patiently as a fisherman for whichever man, young or old, comes to collect his car, as long as he’s alone and makes it clear he doesn’t have any urgent business to attend to, shouldn’t be scared of much, but she seemed genuine enough.

‘It’s the first time someone has ever said they’re scared of me.’ They were almost at the end of the Corso Lodi and he had to make up his mind. He gently stopped the car and with a distracted, elegant gesture, without showing either wallet or money, managed to take a couple of notes and pass them into the handbag, or wallet, that she was holding on her knees, keeping them clutched in his hand in such a way that the transfer happened without any vulgar banknotes being seen. In many cases, money is a quick-working tranquilliser, an antidote to fears, anxieties, and states of depression. The Davide that had emerged from his subconscious, dripping with instincts, knew that.

‘Let’s go,’ she said, but her voice remained harsh, and even a little bitter now. ‘There are lots of ways to get to Florence, clearly I had to go like this.’

Until they got to the tollbooths on the autostrada he drove slowly, and for another ten kilometres or so after taking out the ticket he kept up the same dull pace, but he was just psyching himself up. She had put her glasses on again and let the curtains of her hair fall, and was intelligent enough not to lean on his shoulder. ‘Go faster, I like it.’

He humoured her, pushing the Giulietta to its limit, the autostrada was fairly clear, but she didn’t see him make even the slightest mistake, or be the slightest bit careless, and despite the figure on the speedometer she didn’t have the slightest feeling that she was at risk.

And he didn’t say a word. She must know men: she didn’t tell him that she really liked driving like this, she didn’t tell him anything about herself or ask any questions about him, in short, she had no desire to make conversation, having understood that he was one of those men-maybe they were the best-who do only one thing at a time. For now he was driving, and only driving. She didn’t like one-man bands, like those performing dogs that played the drum with sticks tied to their tails, the cymbals with their paws, and bells with their heads. That constant, calm silence was good for Davide, it unblocked him completely, his deepest instincts strained in him like cats closed up in a basket for half a day: hot, aggressive, precise. He wasn’t interested any more in whether or not he broke his record from Milan to Florence and back, as his superego had first suggested, and at the service station in Somaglia he stopped outside a hut festively bedecked with flags.