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«Koukounaries?»
«That's it. Koukounaries. Well, it worked. I can't tell you. I've got to go! I'll be back in a couple of weeks. Can we go out to lunch and talk about it? Oh Christ, they're closing my gate. I'll call you! Cullen, hey, thanks a lot! God, I've got to tell you everything. Bye!»
On my birthday, my friend Da
We had arranged for Eliot to babysit with Mae while we went out for di
It was a Friday night and, in general, New York was jumpy and electric and ready for its weekend. Even the weirdos and walking dead on street corners looked less hopeless and more sane than usual.
Da
«Those fuckin' Commies!» This came from the cabdriver who had been eavesdropping on Da
I took Da
«Even when you're just playin' baseball, they try to get you!»
Da
«Not in no Russia, I'll tell you _that_, Ace!»
Di
After di
«Yippee! Show me, Dan! I hate guessing.»
Opening the envelope, he pulled out passports and two bright red-and-green airplane tickets.
«In exactly three hours, birthday girl, you and I are going to get on the midnight flight to Milan, Italy. We're there until Monday, and we're staying in the Brera at the Solferino. What do you think of that, Colon?»
«I think I like it a lot, Captain, but what about our daughter?»
«She's already with your parents – it's all been arranged. Eliot took her over right after we left the house. That's why they didn't all come out to di
«We can't afford this, can we, Da
«Nope. Oh, maybe one-ninth of it. Do you want dessert? I saw a great-looking chocolate cake when we came in.»
Despite a sleepless, _multo agitato_ ride over the ocean, we arrived on Saturday afternoon in Milan wide-awake and crazy to get out and get started in Italy again. On the short trip in from the airport, we tried to decide what to do first: walk, or shop, or visit our beloved «Marchesi» for cappuccino and _dolce_. We agreed right off (and shook on it to make it binding) that there would be no rules that weekend. You could do or eat or have seconds on whatever you wanted, and no one was allowed to raise an eyebrow in disapproval.
The first part of that day was the most relaxing time I had had in a long while. Mae, Weber, Alvin Williams . . . not to mention the ever-frisky Rondua at night had filled my life to the top of its cup constantly. That was all fine, but there weren't many moments tor calm thought and/or reflection amidst that 3-D circus of mine.
I didn't know how much I'd missed or needed that relaxation until I was sitting alone in a cafй in the great Galleria, reading a magazine and having a glass of chilled fresh orange juice. Da
After a good hour, I noticed something I had completely forgotten about. European women are so completely different from Americans. There seems to be so much pride attached to _being_ different from men over there – and not just in Italy either – to being special because you are, thank God, a woman.
On the other hand many American women, whether they're twenty or forty, seem so raw and graceless in comparison. In general, they move badly, talk like «good old boys,» chew gum with their mouths open, wear misshapen clothes . . . And even though they wear a lot of makeup I always have the impression the majority of them would like nothing more than to be «one of the guys.»
As a result, when we lived in Europe (and now again after only an hour in the cafй, watching), I felt like ET's rural cousin wrhen I held myself up to the women around me.
There aren't many beggars in Milan, but the ones who do work the streets are certainly a colorful bunch. Almost always women, they deck themselves out in gypsy kerchiefs and ragged dresses that fall to the tops of their bare feet. They inevitably carry an infant at a dangerous angle on one arm and come up to you with palm extended, looking as if they're about to cry.
I didn't notice the one who approached me until she was almost rubbing my shoulder. Looking up, a little dazed and still far away in my thoughts, I didn't register the change on her face until she leapt back and spoke to me.
«_Strega!_»
_Strega_ is the popular Italian drink. It is also the word for witch.
Shocked by both the word and her tone of voice, I looked from her to the baby in her arms. It was Mae.
«Mae! My baby!»
I got up so quickly that I knocked my chair over and a waiter standing nearby yelled at the woman to get out.
«She has my baby!»
I said it in English, but the waiter understood and grabbed the woman by the arm.
«_Strega! Maligna!_»
What followed would have been fu
My dream of months before: women sweeping the floor with fiery scarves, threatening my daughter if I continued to help Pepsi in Rondua. This woman was one of them, I was sure of that.
She pulled away from the waiter and ran across the floor of the Galleria, looking at me over her shoulder as she ran. I didn't want her to come back, but unconsciously I put up my hand in her direction.
No purple light spun out of my hand in a hard arc as it had with Weber Gregston, but a hundred feet across the way the woman lifted off the ground and fell in a screaming heap. Had I done it, or had she simply fallen?