Like most young professionals, Roberta owned a motorino. If there was nothing special or flash about it, it was the sort of little motorbike that could get you from A to B.
Though she did not have much affection for it, she was attached to it for practical reasons and always made a point of leaving it in Daniele’s box in the garage. But as the saying goes, it always rains tempo da ladro[1].
Daniele, who was a lawyer, was probably more annoyed than Roberta.
“Ladri,” he muttered, when they found the chain had been cut and the motorino stolen from Daniele’s box in the garage.
“Well,” she said. “Can’t we claim on the insurance?”
But when they searched among the papers, it turned out that the policy had run out.
“Come siamo cretini,” Roberta said. “I cannot believe we forgot to pay.”
Daniele shrugged.
“Don’t look at me like that. There is always the bus.”
Roberta winced: she knew it was her fault. She could not get annoyed if Daniele was being obtuse.
The bus made its slow, tortuous way as it did everyday down the avenue. All about it darted scooters; cars pushed and shoved – squeezing out space till there was none left for the pedestrians squeezing between them. As it came up to the big intersection, drivers tooted their horns up and down the traffic. They pushed and pressed up against bumpers and tried to switch lanes where it was impossible to switch lanes.
The bus sat in the middle of it all – its engine ticking over.
Roberta was standing at the front of the bus behind the driver’s seat.
On one side sat a man in shirts sleeves and shades. A council worker, thought Roberta, moonlighting in his friend’s insurance company. Next to him were a teenage girl and boy. The girl, who was sitting on the boy’s lap, was chewing gum. Did they ever go to school? She wondered.
Opposite them was a man who reminded Roberta of one of the lobsters in the fish tank in the restaurant where Daniele and she used to go at the weekends when Daniele wanted to splash out, put on his blue blazer and pretend they were living the life of Roman yuppies. The lobster’s hair was bleached from the sun; evidently, he had just stepped off the beach. He was wearing flip flops, and there was sand between the toes of his cracked feet.
Roberta had always suffered from the heat. Even though she was thin, she could never get cool. Roberta was wearing a thin dress, but in spite of her thin dress, the heat assailed her. To make matters worse, the old woman standing beside her and holding onto the side with her shopping at her feet had sweaty pits.
Roberta closed her eyes on the heat and the woman’s sweaty pits.
Mercifully, the bus moved off.
A breeze blew in through the open window. Roberta could see the gap in the traffic and so could the bus driver. He pressed down on the accelerator and the bus rattled along the avenue.
Ahead of them the lights were green.
At the last minute they turned red.
The bus driver slammed on the breaks. Roberta gripped the rail with her clammy hands.
The bus gave a screech. The woman with sweaty pits fell against the bleached lobster.
She let out a cry.
“Do youwant to kill me?”
“-!” The old woman continued to curse the driver while she rearranged the shopping at her feet.
The bus sat at the lights at the busy crossroads. As they waited in the heat, a motorbike came around the side of the bus and pulled up in front of them. A girl in a pair of denim shorts sat behind a clad and booted biker.
Shortly they were joined by two lads on a motorino.
Topini, thought Roberta, little mice. Thieves!
One of the topini must have said something because the girl on the back seemed to cling even more to the biker.
The lights changed.
The motorbike roared into life; the motorino gave a rasp and the little mice took off with a squeak.
Meanwhile the bus had set off. A gust of warm air blew in through the open window.
The bus pulled into the bus stop on the other side of the crossroads.
The doors of the bus opened.
Roberta stepped aside, as the old woman made her way towards the open door with her shopping.
The bleached lobster got off behind her. As he did, his flip flop seemed to linger in the door while the old woman struggled with the step. Roberta noticed there was a blister on the back of his foot.
She was still thinking about his blister when she heard the crack of the pistol.
Afterwards, and upon reflection, she realized she also heard shouts – those harsh, guttural sounds uttered by the topini. And the screech of wheels as the motorino sped off.
Suddenly everyone, including the council worker and the teenagers, were standing up by the windows.
The old woman, she saw, was sitting on the ground, surrounded by her shopping.
People were looking down from their balconies.
Roberta didn’t wait to see what was going to happen. She left the bus with the other people.
“I just heard the news,” said Daniele. “A gangster was shot on Corso Giulio Petroni”
“I was on the bus,” she said.
“You saw what happened?”
“Daniele, it was horrible. Ho visto il sangue. I saw the blood.”
Once again, she seemed to see the whole squalid scene before her: the two-timing council worker, the teenage truants, the old woman with sweaty pits and, finally, the bleached lobster with his cracked, sandy feet and the blister on his ankle.
“Roberta,” said Daniele. “You mustn’t stress yourself.”
“I’m not stressing myself. I just want you to appreciate what happened.”
“Of course,” he said.
“What do you mean, of course!”
Roberta flew off the handle. “What kind of a boyfriend are you, anyway? You never listen. When I tell you something, you don’t take me seriously.”
“I am taking you seriously!”
“Mammia mia,” said Roberta. “People die at your feet and your boyfriend thinks it’s all a joke.”
Roberta hung up.
Daniele rang back immediately, but she did not answer.
A few minutes later, he rang again.
“Where are you?” he said.
“I’m on my way home.”
“Shall I come and get you?”
“Daniele, sto due minuti da casa,” she said. “I’m nearly home.”
She felt calmer now. Daniele sensed it.
“Well,” he said, after a pause, “don’t you think you should go to the police?”
“What’s the point?” she said. “I didn’t see anything.” Even if this was technically true, Roberta had not forgotten the number plate of her old motorino.
[1]Literally time of the thief, or time for thieving.