This Is Your Accident Invite someone to fill the space. Fill the wound with a crowd or someone close. Yet Colleen was tired of the crowd of Romans and their ploy.
Colleen toured Rome with Julia and was glad to be distracted. They trampled the Circus Maximus’ greens and imagined the ancient debauchery under umbrella pines at the baths of Caracalla—imagined the drip and screwing in steam rooms, the after-lounge feast upon a faraone—a hen with black pepper, thyme and cream dip—wine…more wine. In a backpack, Colleen carried a bottle of Refosco along with sheep cheese and plastic dishes so they could picnic on a fallen column. They set up plates on a Doric capital, uncorked and poured. Cin cin! They lay in soft grass as the sunlight held behind gravid clouds, fluttered. They chatted the day away. In the early evening, they climbed up the Palatine and sat on a stone wall. Looking down on the swathes of imperial Rome overgrown with weeds, they noticed the rain puddles reflecting pools of sky. You know this city like the back of your hand. How long have you been here now? Colleen looked over the rooftops, sun—the dust. A year and a half, she said.
Later, when Colleen was lying wind-chapped in bed, she remembered Lolo serenading her in the Circus Maximus, the kisses on her hands, the sundown wine—how quick he was to give. Lolo alone now. She, too, alone now. She lifted the phone, put it down. She lifted it again, stared at it. Fuck. She searched for his name…Lolo, not DANGER, not DON’T ANSWER, not DON’T CALL. She didn’t need these names anymore. She text messaged him: My friend Julia’s in town. We’ll be at Antonioni’s on Thursday at 10 PM. Of course, she didn’t expect to hear back. She didn’t even know why she’d sent the message, it’s over, she banged her fist against her forehead, but Lolo wrote immediately. I see you at 22:30 but I only talk with Julia. Certo, she thought. Certo! This is a mistake.
On Thursday evening, she put on a low-cut white mini dress, pull-up stockings and heeled black boots. At the thought of re-seeing Lolo, her body sparked with whirligig hope—Lolo opening her legs, watching, entering. He would fill up the room with his flip flop language and laughs. I was wrong. Ho sbagliato. You and me will forever know our lives. You are my never ended friend, you are eterna. He’d apologize and they’d talk nonsense all night.
She and Julia took the tram to Trastevere and jumped off onto the sidewalk in front of La Fiaschetta. They entered the trattoria, which was decorated with red- and white-checkered tablecloths. Ropes of garlic dangled from the ceiling; doting waiters whisked them to a table in the corner. The waiter promptly poured a flask of house wine in their glasses. Cin cin. They drank to successful love. I haven’t seen him in a month, said Colleen. You just have to remind yourself that a clean break is a healthier one…don’t muck it up. She pointed to the garlic above their heads. See. That’s your protectorate.
At ten sharp, they arrived at Antonioni’s to find that Lolo was already there. He’d parked in front and was leaning against his yellow Porsche—his father’s. He’s rotten waiting like this, show off, smarmy. Buona sera. Colleen smiled graciously. This is Julia. Piacere. Lolo shook Julia’s hand, eyed Colleen. You know this bar is for the American tourists? We are not where real Romans go. Why do you choose this? Colleen smiled. Because I like Antonioni’s. He leaned in toward Julia. If you want to go to the true Roman bar, I know where. I don’t mind staying here, said Julia. Madonna! You come from across the ocean so to go the American bar? Like this, you can also be in Texas! If you want, we can eat hamburger and chips. Dai. Su’. Colleen waved a no with her pointer finger.Your car’s a two-seater. We go in three is okay. In Roma we always do like we want. We are free. We want to stay, said Colleen. But Colleen knew he wouldn’t enter Antonioni’s; she knew he’d get his way even if it meant a screaming fit on a Trastevere vicolo. Fine. She stepped around the Porsche to the passenger seat and opened the door. Wait. I’ll go first, said Julia. I’m taller. Julia got in and Colleen sat on her lap. Very good, said Lolo. Pronto? He placed the key in the ignition and the engine thrummed. Dai! I find a better place. I promise. Julia wrapped her hands around Colleen’s waist. Are you comfortable? No. We don’t have a seatbelt. You don’t need this. Che noia! Lolo adjusted the mirrors. Allora. Fammi pensare. Seven Bubbles. We go to Seven Bubbles in Parioli. Do you like fast? he asked Julia. I love fast!
Seven Bubbles was a sliver of a bar with aluminum stools and seven light fixtures like silver bubbles sliding off the ceiling. Smoke curled out the nose of the bartender who turned to watch the girls as they passed. Lolo patted the bartender on the back, chatted with him and ordered a round of drinks. Julia and Colleen settled at a table. He is Julius Caesar, whispered Julia. You’re so right. Lolo returned to the table carrying three mojitos on a tray. Colleen took out her wallet. How much do I owe you? she asked. Six. So, we’ll each give him six, she said. No, Julia hasn’t to give me anything. She’s the guest. Fine. Colleen dropped her wallet back into her purse. Neither am I. Mah. Lolo raised glass. We make a cin cin? To Roma, said Julia. To Roma! The glasses chimed. For two hours they drank mojitos, Tocai, Pinot and kamikazes that Julia bought. Colleen sipped while Julia talked with Lolo about art and politics. Lolo called Americans barbarians. I’m so relieved you say that, said Julia. We really are. It’s a warpath. Yes, he said. America is always more angry.
After shots, Lolo took them to the Qui Quae Quod club. Dai. Is not far. Is in Villa Borghese. We make a little dance. Lolo parked in a meadow, and they trod on wet grass until they came to a hidden staircase. There they stepped down hundreds of stairs to an underground warehouse where a bouncer waved them through the front door. As soon as they entered the club, Colleen headed to the back, lay down on a couch and looked up, dazed; fishing nets hung from the ceiling and women in bikinis were crawling in them. I feel vomitous, she said. Just water. She leaned her head on the arm rest and watched the room dart around as inside a pinball machine. Her eyes flickered. Lolo and Julia ordered drinks and kept talking, laughing, laughing. Julia then rolled her eyes at Colleen, as if to say, who is he kidding? Colleen fell asleep.
Wake up, love. Julia hovered over her. The room was spinning with disco mirrors which flashed squares on Julia’s cheeks. You awake, Colleen? She slurred the een—soured vowels, een een. Mmm. Colleen’s eyes were adjusting to the light. Where is Lolo? He’s getting the car. Mmm. How was your nap? Fine. He’s a sleaze that Lololololo. He kept putting his hand on my thigh… like this…and then like this. That’s surprising. They walked up the hundreds of stairs and waited for Lolo to pull up with the Porsche. Once again, Colleen climbed on top of Julia’s lap. Now to home? he asked. They drove down the Via Veneto whose Magnolia trees and windows were festooned with Christmas lights. It’s not worth it, Colleen thought, Lascia perdere. But she was awake now and spurred by the thought of Lolo’s hand on Julia’s thigh… Did you enjoy being a dirty slut and touching my friend? she asked. Mah. I touch no one. Julia pinched Colleen. Stop it, she whispered. Fai il simpatico con lei? You think it’s okay to disrespect my friend? Julia has kissed me. I am not making the playboy. Mah. I didn’t kiss anyone, said Julia. Ma va. Ma va. You know what is happened. He pulled the gearshift into second. Colleen shook her head. Why are you making this up, Lolo? So you think I invent? Ahahah, he laughed. This is the truth of your friend. You don’t want to believe this is what she do—your problem. I did nothing, I swear, C. I don’t know what he’s talking about. ` Oh yes, you know, said Lolo. Yes, you know very well. What kind of a fight are you trying to create? Colleen exclaimed. Why are you doing this? As Lolo turned a corner, Colleen swung to the side of the car. She grabbed hold of the dashboard. You don’t like to know the truth, this is your problem. I only tell you what is happened. You are the one who asks. I know why you’re doing this, Lo. I know you. Yes, you are so smart. He pulled the gearshift into third. So many good school you frequent, so you can pretend to know why everything is happen, so you can understand the psychology. But in fact, it is you that don’t believe the truth! What kind of psychology have you if you cannot believe the truth? You’re doing this because you want revenge. You want take revenge on me because of Ayan. Mah, he said. Why I need the revenge? Non me ne frega un cazzo. I am with Silvia now. I don’t need nothing. Finally, I am happy. I am in perfect peace. You think you’re so special, Lo. You think you can do whatever the fuck you want. Yes! Faccio che cazzo mi pare! Lolo braked and the car lurched forward. I do what the fuck I want! He released the brake and they descended into Piazza Barberini. I suggest you to say nothing more. You always have to be right, Colleen whispered. I don’t believe one word. As they were driving into the piazza, a light illuminated the windshield. A carabinieri squad flashed a spotlight at them to see into the front seat. Scendi! Lolo shouted. Go down! Colleen lowered herself between Julia’s legs. Resta cosi’. Colleen dropped so low that she was lying horizontally, as in a kayak. Lolo swerved a U-turn and sped back up the Via Veneto. But they’re going to follow. Colleen could feel the engine spinning up speed, and soon the car was flying beneath the brick arches of a Roman wall. Colleen glanced up and saw white lights slipping over the umbrella pines, then darkness as the car descended into a tunnel. You see, I win! Colleen reached up and held onto the seatbelt with her hand. If we stop short… Cazzo! The Porsche smoothed around corners, bolted at straightaways. The road was empty except for the carabinieri with their pink lights and pursuant sirens in the distance. And we go! Maybe I must switch off our light? And they were suddenly driving in the pitch black, hiding, switchbacking below the split-in-half moon—la luna spaccata. Colleen closed her eyes and descended into the gap between Julia’s legs—she saw shadows, red. She imagined the red was the lights they’re running, imagined they were shooting through black tunnels and would soon loop into outer space. I don’t want to die in Rome. Ti prego. The red light brightened as if blood were trapped in her eyes. Keep them closed! she thought. The car thudded over uneven pavement and potholes. Li abbiamo perso! announced Lolo. They are disappeared! Keep your eyes shut! Lolo held both hands to the steering wheel and made a quick left turn. Julia, sobered, concentrated on the road. As the car was rounding the corner, it braked and the back wheels slid out; the car fishtailed left, right. Shit! said Julia. Colleen tightened her grip on the seatbelt and felt the Porsche listing, heard pop pop pop! The car was awhirl, whipping into parked cars—it spun like a pinwheel and flipped. Smashed.
Colleen heard the fizz of a disassociated engine. She felt around, lifted herself up. Are you okay? she asked. Are you okay? they asked. Everyone is okay. Lolo touched Colleen and Julia’s arms. He then looked through the windshield, which was shattered into thousands of granules of glass; he covered his eyes. I feel something strange, said Colleen. She touched her face and sensed wetness on the bridge of her nose. What is this? She flipped down the visor and looked at herself in the mirror. A runnel of blood marked her cheek—a nick of visible hate, hate, hate! He’s with her! He’s with her because he hates me! But this isn’t me…this isn’t my face! She was now inside a mini globe in his palms— upside down, twirling with snow above a plastic Colosseum, above a city called Rome, a world of prism light and glitter. She screamed. Get me out! She opened the car door. Get me out! She pushed her way onto terra firma and took in the freezing air, the curve of nineteenth century buildings with balustrades and wisteria. A spotlight stopped her. She covered her nose. A police officer pointed her way. Fermati! Non ti muovere! He told her to stand still. L’ambulanza arriva.
Where are we?
Police cars began surrounding the crash and an ambulance drove onto the sidewalk; paramedics rushed over. I’m okay, she said. Vieni con noi, signorina. They took her by the arm. But I don’t need anything. They took her to the ambulance. In the meanwhile, Julia walked around to the front of the car to inspect the damage: the Porsche’s hood was flattened and slashed; tubes, organs and wires were exposed. Open heart surgery, she said. You can’t save this one. Lolo marked himself with a cross and got out of the car. Mio dio. Julia snapped phone photos while the paramedics cleaned and bandaged Colleen’s nose. When Colleen returned to the crash, she found Lolo squatting on a silvery pond of glass shards; he was fingering the hub cap. Do you think you can fix it, she asked. Lolo looked up, squinted. Via! He pushed her back against the car. Che troia che sei!
The air was bone cold. They had to wait. Colleen stared at the pink flares and plumes of smoke over the road. She and Julia stood shivering, nodding off like broken candles. Across the street, Lolo was huffing into the palloncino, the breathalizer. The police yelled at him to blow, Soffia! Soffia! but he puffed meekly and was uncooperative. Forza! they said and gathered around him. Mi fai fare! he yelled.
When Lolo finished the breath test, he returned to the car and beckoned Colleen with his pointer. Come, he said. Please. You must say I didn’t know they are following. You tell them you don’t see anything. You don’t hear anything. You are listening to music. Tu capisci? I’m never lying for you, she said. She walked away, but Lolo followed closely behind her. You have lie many times for me, why now you stop? Certo ti conviene. Now when it is your blame! Now! But this is your accident. E allora, you understand nothing. This is no point to talk to a stupid slut eternal. He turned to Julia. You have take the pictures?
Lolo was taken from the scene at 7:30 a.m. He was silent when they handcuffed him into the backseat of a carabinieri car. After he departed, the police questioned Colleen and Julia. They handed over their passports and Colleen translated. Si’, she told the officers. They were drinking, but she doesn’t remember how much—only that Lorenzo had drunk quite a bit, sicuramente, but she wasn’t paying attention. Si’, when he was speeding she was scared, ducking—she had to shut her eyes, but she knew what they were running from—she saw the lights. Of course, he saw the lights and heard the sirens! Of course, he knew what he was doing! He was showing off. He wanted to be figo, he kept saying things like, Those idiot carabinieri, they cannot get me. He kept saying, I will win. I will beat them all. Thank god we’re alive to tell you this, signore.
Elizabeth Farren is a graduate of Columbia University and the Bennington Writing Seminars. She is presently living in Rome, Italy, where she's completing her first book of fiction. © 2008 prickofthespindle.com |
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