Sorrento (part three)

“Are you kidding me?!” Marc swung his arms up into the cold air; his exasperated breath puffed white before disintegrating into Friday night. “What is your deal, man!? She’s pretty; she’s funny—she certainly seems to like you! Why not?”

The sea of motor-city vehicles rushed by on the downtown street; Marc and I stood facing each other on the dirty sidewalk. I said nothing—certain he would not appreciate my answer.

“Well?” His eyes pleaded me not to say what we both knew was coming.

“I’m sorry, man.” I really was. He’d labored for weeks to assemble our double date with his girlfriend’s attractive friend. “I just can’t,” I muttered.

His voice swelled. “It’s been over a year! It’s almost closer to two!” The valets glanced up at us from behind their outdoor post. He began pacing, furious. I tried to appease his frustration—

“Listen, Marc, I’m sorry you went to this much trouble. I know how much you had to work to get this thing organized. And it’s not like I’m going home. Can’t we just go finish dinner, watch the movie, and I’ll be nice.”

“You’ve been nice.” His voice lowered, but his eyes were just as angry. “You’re always nice; that’s not the problem.” He walked closer; I felt my muscles tense. “Listen—” he gripped my shoulder and looked at me, measured and cool—“She’s not coming. She played you, man. Her parents, if they were even hers to begin with, haven’t shown up in a year. It’s not happening. You have to deal with it. I’m sorry.” He lowered his head, his hand still on my shoulder, and then turned and walked back into the restaurant.

The valets looked at me until I stared back to show that I saw them. I hailed a cab. It’s a shame, I thought, as a large Crown Victoria pulled up to the curb. I turned back to look at the restaurant; I would have liked to had dinner with them. But I knew what Marc meant about being nice. I was only there for dinner—they knew it, and I knew it. I lowered my head out of the sharp January air and into the warm backseat, feeling a familiar pinch of frustration. Could a girl who “loved” me put me through this? Could a person truly love after three weeks?

City lights blurred the city buildings outside the foggy window. The confrontation in front of the restaurant was only the far end of a long ride. Marc and I had been charging to that end, like a train on steel girders, since our conversation in his Saab the previous fall. Our infrequent dialogue since then had almost prepared me to stand there, alone on the dirty street, defending the indefensible.

After that first car ride when I told him about her disappearance, he never listened to anything about her, or about my time with her. I couldn’t blame him; I didn’t really have anything but the time I spent with her. The camera I took to Italy was supplied by work, so she took all the pictures of us together. She was supposed to email them to me. I retained a few broken shards of the mug that had shattered on the steps at the train station. It carried the smell of wine for almost a full year.

A few times I watched Marc wonder, without saying anything, whether I made the story up. He knew I’d been changed by whatever happened in Italy, but my story seemed foolish to him. The evidence I gave him would never be reason to believe my memories of Annie. His perspective interpreted my tales for him. I understood—it was too little grounds for him to share in my hopefulness. I didn’t hold it against him; he did hold it against me.

The drive passed as a sustained flash, long but unnoticed—like a momentary camera flash stretched across an evening. I handed a crisp twenty dollar bill to the cabbie—it wasn’t even a great tip by the time we reached home.

“Have a good night, buddy” said the voice from the front seat. I hadn’t noticed him at all—an Indian man, offering a polite half-smile.

“Yep,” I said with a slight sigh. “Thanks.” I heard him say something as I scooted out the door. I ducked my head back in again. “What’s that?”

He pointed to the stereo and said in a funny Indian accent, “It’s gonna be a long hard drag, but we’ll make it.” He saw my puzzled expression. “Janis Joplin—she was just on.”

“Oh,” I chuckled. “You have a good night, too.” I walked away from the cab, glad for the chance to laugh. Marc was always at home so I didn’t get the place to myself much, and I knew we were going to have to get things settled when he got back home, so I sprawled out on our couch and enjoyed the dark silence of the living room. I reached over to the table and grabbed my laptop, setting it on my outstretched legs.

I surveyed the news quickly, checking for any developments that I shouldn’t miss, and then clicked through to my email. “(1) New.” Both the lines labeled “Sender” and “Title” were left uncomfortably blank. I had never known that an email like that could be sent at all. My curiosity overcame the likelihood that it was a virus.

When the text of the email appeared, I felt the nerves run the length of my neck. I launched to my feet and nearly threw the computer:

I need you to meet me. I promise I’ll explain then.

Tuesday at three—Italian time. Via Nastro Verde 96. Sorrento.

I stared, my eyes wide and mouth open. My eyes could have penetrated the glowing screen as it lit up the dark room. I didn’t take my eyes off the screen for a long time, subconsciously worrying that the mysterious message would be gone if I blinked. I eventually granted the inanity of my stare, but not before I had cautiously copied the text into another open document. The rumble of warring factions stirred within me. Hope is an infection—the most obstinate of all diseases. Once infected, something must die—either the hope itself, or that which stands between the hope and the hoped for.

I had no interested in piecing myself back together. Many of Marco’s arguments had made sense. But I already knew I would be going.

Marc arrived home late, walked past me without a word, and went to his room. I figured I’d tell him in the morning. I fell asleep on the couch, my computer open to the available flights before Tuesday.

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