Empire of Light (31 page)

“
No ti preoccupare, caro.”Don’t worry,
she says as she pats my cheek. “I would’ve been disappointed if I didn’t catch you looking.”

We roll up on the lot and she unlocks her Barbie doll of an automobile.

“A Smart Car!” I say a little too enthusiastically. “We’ve got ‘em in the states now, but I’ve never had a chance to tool around in ‘em.”

She offers the keys to me.

“No thanks. Not a good idea to drive in this damn country without a stint in the NASA flight training program.”

“Strap in,” she orders as she pops the locks.

I jump into the passenger seat just as she ignites the car’s Tonka toy-like engine. She somehow managed to park in this weird cubbyhole of a space that is clearly meant for a dumpster, back and front bookended by two fat concrete parking blocks to stop the thing from rolling away.

Her front tire sits on the front block as if she parked after a night of Malt Liquor and pork rinds. She rocks the car by tapping the gas, attempting to gently navigate off the front block, while at the same time trying to avoid smashing into the rear block, or the dozens of people buzzing around us like gnats.

Frustrated, she finally punches the gas and we leap off the block with a screech!

“Jesus!” I scream as I imagine us pinning some poor brat against a brick wall.

Still stuck in the same spot, I'm stressin’ hard as I try to help her navigate through the minefield of potential vehicular manslaughter victims.

"Watch out…Easy!…Lady and her kid behind you…Wait! Okay…Scooter!
ASPETTA!
"

Dani suddenly jams the car into park and looks at me.

"Jason, I'm driving. This is Napoli. Shut the fuck up.”

Okay. That was funny. She slams the car back into drive and guns it.

We hit the curb, sail into the air and land hard in the alleyway, free of our cubbyhole trap. Unleashed upon the roads, Dani slaloms down the suburban hillside and back into the traffic hell that is Naples. Within the congestion of the city, the girl shifts into
Top Gun
mode, zig-zagging through the streets at afterburn speed.

“Are we in a hurry?”

“No. This is just Napoli’s natural flow of traffic.”

“If by
natural
you mean
bat-shit crazy
, then I concure.”

I think my pop told me there have been seven or eight Italian NASA astronauts. Two have been Shuttle pilots. Given the way they drive cars, I have no doubt that in the vast emptiness of space only an Italian would figure out how to blow a red light. Having said that, when it comes to navigating through a meteor shower I would actually demand an Italian be at the wheel. This girl would give Han Solo and Chewy a run for their money.

I’m so crazy scared that all I can do is chuckle and scream as if I really am on a ride—the Disney Teacup Ride—if it were possessed by demons on crank.

My snickering like an idiot finally breaks her.

She begins to laugh, too.

“
Non redi a me!” 
she begs, asking me not to laugh at her.

I’m not even sure what the hell we’re so amused at anymore. I think we’re laughing at each other. I don’t know, but whatever was so funny a minute ago is done. I think we’re just tripping off of each other now.

“
Uffa!”
she says, suddenly slamming on the brakes, my seatbelt locking and cutting into my shoulder. “Hold on. I missed my turn.”

Oh, sweet Jesus.

Navigating with only the use of her mirrors, this very insane woman actually hits the speed limit while driving in reverse. The car horns of opposing traffic blare in protest as we barrel backwards to the turn-a-bout we just navigated a scant ten seconds ago. She speeds halfway around the loop then slams on the breaks, bringing us to a dead stop. She skillfully shifts the car back into first. “Hold on,” she orders again.

She punches the gas and banks high around the turn-a-bout, the centrifugal force pinning me tight against the passenger side door glass.

“Ah, there it is,” she says casually as she discovers the correct turn-off. She jerks the wheel hard right, attacking the ninety-degree turn with a vengence and sends us careening back on the correct course. Straight track. Thank, God.

Dani drives like she has a ten-inch dick, yet she can hardly see over the dash. She’s so incredibly small and, dare I say it, adorable. There should be a law against a girl hiding such chaos behind such a charming facade. Her innocent little smile intoxicates me because I know it disguises a killer attitude. A contrast that I obviously find attractive. I imagine what it would be like to stay on this mad ride for the rest of my life.

She catches me staring at her.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You know what? I think you’re gorgeous.”

“
Cosa? Ciao.” 
Goodbye, she says. The Italian equivalent of
get out of here
. She’s shyly blowing me off. Cute. I make a concerted effort to turn down the heat, gazing through the passenger side window to not only hide my embarrassment, but to prevent me from witnessing the hellish drive as well.

“So can I get some pizza where we’re going?” I ask, trying to change the subject. “I’m dying to try it.”

“You haven’t tried the pizza here yet?” she asks, stunned.

“I’ve been a bit busy. Besides, I didn’t know which pizza joint to go to.”

“There is no bad place to eat pizza here. Pick up a rock and throw it. Wherever it lands you go in and you’ll have the best pizza you ever tasted.”

“The best I ever tasted? That’s a bold statement. Did you ever try the Little Caesar’s Pizza back in the states?”

“Yeah,” she responds cautiously.

“That two for one deal is straight up money. I bet a Little Caesar’s would kick ass here in Italy, especially here in Napoli since you people love our pizza so much.”

Dani slams on the breaks and looks at me as if I just called her grandmother a whore.

“What the hell did you just say?” she demands.

Now, it’s important to remember that there are Americans who actually believe that pizza is an American invention, along with the radio. In fact, if you’re ever bored and you want to see some fireworks, do yourself a favor and go to an Italian bar and claim that the radio was invented by Tesla, stand back and shield your eyes.

“
Our
pizza!” she screams. “Pizza was invented here, in Napoli! It is
not
American! Screw Little Caesar! Little Caesar is shit! Pizza Hut is shit! Papa John is shit!”

What did I tell you? Crazy, right? It’s killing me trying to keep a straight face. Yep. It’s all fun and games until I notice that we’ve come to a dead stop in the middle of a damn freeway. Cars are blowing past us, cracking seventy miles per hour, swerving wildly to avoid slamming us from behind. Their horns blare, tires screech, but it’s obvious Dani ain’t gonna move until she says what’s on her mind.

“Dani, I was kidding. Please hit the gas,” I beg calmly.

“Kidding? I don’t like these words. You Americans have no respect for this country.”

“Ok! I’m sorry! Papa John sucks balls! For the love of John Paul hit the damn gas!”

“John Paul!
Which
John Paul?” she demands as a truck blows past, quivering the car in its wake.

“
What?” 
I ask in panic.

“There’s been two Pope John Pauls, which one are you praying to?”

“The first! Pope John Paul the
First!
” I scream.

She takes a few more seconds to look into my eyes. Is she looking to see if I’m sincere about John Paul I? Although, I do mean it. The
Smiling Pope
was my boy. Coppola based the Pope in Godfather III on him. It’s a great conspiracy theory, but I’m not going to go into it now. Wikipedia it and leave me the hell alone. I’m about to die!

“Okay then,” she says as she calmly places the car in drive and speeds away. “Goddamn Philly Cheese Steak pizzas. Who eats that shit?” she mumbles.

As I stare out the side window, I notice the Neapolitan cityscape slowly begins to change. The trash-ridden streets of the city disappear and are replaced with immaculately clean roads. We’re heading up into the burbs on the other side of the bay.

Her insect of a car blazes up the circuitous thoroughfare until we reach the summit, which is crowned with a quaint church. “Here we are,” she says as she accelerates into a parking spot (I’m not kidding) and then jams on the brake.

Catty-corner to the church is an observation deck. Concrete, iron and plenty of graffiti. But the view this unappealing platform provides is one of the best I’ve ever seen.

The cinematographer in me can’t help but notice how the view seems almost designed for the wide screen. To the left, the city begins high on a mount. Cream and crimson-colored buildings carpet the landscape all the way down to the plateau, settling around the coast.

The warmth of the right side is balanced against the cool blue of the sea and the imposing profile of Mount Vesuvio.

“Incredible.”

As chilling as it is gorgeous, Vesuvio is an active volcano with thousands of residents living at her base. “Look at all of those houses. Insane! Do these people not watch the Discovery Channel? What kind of morons live at the base of an active volcano?” I ask.

“Morons? At least with volcanoes you get warnings. You and I lived in Los Angeles, on top of an active fault line, where we could’ve been crushed in seconds without any warning whatsoever. Were
we
morons?” she counters.

“Yes. We were. This is why I moved back to Cleveland.”

“Oh. And I assume that there are no disasters to worry about in Cleveland?”

“Only if you include playoff games.”

“Well, those houses are there illegally,” she says. “Napoli is running out of space and we have no choice but to inhabit that land. However, in the end, we see Vesuvio as a friend, not a threat. It gives us pleasure to have something so beautiful on our landscape.”

“Can I take a picture of you here?”

“
Assolutamente,” 
she responds happily.

I line her up in the foreground with the brilliant backdrop of the city behind her. As I stare at her face through the viewfinder of my digital camera, I’m reminded of how odd it is to have run into her. I have to admit, if I had to choose one out of all the miracles I’ve encountered thus far, I’d pick this one on every day of the week and twice on Sunday.

Click!

“Did you get the shot?”

I glance down at the digital snapshot. “It’s the best one I’ve taken thus far.”

“Good.
Mangiamo
!”
Let’s eat!

Of course, Dani drives us to the coast in an instant. It seems like seconds ago that I was looking down upon this very street. In contrast to the more
urban
section of Naples, not but a block away, this seaside road screams
money
.

“This is Mergellina. It’s the Riviera of Napoli.”

Before I can respond, Dani suddenly yanks hard on the wheel, sending us flying into a narrow parking spot and kills the engine.

“And here we are!” she announces

“And in such good time!” I say sarcastically as I stretch my back, checking for spinal injury.

She looks at me with a devilish smile.

“This is going to be one of the best meals you’ve ever had. I promise you.”

We’re at this quaint blue and white restaurant called
Il Pergolato
. The joint is cozy and bright with huge windows to give us a view of Vesuvio, which hovers over us like a god, graciously having decided not to inundate us with a killer pyroclastic cloud of super heated ash. Today.

We sit at a table, and a waiter approaches us immediately.

“I’ll order for us.
Va bene
?” she asks with a beaming smile.

“
Certo. Grazie!
” I respond, happy to have a native hook me up with the indigenous grub.

After she rattles off a grocer’s list of foods, she pours us some wine, filling up my glass after each sip I take, as if she were a horny sailor on leave and trying to get me in the sack.

It’s not that hard, lady.

We polish off an entire bottle before our first plate hits the table. Normally I don’t touch the stuff, so my inhibitions fall by the wayside. I ask questions I probably have no business asking at this point in our friendship.