Mariano kicked the car into gear and barreled onto Lungotevere. I was unable to tell if he was simply excited about the night’s plans or if the coke was already hitting him, but he was driving even more sporadically than normal. He darted between the other scattered vehicles sharing the road as if they were construction cones fixed to the pavement.
We raced along the Tiber. A traffic light ahead in the distance turned yellow. Mariano opened the gas and downshifted. We had to be going seventy.
The light turned red. We were still thirty meters or so from the intersection which formed a T, requiring a turn either right into Trastevere or a left across the Ponte Sublicio. A van and three scooters slowly pulled from their waiting positions at either side of the dark intersection and began crossing trajectories ahead of us.
Mariano let off the gas, preparing for a left turn, with zero intention of stopping. Our car swallowed the repeating left arrows painted on the street below. We were ten meters from the red light.
The van and scooters were visible, but out of our direct path. The intersection appeared clear.
We shot through the red light, beginning a multi-lane arc, wheels fighting for grip under the centrifugal force caused by our velocity.
That was the first time any of us saw it.
A monstrous two-car tram was rumbling down the tracks lining the Ponte Sublico. It was coming from the left, the same direction we were turning. It was right on top of us.
I could see the helpless expression of the conductor through the webbed glass of Mariano’s windshield. How had none of us seen it? The tram was massive. We must have simply not registered it; the trams were supposed to stop at midnight. I could read the LED display above the conductor’s head.
Deposito. Out of Service.
Isabella and Vittoria screamed. My head cleared; my body relaxed. There was nothing I could do at this point.
Mariano reversed the wheel, aborting the turn, rapidly shifting the weight of the car from right to left and aiming us straight for the stunted marble wall lining the bridge. The ground shook and the car rattled as the tram rolled behind us, inches from our rear bumper. I could not believe it had not hit us.
My eyes shot forward. We had about five meters before we hit the side of the bridge. Mariano spun the wheel left again. The weight of the car shifted left to right.
The front right tire collided with the curb and climbed to the narrow sidewalk, then the rear right tire. The car straightened, my door inches from the stone wall.
Mariano accelerated off the sidewalk back to the cobblestone of the overpass.
Isabella smacked Mariano across the head. Vittoria, smiling, cursed at him. I took a deep breath and shook my head as I watched the lights reflect off the Tiber out my window. Mariano laughed to himself.
We sped down Via Marmorata toward Piramide. It was the same way Mariano drove me home most nights. Maybe I was better off asking Mariano to drop me off at my apartment. Maybe I had better save the drum and bass thing for a different night.
We barreled past the pyramid, its white marble stained black at the edges, its apex thrusting toward the moon. The sight of it had grown comforting over the months. It meant I was almost home, only a few blocks from my front door, a fact that elicited a flooding of relief during long walks back from Trastevere, or rainy-day returns from the center, or cocaine-fueled chauffeur rides down Via Ostiense.
We were two blocks from my turnoff.
I should say something.
One block.
I should tell them to just leave me at my apartment.
We careened past my street.
I reached for my seatbelt. If I was going to see this through, I had better take the few precautions at my disposal.
I pulled the strap over my chest and felt around the seat to my left for the buckle. Nothing. I wedged my hand between the back and bottom cushions. The seat obviously folded down and my buckle was dangling in the trunk space. Nothing. I felt and searched and looked again and again but could not find the buckle for the life of me. Then Mariano yelled while jerking the car into a U-turn.
“Cazzo! Sto andando da Mike!” He was going to my place. He realized he had missed the turn. Thank God.
I must have misunderstood something earlier. I thought I had agreed to go with them but Mariano was driving to my place. I must have nodded in agreement to something I had not understood but which had signified a changing of my plan. I had thought it was strange we were continuing down Via Ostiense, past Testaccio, toward nothing but apartment towers and sleeping storefronts.
Mariano doubled back. We were three blocks from my right turnoff.
This had been a lucky break.
Two blocks.
Chance was putting me out of possible danger tonight.
One block.
I had to start opening my mouth more often.
We rocketed past my turn and the pyramid appeared a second time. It gazed down triumphantly upon us as we circled the piazza below before shooting off on a new direction. It then faded out the rear view and the Coliseum approached in the foreground.
My mind raced over what Mariano had said. Literally he had said I am going to Mike’s place. But I had read the context wrong. I had read the context how I had wanted it to be. He had said he was going to my place, but by mistake, on an erroneously programmed autopilot.
We curved around the rear of the Coliseum. I watched its illuminated features pass by Isabella’s window, a stark yellow glow lining the curved marble of each archway against the black of the night sky behind [...]
--excerpt from www.midnightinrome.com
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