only point.
He left the bar hungry. He walked along Viale Vittoria, then ventured down a side street, looking for nothing but enjoying the sights. Another bar beckoned. He walked in with confidence, went straight to the cashier, another hefty old woman, and said, “ Buongiorno , cappuccino please.” She couldn’t have cared less where he was from, and her indifference encouraged him. He pointed to a thick pastry on a rack by the counter and said, “And one of these.” She nodded again as he handed over a ten-euro note, certainly enough to cover coffee and a croissant. The bar was less crowded than the other one, and Rick savored the cornetto and cappuccino.
It was called Bar Bruno, and whoever Bruno was, he certainly loved his soccer. The walls were covered with team posters and action shots and schedules that dated back thirty years. There was a banner from the World Cup victory in 1982. Above the cashier Bruno had nailed a collection of enlarged black and whites—Bruno with Chinaglia, Bruno hugging Baggio.
Rick assumed that he would be hard-pressed to find a bar or café in Parma with a single photo of the Panthers. Oh well. This ain’t Pittsburgh.
The Fiat was exactly where he’d left it. The jolts of caffeine had raised his confidence. He eased perfectly into reverse, then pulled away smoothly as if he’d worked a clutch for years.
The challenge of central Parma was daunting, but he had no choice. Sooner or later he had to go home,and take his Fiat with him. At first glance, the police car did not alarm him. It was following at a benign pace. Rick stopped at a red light and waited patiently while mentally working the clutch and accelerator. The light turned green, the clutch slipped, the Fiat lunged, then died. Frantically, he re-shifted as he turned the key and cursed and kept one eye on the police. The black-and-white cruiser was on his rear bumper, and the two young cops were frowning.
What the hell? Something wrong back there?
His second attempt was worse than the first, and when the Fiat died another quick death, the police suddenly laid on the horn.
Finally the engine caught. He hit the gas and barely released the clutch, and the Fiat rolled forward, roaring in such a low gear but hardly moving. The police followed tightly, probably amused at the bucking and lunging ahead of them. After a block, they turned on the blue lights.
Rick managed to pull over in a loading zone in front of a row of shops. He turned the ignition off, pulled hard on the parking brake, then instinctively reached for the glove box. He had given no thought to Italian laws governing vehicle registration or driving privileges, nor had he assumed that the Panthers and specifically Signor Bruncardo would handle such matters. He had assumed nothing, thought of nothing, worried about nothing. He was a professional athlete who was once a high school and college star, and from that lofty perch small details had never mattered.
The glove box was empty.
A cop was tapping on his window, and he rolled it down. No power windows.
The cop said something, and Rick caught the word “documenti.” He snatched his wallet and thrust out his Iowa driver’s license. Iowa? He hadn’t lived in Iowa in six years, but then, he hadn’t established a home anywhere else. As the cop frowned at the plastic card, Rick sank a few inches lower as he remembered a phone call from his mother before Christmas. She had just received a notice from the state. His license had expired.
“Americano?” the officer said. His tone was accusatory. His name badge declared him to be Aski.
“Yes,” Rick replied, though he could’ve handled a quick “Sì.” He did not, because even the slightest use of Italian prompted the speaker on the other end to assume the foreigner was fluent.
Aski opened the door and motioned for Rick to get out. The other officer, Dini, strutted up with a sneer, and they launched into a quick round of Italian. From their looks, Rick
He left the bar hungry. He walked along Viale Vittoria, then ventured down a side street, looking for nothing but enjoying the sights. Another bar beckoned. He walked in with confidence, went straight to the cashier, another hefty old woman, and said, “ Buongiorno , cappuccino please.” She couldn’t have cared less where he was from, and her indifference encouraged him. He pointed to a thick pastry on a rack by the counter and said, “And one of these.” She nodded again as he handed over a ten-euro note, certainly enough to cover coffee and a croissant. The bar was less crowded than the other one, and Rick savored the cornetto and cappuccino.
It was called Bar Bruno, and whoever Bruno was, he certainly loved his soccer. The walls were covered with team posters and action shots and schedules that dated back thirty years. There was a banner from the World Cup victory in 1982. Above the cashier Bruno had nailed a collection of enlarged black and whites—Bruno with Chinaglia, Bruno hugging Baggio.
Rick assumed that he would be hard-pressed to find a bar or café in Parma with a single photo of the Panthers. Oh well. This ain’t Pittsburgh.
The Fiat was exactly where he’d left it. The jolts of caffeine had raised his confidence. He eased perfectly into reverse, then pulled away smoothly as if he’d worked a clutch for years.
The challenge of central Parma was daunting, but he had no choice. Sooner or later he had to go home,and take his Fiat with him. At first glance, the police car did not alarm him. It was following at a benign pace. Rick stopped at a red light and waited patiently while mentally working the clutch and accelerator. The light turned green, the clutch slipped, the Fiat lunged, then died. Frantically, he re-shifted as he turned the key and cursed and kept one eye on the police. The black-and-white cruiser was on his rear bumper, and the two young cops were frowning.
What the hell? Something wrong back there?
His second attempt was worse than the first, and when the Fiat died another quick death, the police suddenly laid on the horn.
Finally the engine caught. He hit the gas and barely released the clutch, and the Fiat rolled forward, roaring in such a low gear but hardly moving. The police followed tightly, probably amused at the bucking and lunging ahead of them. After a block, they turned on the blue lights.
Rick managed to pull over in a loading zone in front of a row of shops. He turned the ignition off, pulled hard on the parking brake, then instinctively reached for the glove box. He had given no thought to Italian laws governing vehicle registration or driving privileges, nor had he assumed that the Panthers and specifically Signor Bruncardo would handle such matters. He had assumed nothing, thought of nothing, worried about nothing. He was a professional athlete who was once a high school and college star, and from that lofty perch small details had never mattered.
The glove box was empty.
A cop was tapping on his window, and he rolled it down. No power windows.
The cop said something, and Rick caught the word “documenti.” He snatched his wallet and thrust out his Iowa driver’s license. Iowa? He hadn’t lived in Iowa in six years, but then, he hadn’t established a home anywhere else. As the cop frowned at the plastic card, Rick sank a few inches lower as he remembered a phone call from his mother before Christmas. She had just received a notice from the state. His license had expired.
“Americano?” the officer said. His tone was accusatory. His name badge declared him to be Aski.
“Yes,” Rick replied, though he could’ve handled a quick “Sì.” He did not, because even the slightest use of Italian prompted the speaker on the other end to assume the foreigner was fluent.
Aski opened the door and motioned for Rick to get out. The other officer, Dini, strutted up with a sneer, and they launched into a quick round of Italian. From their looks, Rick
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