The Whirling Girl by Barbara Lambert Page B

who’d rogered every woman from here to Timbuktu.
    He didn’t need to know who she was, though.
    He put some money in her parking meter while she was still in her jeep, then leaned in her window again, saying, “Please, you will wait this time? Please?”
    Those eyes. She got the same jolt as on the autostrada. His joyous ridiculous seared expression showed he felt it too.
    She tried to collect herself while he reversed the Land Rover into a spot that clearly indicated the illegality of parking in front of a church across the little square. “This is so wonderful!” he said, when he’d sprinted back. “But not amazing, no.” He looked embarrassed, clicked his heels together, looked even more embarrassed. “Permit me. I am very forward. My name is Gianpaulo DiGiustini. I will hope to prove my correct intent.” With the same determined but self-conscious look, he began pulling out identification: his driver’s licence, his identity card, his library card, his membership in the cooperative where he took his olives to be processed, the badge proving he regularly donated blood,
    â€œOh, stop. Stop it! Please. It is amazing. It’s wonderful. I agree.”
    â€œAnd so you will believe the reason I have driven up behind you on the autostrada, the other day? I don’t need to prove I am not what you might call a highway masher?”
    â€œI’ll believe anything you say.”
    â€œYou will not try to make another getaway?”
    Not a chance. The danger was in walking down the street together without setting the place on fire. All those sparks shooting back and forth, the whole street glowing, maybe even radioactive, her boots turning into ruby shoes. As they walked to a café table on the piazza, Gianni was greeted by one person after another, mainly women all happy to kiss him on both cheeks, and a young giant of a man with a Russian name who came bounding out of the
tabaccheria
, also to kiss this Gianni on both cheeks before he stooped to kiss Clare’s hand.
    â€œWhew, I’m dying for a cappuccino,” she said as they sat down.
    He glanced at his watch. “If you wish. All the same I believe the hour for that has passed.”
    â€œIs it so strictly controlled here?”
    â€œNot for North Americans of course. But I would suggest a small Cinzano so close to noon.”
    â€œI’ll have a glass of prosecco, then. And an espresso on the side.”
    THE SAME WAITER WHO had earlier brought her the
correzione
came to their table. Maybe she should thank its lingering effect for the buzz she was feeling. She studied this electric Gianni when he took his eyes off her for a moment. The upturned chin had both the noble determination of the coin-face in the book, and a hint of the same childish petulance.
    She said, “I noticed you have a unicorn above your licence plate. Is that significant?”
    He narrowed his eyes. “Do you believe in the unicorn?”
    She said, “Yes and no.”
    â€œAh!” He sat back, smiling. “So you hedge your bets.”
    When the prosecco came, he lifted his glass. A flush spread across his face.
    â€œ
Salute
…” he began, with the expression of someone about to make a speech no matter what. He started again. “
Salute
, ROMA 5984W.”
    â€œHello?”
    â€œThis is your licence number, is it not?”
    â€œI have no idea.”
    â€œBut you must understand that this number has been embroidered on my cerebral cortex for the last three days.”
    â€œThat sounds sore.”
    â€œSore?” He frowned, assessing this so carefully that Clare could almost see the stitches going in. “No please,” he said, “Do not smile too soon. I confess, when I pulled up behind you on the highway, I was just a man doing a good deed for a woman in a very plain, disguising hat who might have been in trouble. Then we saw each other in your mirror. Just your eyes, I