Matala Read Free

smile and heavy open arms. It was perfect. I understood little of what the woman said. This girl, however, this Darcy, whoever she was, said something back to the woman in Italian—only a couple of words, but the woman laughed happily and waved us inside. And, oh, it was perfect, the smells so rich and thick they almost made me sick. It had been so long. And this Darcy got it, too, and went all goofy over it, and I, well, I didn’t. I just kept it cool, watching her, but inside I felt as goofy as she acted. How weird that you could be standing there, starving, watching the river with nothing, no prospects, no chance, and all of a sudden here you were.
    I sucked down all the good dark-crusted bread and then lifted the wicker basket and shook it, but the waiter pretended not to notice. It was only when Darcy said, “ Per favore, signore. Un, uh, un po’ di più, ” that the ass hurried over, simpering and tipping his head, and took the empty basket away. When he brought more, I ate that, too, spread thickly with white butter, and it was so chewy fresh and good, I could’ve just had that and been satisfied. I felt the molecules breaking apart and moving into my body, filling my spaces, my cells, rebuilding me.
    We’d been scrapping too long this time, and I could feel myself getting worn out by the hardness of it, the emptiness. There was something wrong with Justine. Always before, she managed things, she taught me, and we did well. We could take whatever we needed and live on it nicely, in whatever ways we chose, but now we were stuck.
    I ate. I ate the salad and the mosticelli and the veal and yet more of the bread and a plate of fruit and tiramisu, and I could’ve eaten more, but this was fine. Darcy ate some, too, but mostly she drank and watched me. When she ordered a second bottle of the house Chianti, I took off my jacket, finally, and leaned back and felt my belly straining nicely at my shirt.
    â€œWhen’s the last time you ate?” she asked.
    â€œFew days. It’s been a little lean lately.”
    â€œWho’s Bill?”
    My shirt was one of those blue-and-white-striped jobs they wore in the service stations back home, with the name Bill embroidered on a red patch over the breast pocket. I couldn’t even remember anymore where I picked it up.
    â€œYours,” I said. “Thanks for asking.” I laughed, expecting that she would, too. It was pretty funny if you think about it, a nice little joke on the whole situation, and humor was a big part of it after all. Or it should be anyway. The old give-and-take. But she didn’t even smile, just kind of rolled her eyes.
    â€œThe truth is, I really am totally busted,” I said. “But I’ll pay you back. Seriously.”
    â€œWhen would you do that?”
    â€œWhen—”
    â€œI mean how? Will you track me down?”
    I shrugged.
    â€œCan I just buy you dinner?”
    â€œSure,” I said. “Yes. Thank you.”
    She was with twenty or so other American students, she told me, on this very organized unspontaneous tour of the art and architecture of the Continent, six weeks, ten cities. Tomorrow it was on to Florence and then northward and westward, until they ended up in London. She’d gotten away this afternoon just by walking out of the hotel without telling anyone. She was in trouble. She’d hear about it when she got back.
    I told her I was just a traveler. I’d been on the Continent over a year already and on the road for two. She seemed to get off on this, going all dreamy again and shaking her head as if she could hardly imagine it. And the truth was, she couldn’t. She had no idea. So in exchange for a good meal I’d be her little slum-side experience, the rough edge that would pull all the beautiful crap she’d see into a new focus.

    W HEN I GOT BACK, AS I passed the check-in desk and went into the hostel’s dim foyer, three different