Five hours later, the city finally appeared through the porthole. The small brownish-beige houses arranged in almost regular rows along the valley for some reason reminded Lera of diced fudge sold in a shop near her home. The standard announcement came from the speaker:
"Signori e signori, per favore prendete i vostri posti e allaccate le cinture. Arriviamo all'aeroporto di Fiumicino – Leonardo Da Vinci. Grazie."
Lera looked impatiently at the seaside town over which the plane was circling. After successfully overcoming all those usual "Buona Sera! Qual è lo scopo della sua visita in Italia?" she, with her huge suitcase, finally boarded the Leonardo da Vinci Express, which would take her to the centre of Rome in half an hour.
Everything seemed unreal to Lera. The people around her were chatting loudly in Italian, smiling unusually frequently and gesturing a lot. This relaxed, cheerful crowd, so different from the gloomy Muscovites, finally made Lera feel like she was far from home. All the surroundings were a bit unfamiliar. Everyone was new. Absolutely nothing reminded her of her usual life. It was relaxing.
It was like Lera was escaping from something and had finally managed to break free. With each new mile, some invisible tension left the girl and a faint smile appeared on her face. She didn't even realise how she straightened her back and stood up straighter.
Getting to Testaccio, where Lera had booked a room, was not difficult. However, during the journey, Lera said goodbye several times to her life, while a taxi driver, who was crazy like all Roman drivers, rushed her through the streets of an ancient city with screaming tyres and illegal U-turns.
Most of all, Lera was worried about the fact that, for most of the way, the taxi driver was sitting facing her, constantly waving his right hand and lisping "Che bella ragazza!" in all possible variants at her. So, Lera herself was the only person in the car looking at the road.
Only when Lera's eyes became ideally round with horror, did the driver reluctantly turn right ahead to jerk the steering wheel, wave his hand through the open window, and yell, "Chi ti ha insegnato a guidare?!". Then everything repeated. Lera was more than ever glad Rome was half the size of Moscow. Her nerves could not handle a longer trip.
Rome welcomed her with warmth. Lera giggled at local dwellers wrapped in down jackets. A light coat was enough for herself. Passers-by looked on at her in disbelief, like saying, these turisti were completely mad if they could walk around naked in such frosty weather.
Lera entered the hotel with a serious face of russa turista, but as soon as the girl tipped the porter and closed the door, all assumed seriousness flew off her. Lera ran forward with a girlish squeal and jumped into bed to bury herself in pillows and blankets, stifling laughter. Tired of freaking out, she went to the window and opened it wide. She leaned over the broad sill and inhaled fresh air of freedom with all her chest.
The room overlooked the Tiber technically, but the view was obscured by trees that grew thickly along the embankment. The river burned with fiery flashes in the setting sun's rays, sending fervent sunbeams through the leafless crowns.
Lera, without undressing, rushed back into the hallway to jump into high-heeled boots and run outside. The muddy Tiber, clad in stone, was slowly rolling south towards the sea, where Lera's plane had landed. The girl leaned against the stone parapet and looked at the river for a long time. That night, she slept peacefully, like in her childhood. Everything was fine.
The next morning, Lera got up nearly before sunrise and hurried out. Yesterday, during her extreme taxi ride, the girl realised that the ten days she had left were too short to see everything. So she would have to rush.
Even the damned morning ritual of taking pills did not cause her usual desire to turn her stomach inside out this time. This time, Lera put on comfortable sneakers and went out in search of new experiences.
It was the thirty-first of December. This was almost an ordinary day in Italy. The Christmas holidays were over, but the city was not in a hurry to get rid of the festive decorations. Decorated Christmas trees were everywhere, and tipsy tourists wearing cheap Santa hats walked the streets.
At first glance, it seemed unclear whether they had crawled out of their hiding places and started having fun or whether they hadn't yet managed to return home to their hibernation spots to get themselves sober. It was a peaceful sight! Lera enjoyed this festive atmosphere, breathing it in, drinking it up.
By the end of the day, Lera had trampled Capitol Hill and wanted to rest her aching legs and pamper yourself in honour of the upcoming New Year holiday. At random she went to the first restaurant in Sant'Angelo she spotted hoping for nothing – the very centre of Rome on New Year's Eve.
Imagine Lera's surprise when il cameriere pointed out a tiny empty table in the corner. That table was large enough only for a glass and a little saucer to place it on, but Lera didn't need more.
It was warm in the restaurant and there were delicious smells of a food from the kitchen and pine needles from wreaths hanging on the walls. Lera squinted like a cat who got warm and lazily watched passers-by hurrying home for the holiday outside the window.
She ordered a spumante and a cake with a huge cap of air cream. On top of the cream was a tiny hemisphere of reddish jelly – the pulp of the prickly pear fruit, frico d'India. A dessert spoon glittered on a beautifully folded napkin, and, looking at it, Lera felt a devil jumping on her left shoulder. The imp tugged at her ear demandingly and smiled toothily.
Lera looked around furtively, made sure no one was watching her, bent down and took the fruit pulp with her lips with inexpressible pleasure. Her face was smeared with cream, which had to be licked off for a long time with giggles. After making sure no one paid attention to her hooliganism, she drank half a glass of wine in one go.
The bubbles instantly hit her nose, and a minute later they passed through an absolutely empty stomach and reached her very heart, warming it. The imp on her left shoulder straightened up, swayed drunkenly, looked around and rubbed his hands in anticipation.
Lera looked after him. Instantly got tipsy, she was eager to continue her hooliganism. Looking around the small room, she saw a beautiful polished minion standing in the corner. She stretched her fingers to check if they were warm enough and, with confidence fuelled by the spumante flowing through her veins, began to make her way towards the instrument.
****
Marco was sitting in a restaurant, slowly sipping wine from a glass. He didn't feel like eating or going home. The only thing waiting for him at home was a mess made by Marco himself that no one would clean up during the Christmas weekend.
He and Paola separated almost two months ago and for some reason, the loneliness was especially acute today. He didn’t want to see Paola, their relationship had outlived its usefulness and ended surprisingly quietly. When they broke up, they both felt nothing but relief. Marco didn’t actually know what he wanted.
The couples and groups around him were annoying. Everyone was wearing red for the New Year, they were celebrating, laughing and taking pictures. Marco sat alone, twirling his glass with his fingertips. Not even the wonderful smells from the kitchen tempted him.
All Marco's muscles were aching frantically – today Giorgio had tormented him with special frenzy. At the end of training, Marco cursed the author who had invented the fighting scenes in the book, the screenwriters who had brought these scenes to the forefront, and himself for getting involved in this adventure.
The director was delighted with Marco's acting, but his fighting skills were not up to scratch. Well, Marco had never fought! He preferred noble ways to sort things out, and he loved team sports rather than this scuffle.
Unfortunately, it was very obvious on the screen. Marco confessed that his attempts to hit the face of an imaginary opponent were pathetic. However, Marco Guerriero did not shy away from difficulties!