The Reluctant Tuscan (23 page)

I wished I could be different, but how much do people really change at their core? And how much can the person they live with expect them to change? Where did her right to have her dream end and mine begin?

 

 

By the time
we got on the Autostrada outside of Florence, it was almost two in the morning. We drove in groggy silence, mesmerized by the hum of the tires, and squinting at the occasional oncoming headlights.

I was numb with exhaustion, but unbidden thoughts kept flapping around inside my head because I needed to figure out what I was going to do. Nancy and I were not getting along. It wasn't anybody's fault, just the old familiar case of two people wanting or needing different things. And as much as I hated to face it, perhaps some time apart might do us some good.

Maybe I needed go back to L.A. and chill for a while. Let her stay here and deal with the problems. I knew that I was running away, which I was good at, but what was the point of being together when we were at each other throats all day?

And what was the point of keeping the house in Brentwood if I was going to be the only one living there? So maybe we should sell it. Take the money and split it. She could spend hers on the
rustico
, and I could get myself a little place in the Hollywood Hills. Nothing fancy, just your basic little bachelor pad . . .

Is that what I'd be . . . a bachelor? And is that what I wanted? To be alone? With no one by my side as I got old? And died? A wave of despair swept over me. I started to panic at the thought of how radically different my life was about to become, and I suddenly needed air. I rolled down my window and a rush of cold wind roared in.

“I'm freezing,” Nancy said.

“Sorry.” I rolled the window up. “I didn't want us to get drowsy.”

“I'm fine.”

“Sure you don't want to pull over? Get some coffee?”

“You have to go to the bathroom, don't you?”

Why was she always doing that? Treating me like I was three. And why did I keep getting mad at everything she said? How did it go so wrong so fast? Jesus, you hear about this kind of thing all the time. A couple's been together for years, then suddenly he retires or the kids move out, and the next thing you know, they're splitting up, because without all the distractions they've got nothing to say to each other.

I started to get depressed, because even though we still loved each other, Nancy and I might become one of those stories. And as comforting as it would have been to wallow in self-pity, I couldn't afford that indulgence right now. I had lost my career and I was losing my wife. Life was throwing me a gutter ball, so it was time to suck it up and bowl for the spare. I wasn't dead yet, and as bad as Hollywood had treated me, they couldn't take away my pen. I could still keep writing and . . . well, if things didn't work out between Nancy and me, who says I had to die alone? Last time I checked, there were still lots of women in southern California. Beautiful women. Actresses, models, spokespersons. Yeah, maybe this wouldn't be so bad.

But did I really want to be with another woman? Listen to her life story and tell her mine, while both of us pretended to be interested? Go through that weird, awkward stage that lasts for months until you feel comfortable enough to burp (or worse) in front of each other? Put up with a whole new set of annoying little habits, like her running to floss after every meal or punctuating everything she says with inappropriate laughter? It seemed like so much work and effort, unless, of course, she happened to be a really great-looking young chick in her twenties. I thought for a moment about my agent's assistant, Greta, lingering on those inevitable tan lines.

Hmm, that definitely made it more interesting. But people in their twenties can be so crazy and needy. And they listen to that God-awful headbanger music. I have a friend my age who loves younger women because, as he likes to say, “They have shorter stories.” But every time I see him with a twenty-something on his arm, I want to laugh because he looks old enough to be her ancestor. Besides, how could I keep up with a girl that age? She'd want to go out clubbing, and I'm dozing off by nine-thirty. And what about performing sexually? I'd have to walk around with a Viagra drip in my arm.

Okay, so maybe she didn't have to be so young. There were plenty of great women in their forties and fifties out there. I could think of two or three right off the bat. Most were ex-wives of friends of ours, and they were smart, attractive, and interesting. But if they had all been divorced, what was wrong with them? What did their ex-husbands know that I had yet to discover? Maybe they were crazy, and needy, and listened to that God-awful headbanger music. And what if one of their ex-husbands started hitting on Nancy? How would I feel about that?

Maybe I was thinking about this all wrong. Instead of instinctively looking to pair up with some hapless woman, perhaps I should use this period of my life to learn and grow. Devote this time to just me. Really get to know myself and understand my deepest underlying motives. Develop as a person by reaching out in bold new directions and, for the first time in my life, begin to honor the strength and power buried deep inside me.

Nah, that'd never work.

Our headlights brushed across the exit sign to Cambione in Collina, and as Nancy steered us toward the off-ramp, I noticed that her eyes were noticeably drooping.

“Let's not go in to work tomorrow,” I said, trying to make a joke.

“Uh huh,” she replied, in a voice that was tired and faraway.

I was glad we were so close to home, and as the car entered that familiar Y-shaped intersection that led us into Cambione, I opened the CD case. I flipped through it until I came across something that was lively enough to keep us awake. I was just about to take it out of its sleeve when I looked up.

There was a blur of color behind a blinding flash of headlights heading straight at us. Nancy slammed on the brakes, but the oncoming car ate up the distance in a nanosecond, and all I could do was widen my eyes in disbelief as the BMW crashed into us head-on.

T
he BMW was a big one. A 500 Series sedan that outweighed our Volkswagen by a thousand pounds. We were halfway through the Y of the intersection when the Beemer blew the red light and slammed into us at forty miles an hour. The point of impact was just to the left of dead center, puncturing the radiator and driving it into the engine so hard, our motor was sheared clear off its mounts.

We were whipped back hard against our seats and then hurled forward just as the air bags inflated. The car filled with what I thought was smoke but was really propellant from the air bags. That ghostly white vapor, coupled with steam shooting out of the radiator, made me think the car was on fire.

I screamed for Nancy to get out, but the pop of the air bags had so deafened me, I couldn't even hear the sound of my own voice. I reached out for her, but she was all blurry. I touched my face and realized that the air bag had knocked off my glasses. I was looking around for them when I saw blood on my shirt and realized my nose was bleeding.

My door was wrenched open and a cluster of Italians peered in. I undid my seat belt as a set of hands helped me out of the car. Somebody tried to unbuckle Nancy's seat belt, but when they touched her shoulder, she bellowed in pain.

A good Samaritan had set off a highway flare and was using it to guide the stalled traffic trying to get around us. The flare made the night reek of sulfur as it bathed the scene in an eerie smoke, tinted red from the taillights.

I got to my feet and started wandering through the debris field. Even though I could feel my shoes crunching on crystals of shattered glass, I felt as if I were floating above this surrealistic landscape. I took a wobbly step and a young guy latched on to my arm to steady me while his girlfriend handed me a handkerchief for my nose.

They led me over to where Nancy was sitting on the curb with her head between her knees, as a couple of people stood over her, excitedly reliving the details of the accident. I laid my hand on Nancy's shoulder and she looked up at me. Her eyes were glassy, her breathing was shallow, and I got very frightened.

“She tell me she got a big headache,” a young Italian woman said to me in English.

“Huh?” I pointed to my ears and moved in closer so I could at least read her lips if she was, indeed, speaking English.

“My husband he call for an ambulance,” she hollered. “They come here right away.”

“Thank you,” I said with profound gratitude.
“Grazie mille.”

I went back to survey the damage and search for my glasses. The two cars were still locked together, but while the BMW had suffered only sheet-metal damage, the entire front end of our Polo was crunched up like a cheap accordion. I pried open a door, and after feeling around in the dark, I found my glasses in the crack between the seat and the console. They were twisted and bent, but I managed to rest them on my face. I still couldn't hear, but at least I could now see.

An elderly man in a white linen suit came over and started hollering at me. I realized that he was the other driver and his aggressive attitude was somehow meant to make this our fault. I distinctly remembered our light being green as we came through the intersection, but who knows? Perhaps it would come down to his word against ours . . . he was Italian and we were
stranieri
.

I tried to respond to his accusations, but my attention was drawn to the arrival of the ambulance. The paramedics jumped out and huddled around Nancy, checking her eye movements with a flashlight and taking her pulse. I worked my way into the knot of people surrounding her, and found myself next to the lady who had spoken to me in English. She explained that the paramedics were concerned about a concussion, so they were taking her to the hospital. I watched helplessly as they loaded Nancy on a gurney and wheeled her toward the ambulance. Walking alongside it, I told her that I would stay and deal with the police and the car, and that I would get to where they were taking her, although I had no idea how. I stopped talking when I realized how disoriented she looked, as if she couldn't understand what had happened to us. I smiled at her and squeezed her hand, and she smiled back as they loaded her in the ambulance, slammed the door, and drove off into the night.

I felt alone, dazed, and confused. For some odd reason, even though I still couldn't hear anything, my ears filled with music. The tenor's voice from the concert was saying just what I was feeling.

Just then, the carabinieri pulled up. There was only one, actually, and as he got out of his patrol car, I recognized him as the tall, skinny Barney Fife who had left his Uzi in our trunk. He seemed overwhelmed as he took out his notepad and began asking questions. The other driver got to him first and, pointing at me, launched into an invective-filled rant. I tried to object, but when the skinny carabieniere turned his questioning to me, I was scarcely able to hear what he was saying, or even understand the words if I could.

The guy in the linen suit took this as proof of our guilt, but the wonderful lady who spoke English cut him off. Speaking alternately to the cop in Italian and to me in English, she testified that she and her husband had been in the car directly behind us, and that we had had the green light. Moreover, she pointed to another man in the crowd who had been in his car sitting at the red light when the other driver roared past him and smashed into us. Besides, the lady said with no small amount of disdain, she could tell from his license plates that the other driver was from Massa, and we all know how badly they drive!

But the other driver wouldn't give up, adamantly hurling the blame back at us. As he steamed through this tirade, I noticed that he was leaning against the patrol car for support and that his eyes were bloodshot. Calling upon my limited, but sometimes appropriate, Italian vocabulary, I pointed to him and shouted,
“Lui è ubriaco!”
He's drunk!

I didn't know the word for “Breathalyzer,” so I pantomimed for the cop to test him. The cop paused, looked into the other driver's eyes, and then, with a flap of his hand, declared that the guy looked okay to him. How differently, I thought, this would have played out if it had happened on the Pacific Coast Highway instead of the Via Aurelia.

Now came the filling out of the accident report. I went back to the car and fetched the registration and our insurance information, and when I got back, the carabiniere was taking down the other driver's statement. As the guy in the linen suit described the incident, he repeatedly referred to his own car as a Bee-Em-Voo, which is how Italians pronounce the letter
W
. The carabiniere would then repeat “Bee-Em-Voo” as he wrote down what the other driver had said. And, oddly enough, each time one of them said “Bee-Em-Voo,” I started to giggle, until they were both looking at me like I was the one who was
ubriaco
.

With the help of the lady who spoke English, I was able to give the cop our version of what had happened. He was impressed with the accuracy and the sincerity of her corroborating testimony, and she went to great pains to make sure I had both her phone number and the numbers of other drivers who had also witnessed the accident.

The way these people rallied around me, not only a stranger but a foreigner, made me feel guilty about all the unflattering things I may have thought about them. Here it was three-thirty in the morning, and nobody left until they were sure I was okay.

Even the carabiniere was sympathetic, getting on his radio and ordering the ambulance driver to come back for me and take me to the hospital so I could be with my wife. And when the tow truck arrived, a bunch of people helped me collect all the personal items in our car.