Walking loosened the joints and circulated the blood, and after two blocks he was moving briskly and feeling much better. The Fiat was five minutes away. He stood on the sidewalk staring at it. The narrow street was lined on both sides by compact cars parked bumper to bumper, leaving between them a single lane of traffic headed north, to the center of Parma. The street was dark, quiet, empty of traffic. Behind the Fiat was a lime green Smart car, a model slightly larger than a decent-sized go-kart, and its front bumper was about ten inches from Signor Bruncardo's Fiat. To the front was a white Citroen, not much larger than the Smart car and wedged in just as tightly.
Dislodging the Fiat would be a challenge even for a driver with years of stick-shift experience. A quick glance right and left to make sure no one was stirring on Via Antini, then Rick unlocked the car and crawled in as sharp pains shot through his joints. He wiggled the stick to make sure it was in neutral, tried to unfold his legs, checked the parking brake, then started the engine. Lights on, gauges up, plenty of fuel, where was the heater? He adjusted mirrors, the seat, the seat belt, and for a good five minutes went through the preflight as the Fiat warmed itself. Not a single car, scooter, or bike passed him on the street. Once the windshield was defrosted, there was no reason for further delays. His rising heart rate angered him, but he tried to ignore it. This was just a car with a clutch, and not even his car at that. He released the parking brake, held his breath, and nothing happened. Via Antini happens to be quite flat.
Foot on clutch, ease into first, a touch of accelerator, turn the wheel hard to the right, so far so good. A check of the mirror, no traffic, let's go. Rick eased off the clutch and gave it some gas, but gave it too much. The engine growled, he let off the clutch, and the Fiat lurched forward and bumped the Citroen just as he slammed the brake. Red gauge lights lit up the dash, and it took a few seconds to realize the car had died. He quickly turned the key while shifting into reverse and pressing the clutch and pulling on the parking brake and cursing under his breath while glancing over his shoulder at the street. No one was coming. No one was watching. The trip in reverse was as rough as the one forward, and when he tapped the Smart car, he hit the brake again and the engine died. Now he cursed loudly, no effort to keep the language under control. He took a deep breath and decided not to inspect the damage; there really wasn't any, he decided. Just a little nudge. Damned guy deserved it for parking on top of the Fiat. His hands moved quickly--steering, ignition, stick, parking brake. Why was he using the brake? His feet were all over the place, tap-dancing wildly from clutch to brake to gas. He roared forward again, barely nicking the Citroen before stopping, but this time the engine did not die. Progress. The Fiat was halfway in the street; still no traffic. Quickly into reverse again, but a bit too quickly and he lurched back, his head snapping and sore muscles aching. He hit the Smart car much harder the second time, and the Fiat was dead. His language was out of control as he again glanced around, looking for spectators.
She just appeared. He hadn't noticed her walking down the sidewalk. She stood there as if she'd been standing for hours, her body draped in a long wool overcoat, her head wrapped in a yellow shawl. An old woman with an old dog on a leash, out for the morning stroll, and now stopped dead by the violent pinball action of a copper-colored Fiat driven by an idiot.
Their eyes met. Her scowl and heavily wrinkled face conveyed exactly what she was thinking. Rick's wild desperation was quite evident. He stopped cursing for a second. The dog was staring, too, some type of frail terrier with a look as perplexed as the master's. It took a second for Rick to realize she was not the owner of either of the cars he was pounding; of course she wasn't. She was a pedestrian, and before she could call the cops, if she were so inclined, he'd be gone. He hoped. Anyway, he started to say something like "What the hell are you looking at?" But then, she wouldn't understand, and she would probably realize he was an American. A sudden patriotism sealed his lips. With the front of the car jutting into the street, he had no time for a stare-down. He jerked his head arrogantly back to the matters at hand, re-shifting and restarting and urging himself to work the gas and the clutch with perfect coordination so the Fiat could finally roll away and be gone, leaving his audience behind. He pressed the gas hard, the engine strained again, and he slowly released the clutch as he turned the wheel hard and barely missed the Citroen. Free at last, he was rolling now, along Via Antini, the Fiat still in first and straining mightily. He made the mistake of one last triumphant look at the woman and the dog. He saw her brown teeth; she was laughing at him. The dog was barking and pulling on the leash, also amused. Rick had memorized the streets along his escape route, no small feat since many were narrow, one-way, and often confusing. He worked his way south, shifting only when necessary, and soon hit Viale Berenini, a major street with a few cars and delivery trucks moving about. He stopped at a red light, shifted into first, and prayed no one would stop behind him. He waited for the green, then lurched forward without killing the engine. Atta boy. He was surviving. He crossed the Parma River on the Ponte Italia, and a quick glance revealed quiet waters below. He was away from downtown now, and there was even less traffic. The target was Viale Vittoria, a wide, sweeping four-lane avenue that circled the west side of Parma. Very flat and almost deserted in the predawn darkness. Perfect for practice.
For an hour, as day broke over the city, Rick drove up and down the wonderfully level street. The clutch was dragging a bit halfway down, and this slight problem captured his attention. However, after an hour of diligent work he was gaining confidence, and he and the Fiat were becoming one. Sleep was no longer an option; he was far too impressed with his new talent. In a wide median, he practiced parking within the yellow lines, back and forth, back and forth until he grew bored. He was quite confident now, and he noticed a bar near Piazza Santa Croce. Why not? He was feeling more Italian by the minute, and he needed caffeine. He parked again, turned off the engine, and enjoyed a brisk walk. The streets were busy now, the city had come to life. The bar was full and noisy, and his first inclination was to make a quick exit and return to the safety of his Fiat. But no, he had signed on for five months, and he would not spend that time on the run. He walked to a bar, caught the attention of a barista, and said, "Espresso." The barista nodded to a corner where a plump lady sat behind a cash register. The barista had no interest in making an espresso for Rick, who retreated a step and again thought about fleeing. A well-dressed businessman entered in a rush, holding at least two newspapers and a briefcase, and walked directly to the cashier. "Buongiorno," he said, and she offered the same. "Caffe," he said as he pulled out a five-euro note. She took it, made change, and handed him a receipt. He took the receipt direcdy to the counter and laid it where one of the baristas could plainly see it. A barista finally took it, they exchanged "buongiornos," and everything worked fine. Within seconds a small cup and saucer landed on die counter, and the businessman, already deep in front-page news, added sugar, stirred, then demolished the drink in one long gulp.
So that's how you do it. Rick walked to the cashier, mumbled a passable "Buongiorno" and flung over a five-euro note of his own before the lady could respond. She made change and handed him a magical receipt. As he stood at the counter and sipped his coffee, he absorbed the frenzy of the bar. Most of the people were on their way to work, and they seemed to know one anodier. Some talked nonstop, while others were buried in newspapers. The baristas worked feverishly, but never wasted a step. They bantered in rapid Italian and were quick to return quips from their customers. Away from the counters there were tables where waiters in white aprons delivered coffee and bottled water and all manner of pastries. Rick was suddenly hungry, in spite of the truckload of carbs he had consumed just a few hours earlier at Polipo's. A shelf of sweet rolls caught his attention, and he desperately wanted one covered with chocolate and cream. But how to get it? He wouldn't dare open his mouth, not with so many people within earshot. Perhaps the cashier in the corner would be sympathetic to an American who could only point.