Alys couldn’t sleep. She’d never laid next to someone before and cried silently. For a whole hour she’d done it. Shame for thinking that Romy would want to spend her life with her when really what she wanted was a boy like Chad.
She got out of bed and dressed. She picked up her backpack and guitar and crept down the stairs. She swiped a box of matches and Romy’s hand-drawn map. A soft click as the door closed behind her.
The air was night-pungent and carried the sound of owls. She didn’t know which way to go and the roiling sway of panic made her queasy. But once her eyes had adjusted, she could see the night was blistered with stars and the dirt road glowed as pale as breadcrumbs through the trees. She carried her guitar like a club and walked on ahead.
In the darkness, the fear lessened, and she was left with the quiet spill of sadness. She didn’t understand how their love could end with a boy. Was this how it would always be? She felt all wrong again and she’d missed a turning and ended up in front of a gate. She lit a match and held it by the map. That was when Peg rose in her, defiant and clear. Back that way and fuck anyone who says otherwise. Peg led the way for the rest of the night, head up and switchblade sharp. And fuck that Romy fucking Peller, said Peg. You’re better than ten of her. Keep to the left now. There you go. You’re almost there.
Five minutes later the piazza opened out before her. Streetlights still on and the Villa Aurora hotel lit. Alys went inside and blagged a phone call. It was hard to keep it together now she knew she was safe.
The phone rang in the pensione and Cress picked up.
Slow down, Mrs Peller, he said. What missing keys? Where? A villa in Fiesole? Cress scribbled directions onto a notepad.
No, no I’ll go. You keep the home fires burning. No, not literally, Mrs Peller, and Cress hung up.
He wrote a note to Ulysses and grabbed his crash helmet. Claude said, I’m coming too, old man. And Cress said, Appreciate it.
Cress had just got to the door when the phone rang again. He ran back and picked up. Mrs Peller, I’m— Alys? That you, sweetheart? Cress listened. Stay where you are and don’t move. I’m coming.
Cress climbed on the motorbike and fired up the engine. He pulled down his goggles and Claude hopped into the sidecar. Cress sped off along Via Mazzetta, took a sharp left into Via Maggio and another onto the Lungarno Guicciardini. He missed a red light and gunned it across the bridge. Along Borgo Ognissanti he leant low into the handlebars, his body streamlined, shorts billowing, man and machine moving as one. Suddenly, the wail of a police siren settled in behind him. Claude popped up from the sidecar to see what was happening. Oh bugger, he said. Cress was in no mood for police interference and he told Claude to hang on tight whilst he tried to shake off the cop. Top speed now and a few blue feathers were launched into the slipstream. Cress managed to get to Via il Prato before he was forced to slow down and finally stop. Cress, giddy from the chase, watched the policeman in his rear-view mirror. The flare of lights pulsed across the road. What we gonna do? said Claude. Leave the talking to me, said Cress.
The policeman stood in front of Cress and asked for his documentation, and when Cress removed his goggles and helmet, this wasn’t the man the police officer had expected to see at the controls of a Moto Guzzi Falcone. And certainly not with a blue parrot in the sidecar.
Before the policeman could say anything further, Cress held up his hand impatiently and explained in Italian that if the policeman was going to give him a ticket could he please issue it quickly, because he was in a hurry.
Why in a hurry? said the policeman.
An emergenza, said Cress.
What type of emergenza?
Cress stayed silent.
Signore?
Tell him! shouted Claude.
My granddaughter. She ran away to experience the nascent stirrings of love （le nascenti agitazioni dell’amore – Cress remembered the words from a poem） and now love has run away from her. She’s somewhere up there – and he pointed to the black hills – cradling a broken heart, attempting to understand the complexity of human emotion. Why it’s left her diminished when not long ago she felt like a conqueror. And here am I thinking what words can give the experience value. How to explain to her that the improbability of love, which she feels will last forever, will one day shine its light again. What words of consolation can be offered? What words of reassurance can I give her that a life lived without the object of her love is still worthwhile and hers for the taking?
And? said the policeman.
Claude turned expectantly to Cress.
There are no words, officer. Just me turning up and telling her how loved she is. And always will be.