There was something going on, thought Lojacono. There was definitely something going on.
Or more than just something.
It had been obvious from the beginning of the evening, from the instant he’d come face-to-face with her, made up and dressed to the nines—high heels and slit skirt under her short overcoat—in the parking lot of the Hall of Justice, as if she were leaving a beauty parlor, her hair perfectly coiffed, scarlet lipstick gleaming and long earrings glittering in the light of the streetlamp.
It had been obvious as well for three lawyers who’d crossed paths with her, elbowing each other as they turned to eye her from behind as she strode away, though only after greeting her respectfully when face-to-face with her, and equally obvious to a couple of young men loitering nearby, as they’d opened their big yaps to express their shameless and overt appreciation.
And it had been especially obvious when, climbing into his beat-up compact as if stepping into a Bentley, she’d brushed his lips with a rapid, surprising kiss.
Lojacono, wearing the only decent suit he owned, had immediately felt inadequate to the challenge. Because of his car, his shoes, his extremely ordinary aftershave; because he hadn’t bothered to get a haircut, because he didn’t have enough money to take her out to some stunning restaurant; because of the rudimentary conversation he could offer her, what you’d expect from a policeman, because of the Sicilian accent that he generally flaunted with pride, but which was so distant from the polished language that her drooling colleagues, the other assistant district attorneys, could bring to bear.
The sensation of inadequacy only worsened when, determined to park courteously and legally, and therefore spurning all the cheap and easy options, the sidewalks, the spots marked handicapped only, the no parking zones, the apartment building driveways and the pedestrian crosswalks, he was forced to leave the car several hundred yards from the restaurant’s front door, forcing the woman to take an unexpected walk on her high heels. But she surprised him by resting her weight on his arm with a tender intimacy that he never would have dared to imagine.
The stroll to the restaurant was easygoing and cheerful, because Laura kept making fun of herself and the way she wobbled and swayed in her high heels on the uneven pavement; it was also intriguing and alluring because of the weight of the prosperous breast that he could feel swaying against his biceps. A distant but audible siren song, calling out to his senses, through the layers of cloth of the two overcoats, the two jackets, a bra and a blouse and a shirt. In spite of the terrible cold, he wished it would never end.
Lojacono had identified the restaurant during his anxious preparations for the evening out, focusing first and foremost on his determination not to run into anyone else who might happen to know them.
It was a discreet, cozy place, with a panoramic plate-glass window overlooking the sea, and the kitchen put a lively new spin on classic Neapolitan cooking; the reviews were excellent. Even though the table offered a breathtaking view, it was reasonably private, set off to one side from the center of the dining room.
For the lieutenant, the situation began to spin out of control the minute he had helped Laura out of her overcoat.
Piras had decided to weigh in with her heaviest armaments. The dress that she’d brought in to headquarters in her handbag, only to put it on in her own office, behind a locked door, was the fruit of a well considered choice made at the end of a long and, for her, highly unusual session of clothes shopping in the center of town. Up top, it presented a plunging neckline that only a woman with a remarkable bosom could dare to wear. Luckily she’d had the good sense to bring a silk shawl as well, so as to limit the spectacle somewhat. She’d put it on almost immediately, otherwise most of the customers and the male staff would have had a hard time directing their attention elsewhere, but for Lojacono the damage was already done. The wave of physical attraction that he’d felt steadily rising within him since the day they’d first met had now received an explicit visual confirmation, and the dinner became, in his head, a prelude to the moment when he’d finally hold the woman in his arms.
They had a wonderful night out. They talked about shared acquaintances and the city, that strange place, so difficult and yet so lovely, exotic to them both, yet which offered such alluring opportunities. Lojacono admitted that the fact that they’d met, for instance, gave him a more benevolent feeling toward the numerous negative characteristics that so annoyed him.
They tacitly chose not to talk about the past, even though they each would have been curious to know more about and better understand the other’s loneliness: they didn’t want to run the risk of letting sadness or melancholy cast a dark veil over that long-awaited evening out.
Laura ran her eyes over Lojacono’s facial features, his shoulders, his broad, powerful hands. She sensed a surge of weakness growing beneath her sternum, and one part of her chastised the other part for having kept it so long under lock and key. She wanted him. She had wanted him the minute she met him, she was sure of that now. This was the first time such a thing had happened to her, at least since she had attained the consciousness of a real woman. Her mind went back to Carlo, her first boyfriend, the man she thought would be the only one in her life, dead so many years now, and the occasional flings of the years that followed, flings that had left not a trace on the surface of her heart. She compared those emotions with the wonderfully unsettled feelings that filled her now, as she ate and laughed her way through a dinner whose flavors she’d never remember, and she realized that she couldn’t miss that opportunity.
Lojacono talked about Marinella, and as he did he sought, without finding it, any memory of Sonia, his daughter’s mother. Ancient history now, belonging to another land and a different man. He had a chance to leave it all behind him, once and for all.
The dinner ended, and it was strange, because they both would have gladly gone on talking, drinking wine and shooting brief, enchanted glances at the array of lights wreathing the waterfront; but they also felt the overwhelming urgency to get away from there and be alone together.
Little by little, their words dwindled like drops of rain at the end of the night. Their eyes were locked. Laura laid her hand on Lojacono’s and said, in a soft voice: Let’s get out of here.
The drive to Piras’s house was short and, at the same time, extremely long. As if she were afraid of losing the hard-won intimacy, the woman never once stopped caressing his thigh, though very gently. His desire was starting to verge on the painful. They went upstairs, each of them listening to their own heartbeat as it accelerated.
They hadn’t uttered another word, after that “let’s get out of here” whispered at the restaurant. Words weren’t necessary.
In the little elevator they stood facing each other, Laura’s breasts rising and falling as her breathing grew ever so faintly labored.
She opened the door and, once they were inside, leaned back against it, in the dim light that came in through the windows. He took off his overcoat and stepped toward her. He kissed her, gently and deeply, as their bodies pressed together and they became acquainted inch by inch. She stood on tiptoe and he leaned down to meet her. During that kiss, she emitted a brief moan of pleasure. He ran his hand over her back.
His cell phone and hers both started ringing at the same time.