13 Little Blue Envelopes (12 page)

“I’m not a dad, if that’s what you’re asking,” he said.

Well, yes. That was
exactly
what she was so cleverly asking.

This was why nothing ever happened to her. She couldn’t handle the excitement. She couldn’t even make it through a conversation about something serious and sexual without blowing it.

“It’s a fair question,” he said. “I offered to leave school and 117

get a job. I was ready to do it, too. But she didn’t want to leave school, so she decided there was only one thing she could do about it. I can’t blame her.”

They rode in silence for a few minutes, both rocking slightly in time with the train and staring at the poster for the train’s

“Get some food!” promotion, which featured a picture of a bald man who was the “pork king of the north.”

“The problem,” he finally said, “was that things were never right after that. I kept trying to make it better, to talk to her, but she didn’t want to talk to me about it. She just wanted to get on with her life. So she did. It took me months to get the hint. I was a mess. But now everything’s sorted.”

He smiled brightly and folded his hands on the table.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, once you go through something like that, you learn. Went on a bit of a bender after that. Stole a car—just took it around for a few hours, don’t know why. Wasn’t even that nice. Then woke up one morning, realized that I had to take my exams and that my life was still going on. I got myself together, got into school. Now I am the rabid success that you see before you today. Just want to make my plays.

That’s all I need. And see how it’s worked out? That’s how I met you, isn’t it?”

He threw his arm around her shoulders and gave her a friendly shake. Again, it wasn’t overly romantic. This gesture had a “good dog!” feel to it. But there was something else, too.

Something that said, “I’m not just here because you give me big handfuls of cash for no reason. Things are different now.”

Maybe it was the fact that he kept his arm there for the rest 118

of the trip home and neither of them felt the need to say another word.

Half an hour later, they were standing on the platform at Kings Cross, waiting for the tube.

“Almost forgot,” he said, reaching into the pocket of his jacket. “I have something for you.”

He produced a small windup Godzilla, which looked exactly like the one from Mari’s house.

“Is that from Mari’s?” she asked.

“Yep.”

“You
stole
it?”

“I couldn’t help it,” he said, smiling. “You needed a souvenir.”

“Why did you think I’d want something that was stolen?”

Ginny felt herself stepping back, away from him.

Keith stepped back a bit and lost his grin.

“Wait a minute. . . .”

“Maybe it was part of some art piece!”

“A major work ruined.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Ginny said. “It was hers. It’s from her house.”

“I’ll write her a letter and give myself up,” he said, holding up his hands. “I took the Godzilla. Call off the search. It was me, but I blame society.”

“It’s not funny.”

“I nicked a little toy,” he said, pinching the Godzilla between his fingers. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing.”

“Fine.” Keith walked over to the edge of the platform and 119

tossed the little toy down onto the tracks, then wandered back.

“What did you do that for?” Ginny asked.

“You didn’t want it.”

“That doesn’t mean you should just get rid of it,” she said.

“Sorry. Was I supposed to take it back?”

“You weren’t supposed to take it in the first place!”

“Know what I’ll take?” he asked. “The bus. See you.”

He disappeared through the crowd before Ginny could even manage to turn around to watch him go.

120

#5&6

#5

Dearest Ginger,

When I was a kid, I had an illustrated book of Roman mythology. I was completely obsessed with this book. My favorite of all the gods and goddesses, believe it or not, was Vesta, goddess of hearth and home.

I know. So unlikely. I mean, I’ve never owned a vacuum cleaner. But it’s true. Out of all of the goddesses, she was the one I liked the most. Lots of hot young gods pursued her, but she made a vow of perpetual virginity. Her symbol, her home, was the fireplace. She was basically the goddess of central heating.

Vesta was worshiped in every town and in every home through fire. She was everywhere, and people depended on her every day. There was a large temple built in her honor in Rome, and priestesses at her temple were called the vestal virgins.

Being a vestal was a pretty sweet job. They had one major task: They had to make sure that the undying fire in Vesta’s ceremonial hearth never went out. There were always six of them, so they could work in shifts. In exchange for this service, they were treated as divinities. They were given a palace to live in and had the same privileges as

men. In times of crisis, they were called upon to give advice on matters of Roman national security.

They got great tickets to the theater, people held parties for them, and they were paraded and revered everywhere.

The only catch? Try thirty years of celibacy.

Thirty years of living with their fellow vestals, poking the fire and doing crossword puzzles. If they broke the virginity rule, they were taken to a place that translates as “Evil Fields” and led down a set of stairs to a small underground room with a bed and a lamp. Once they were in, the door to the room was shut, the steps pulled up, and the whole thing sealed over in dirt. Which is pretty harsh.

Still, you’ve got to hand it to the vestal virgins. It may seem sad and scary—but realize just how much power people have always seen in women on their own.

The remains of their temple are in the Roman Forum, and you can see their statues. (The Forum is basically attached to the Colosseum.) Go and visit them, and make them an offering. This is your task.

When you are done, you can open the next envelope, right there, in the temple.

As for where to stay, may I recommend a little place I stumbled on when I arrived in Rome? It’s

not a hotel or a hostel—it’s a private house with one room for rent. It’s run by a woman named Ortensia. Her house isn’t far from the main train station. The address is on the back of this letter.

Va-va-voom,

Your Runaway Aunt

The Road to Rome

Ginny hated her backpack. It kept falling over on the scale because it was so weird and lumpy and tumor-like. It was more purple and green than ever in the fluorescent light of the airline counter. And it was obvious that the millions of straps (which she wasn’t really sure she had laced right, so the entire thing could come apart at any second) were going to catch on the conveyor belt and stop it and all of the luggage would get backed up. Then the flight would be delayed, which would throw off the entire airport schedule and disrupt events in several countries.

Also, the nasally BudgetAir check-in woman had taken a little too much delight in telling Ginny, “Five kilos overweight.

That’ll be forty pounds.” She was clearly unhappy when Ginny yanked on some of the straps and managed to get one of the pouches off, making the bag just the right weight.

As Ginny walked away from the check-in, she realized that this flight could not be safe if five kilograms made that much of 127

a difference. This flight had also been purchased online that morning for the insane sum of £35. (It was called BudgetAir for a reason.)

Richard was standing by a slowly rotating display for duty-free liquor, wearing the same slightly baffled expression he’d worn when they’d met days earlier.

“I guess I should go,” she said. “But thanks. For everything.”

“I feel like you just got here,” he replied, “like we didn’t even get a chance to talk.”

“I guess we didn’t.”

“No.”

They began nodding at each other again, and then Richard swooped forward and gave her a hug.

“If you need anything—anything—don’t hesitate to call. You know where to find me.”

“I know,” she said.

There was nothing else to say, so Ginny carefully backed into the crowd. Richard waited there until she turned and headed off to her gate and was still there watching when she checked with a glance back as she entered security.

For some reason, the sight made her very sad, so she turned around sharply and kept her back turned until she was sure that he was out of sight.

When BudgetAir said the plane would land in Rome, they weren’t being literal. What they meant to say was, “The plane will land in Italy; that much we will guarantee. The rest is up to you.” Ginny found herself in a small airport that clearly wasn’t Rome’s main hub. There were a few small airlines represented, 128

and most of the passengers getting off had “where the hell am I?” looks on their faces as they wandered the terminal.

She followed a trail of lost people headed out the door into the balmy evening. They stood on the sidewalk, heads swiveling back and forth. Finally, a flat-fronted, very European-looking bus pulled up with a sign that said ROMA TERMINI, and everyone got on. The driver said something to her in Italian, and when she didn’t respond, he held up ten fingers. She gave him ten euros. This proved to be a good guess, and he gave her a ticket and let her pass.

Ginny had no idea a big square bus could go so fast. They rocketed along a highway and several smaller, curving roads. It was very dark, with occasional houses and gas stations. They were cresting a hill now, and below them Ginny could see a warm bright glow hanging in the air. They had to be coming into the city.

As they entered Rome, the bus was moving quickly enough to make everything a wondrous streak. The buildings were colorful, lit by multicolored lights. There were cobbled streets and hundreds of cafés. She caught a glimpse of a magnificent, massive fountain that hardly seemed like it could be real—it was built into the front of a palatial building and was composed of enormous sculptures of godlike human figures. Then there was a building right out of her history textbook chapter on ancient Rome—tall pillars, domed roof. It could have had people in togas standing on its steps. She started to feel a bubbling excitement. London had been amazing, but this was something totally different. This was travel. This was
foreign
and
old
and
cultural
.