CRAVING U (The Rook Café) (9 page)

Matteo nodded, unable to speak.

“OK, that’s all I need for the moment,”
Canosi concluded, giving his hand to both of the young men.  “I hope to see you
again soon, and best of luck to both of you.”

In the silence that followed, Esposito saw
the confusion on his players’ faces, so he said, paternally, “You aren’t in
competition with each other.  One does not necessarily exclude the other:
everything depends on you.  Good luck!”  He smiled at them kindly.  “Now get
out.”

While Marcello, in seventh heaven, sat at
the bar drinking a pint and chatting with a couple of curious onlookers, Matteo
stood thinking outside the team’s offices, where Dario found him, having been
informed by the assistant coach about what had taken place.

He gave his friend a standing ovation.  “I
can’t believe it!  Can I touch you?”  He called him a superstar.  “It’s nuts! 
You know, I saw that guy, the agent, in the stands!”  He was beside himself.

“Calm down, take it easy,” Matteo
interrupted him, speaking softly.  “No one has promised me anything yet.”

“It’s just a matter of time,” Dario
upbraided him, punching him in the shoulder.  “You’re the heir to Roberto
Baggio and Del Piero.  You’re the Francesco Totti of Berici Hills, and the
Italian Kakà.  You’re our CR7 and Leo Messi!”  He thumped his chest, inspired.

“Give us a go-al, c’mon give us a goal!” 
The rest of his friends had gathered around.  “Come on, Zovigo, give us a
goal!  Go, Zovigo, give us a goal!”  They congratulated him heartily and
warmly.  “The phenom from
Brenta
!”

At the same time, still within the club
offices, the coach and the agent were speaking informally.

“What do you think?”

Canosi breathed out slowly before
answering, revealing nothing.  “They’re not bad,” he said.  “But I’d like to
have a cameraman come out here, one who I know, to shoot some video of them in
action.”

“Of course, no problem.”  The coach gave
his benediction.  “I’ll let the team management know this very evening.”

“Good.”  The agent rubbed his chin with
his left hand, which was a sure sign that he had something else to say.  “In
any event, I’d like you to start speaking with their families about this, in
order to give them an idea of what’s happening and to evaluate their reaction.” 
He emphasized the importance of the psychological aspects to the coach, and
made some relevant notes to himself in his day timer.

“You can count on me,” Esposito said,
pleased to have an active role in the affair.

“I plan on coming back after the
mid-season market closes in January to speak with the players and their
families in person, and to show them exactly what this project entails.”  He
placed his overcoat, the same smoke-gray color as his suit, over his shoulders
and pulled a pack of expensive English cigarettes out of its inside pocket.  He
noticed the confused look on Esposito’s face and added, “I understand that it
seems like a long time, but don’t take it as disinterest on our part.  I simply
have other responsibilities that must be handled first.  Do you see?”

The coach nodded, swallowing hard and
trying to give himself a professional air.  Canosi continued speaking as he
accompanied the coach out of his own office and into the fresh air, where he
lit up his long-awaited cigarette.  “Soon I’m going to be on the road trying to
find contracts for some Italian players in smaller but very generous international
markets.”  Noticing Esposito’s curiosity, he went on.  “Mainly we’re talking
about players who have reached the ends of their careers, and who I can find a place
for in the British minor leagues, not to mention in Russia or the UAE.”

Michele Canosi was a true professional,
and he knew exactly what to say and when to say it.  He never spoke an idle
word when it came to business: everything that came out of his mouth, the smoke
included, was carefully planned.

Esposito listened to him, enthralled and
impressed by so much elegance and so many connections.

“How old is Matteo?” Canosi asked, about
to take his leave.

“He was born in....”  The coach stopped,
thinking.  “He turned 18 last March.”  He examined Canosi’s face.  “Is that a
problem?”

“No,” he said, sticking out his hand.  “Goodbye
coach.  I have to get back to Milan for a dinner that I simply can’t miss,” he
smiled slyly.  “Thank you for your assistance.  I look forward to seeing you
again soon.”

“I’m the one who should be thanking you...
from the bottom of my heart.”  The coach accompanied Canosi to his awaiting car
and driver in front of the stadium.  “Please, Canosi, just one more minute. 
There’s something I want to say.”  He decided to show his cards.  “Zovigo is
truly talented.  He can do everything on the field, he can win a game by
himself, and he scores almost at will....”  He slicked what little hair he had
back with the palm of his hand.  “Matteo takes the ball, and puts it in the
net.”

“I noticed.  Don’t worry coach, I know my
job.”  The agent got into his car.  “‘Til next time.”

Esposito said goodbye with a tip of his
imaginary hat.

Matteo, surrounded by his celebrating
friends, couldn’t wait to tell
her
about his meeting with the agent.  “You
know where Marika is?” he asked Dario.

“With Carlotta, at the snack bar.”

“OK, thanks,” he said, and ran off, in
prey of youthful passion.

“What’s wrong with him?” someone asked.

“Oh, Marika, Marika... what a pain this
Marika is!” Puccio muttered, rudely.  “There isn’t something going on between
them, is there?”

“Who gives a crap?” responded Alessio, the
captain of
Brenta
.  “If he gets a contract with a serious team, do you
know how little he will care about the girl next door from Orgiano!?”  He
looked around, and everyone agreed.  Then, pointing toward Marcello, who was
coming their way from the bar, he launched into a, “Oh God, here comes that
other
asshole!”  He pulled out an invisible microphone and started to interview him. 
“Excuse me, sir, but once you have become rich and famous, will you let
yourself be held back by some small-town chick, refusing to carry out your
duties as a virile Italian male?”

“Not in your dreams!” Marcello snickered. 
“I couldn’t possibly care less about love and all that girl stuff.”  Proud, his
back straight, and self-confident, he could have stayed there all night lapping
up his new-found glory.  “Aside from soccer, only one thing interests me, and
you don’t need to be in love for that.” 
What a romantic!

Meanwhile, Matteo had caught up with
Marika at the stadium entrance.

Impetuously, he grabbed her arm, making
her drop her jacket, and dragged her outside toward the parking lot, where he
began jabbering about some famous sports agent who was interested in him; about
the possibility of a training program; about the upcoming Viareggio Cup
tournament.  “God, Marika, if the Vicenza
Lanerossi
wanted me it would
be like a dream come true!”  He started pacing, fired up.  “But it would be
great even if it was just Cittadella, or Padova, or – why not – even
Portogruaro Summaga,” running through the list of nearby teams who played in
Serie B and C.

“Wow,” she whispered, shocked, unable to
fully digest his meaning.  “That’s incredible.”  She stared into his eyes
breathlessly, her heart pounding in her throat, before losing all self-control
and throwing her arms around his neck, squeezing hard.  “That’s incredible,”
she kept repeating.

Matteo returned her embrace, holding her
tight to himself while their breath got shorter and shorter.  They stayed
there, motionless as statues, for a few seconds, aware of the heat coming from
their physical contact and infatuated by this new, terribly exciting sensation,
until they both took a delicate half-step backwards, just enough to look each
other in the eyes and feel the tingling of their noses, caused by the vibration
of two bodies close together.

Matteo could feel Marika’s body
shivering.  “You’re shaking,” he said, swallowing, quickly removing his white
team sweatshirt and pulling it around her to keep her warm.

Her body temperature rose, feverish with
desire, inundated by the scents that assaulted her nose from the clothes that
now hugged her shoulders.  Totally unable to take her eyes off of his perfect
figure, made even more enticing in his blue T-shirt, Marika felt her head go
light.  Everything around her was in a fog; the intense light that always shone
in his aquamarine eyes was the only thing in focus, but it was suddenly unknown...
different... almost embarrassing.  As he tightened the sweatshirt around her
again with his hands, he stared at her with pure passion, like he had never
done before.

“Come on Zovigo, move it!”  The magic of
the moment was broken in an instant by the arrival of his teammates.  “We’re
going to celebrate, shake a leg!”

Matteo let Marika pull away from him,
embarrassed, sliding out from under his sweatshirt, never taking his eyes from
her face.  He simply couldn’t tear himself away, totally ignoring his teammates
behind him.  “Well, I’ve got to go,” he said, smiling, delaying just one more
minute.

“Yeah, go,” she stammered, peeking at them
from over his shoulder.  “Otherwise they’ll leave you here.”

“That wouldn’t be so bad.”  He couldn’t
stop smiling, turning back to look at her again when he reached his raucous
friends at the car.

Marika watched him disappear from sight,
trying hard to regain a smidgen of self-control before catching up with
Carlotta, who was waiting for her, jacket in hand, on her scooter.  She wanted
to hear all of the details right then and there outside the totally-deserted
stadium.

CONFESSIONS AND PLAYTHINGS

Almost three months
had passed since the victory over
Dogado
, three months of the average,
daily grind.  It was now Christmas Eve.  Marika, since that day, had never
stopped thinking of Matteo and of the wonderful, confusing emotions that she
had felt in his arms.  She was certain that he had felt them too.  She could
not be mistaken about what she had seen in his eyes, in his attentive ways with
her, even if there was never any verbal confirmation or other intimate moments
whenever he was able to tear himself away from his soccer practice schedule,
which was becoming steadily more time consuming.

There was a chill in the air, and it had
snowed all day on the 23rd.  The roads had become a sloppy mix of snow and mud,
damp and salty, while on the rooftops and fields there remained a downy white
blanket.  Festive lights illuminated the town and its houses, accompanied by
songs and bagpipe music blaring from the outdoor speakers at the shops.

The two cousins adored the Christmas
season, and like every year went to do their holiday shopping together,
traipsing up and down the streets of Lonigo.  “I was thinking of getting a very
expensive phial of refined French arsenic for Lucrezia,” Marika chuckled
wickedly.  “It would be perfect for her, don’t you think?”

Carlotta nodded, then hit her cousin with,
“Do you think you’re going to say something to Matteo before New Year’s, or are
you just planning on continuing with this Chinese torture for the next century?”

“Speaking of torture...” she teased,
searching for her cell phone in the pockets of her winter coat, “do you know
who is sending me texts almost every week?”

“Marcello.” Carlotta replied with a
knowing air.

“How did you know?” she asked, surprised,
blowing on her fingers to warm them up.  “Did he tell you something?”

“As if!”  She struck a pose.  “It’s
obvious, and I’ll tell you another thing.  I think Matteo knows too, and he’s
not happy about it.”

“Don’t even joke about that or I’ll start
to believe it.”  Marika slid her smartphone from its case and started hitting
the buttons, fast.  “Read this one here; he wrote it to me last night after
midnight on WhatsApp.”

“Hey babe just got back from pub and don’t want
2 go 2 bed yet... will you keep me company? ‘-) 2morrow nite pick u up at 7”

“You didn’t seriously go out with him, did
you?” Carlotta accused her, squeezing closer.  “Or did you?”

“Not a chance in hell.”  She gave her
cousin a smack on her arm.  “Don’t get me wrong, Marcello’s pretty hot.  But I
want Matteo,” she said, more convinced of it than ever.  “Enough about that...
what are you wearing to the party tonight at Dario’s house?”  She stuck her
nose against a shop window.  “I was thinking of wearing a long sweater over
leggings and my combat boots.”  She looked closely at Carlotta’s reaction.

“Is that your final answer?”

“Yes.”

“Good, go with it.  Of course, only if
they haven’t gotten moldy in your closet,” she added, not wholly without
reason.  “I still don’t know what I’m wearing.  I was thinking of getting a
nice flared jacket, you know,
à la
Serena van der Woodsen.”  She stopped
in front of an expensive shop for teen clothing, puffing out her lips.  “Maybe
it’ll make me look thinner.  But if it gives me a big ass, you’ve got to tell
me the truth, got it?”  She launched into her usual, tiresome hysterics about
her body, before stopping on a dime.  “What do you say, shall we head for
Wear
WUW
?”

Pardoned by the governor!
  Marika
had just been spared a rant filled with complaints about her scale, accused of
unreliability and sheer willfulness, about the eating habits of the rich and
famous, about the dubious tastes of men who sleep with stick-thin women but
marry the fat slobs, and so on and so forth for at least forty-five endless
minutes.

And thank heavens, the time for the party
arrived before the next harangue.

The Vendramini house was abuzz with the
preparations of the two girls, rushing back and forth between bedroom and
bathroom: makeup, selection of super-glam accessories, kits for French
manicures, hair straighteners, and lots and lots of linseed oil shine spray to
keep the frizziness away.

Still squealing and breathless in the
bathroom, a beep on Marika’s phone alerted them to the presence of Marcello at
the front gate, ready to take them to the party.

“Bassani, drive slow and don’t drink!”
Marika’s father admonished in his deep voice from the window of the living
room.

Marcello showed that he had heard him with
a slight wave of his hand, not wasting any breath on pleasantries.  Everyone
knew that he wasn’t exactly talkative... “
but it wouldn’t kill him to make a
bit of an effort,
” Ferdinando declared.  “I never liked that kid,” he said
to his wife, closing the shutters.

The cousins, in the meantime, had flown
out of the house toward the car of their captivating driver, who was wearing an
elegant suit... probably the only one he owned.  “You look fabulous,” he said,
whistling at them as they tried to get into his old VW Golf GT without
wrinkling their coats, “...
madame
!”

“
Mesdames
,” an indignant Carlotta
corrected him, lowering the frames of her glittering steel framed glasses and
staring over them in his direction.

All was quiet along the streets, while
behind closed doors everything was in ferment, trying to put the finishing
touches on the traditional local Christmas Eve dinner: thick spaghetti called
bigoli
,
tortellini, salted codfish with polenta,
pandoro
, and almond nougat.

When they arrived in Villaga, where Dario
lived, their host welcomed them with particular enthusiasm, seeing as how his
beloved
was there, though all she did was ask him whether or not Valerio had arrived;
the latter, who had been one of the first to arrive at the country home, was
flirting mercilessly with the female classmates from the hotel management
school where Dario studied.  Matteo, as expected, had been held back by his teammates
after practice for Christmas cake and wine, and was the last to arrive,
carrying two bottles of
Prosecco
under his arms.

Dinner, which offered the best of Venetian
culinary traditions, was served on colored plastic plates in the furnished
basement – decorated in a rustic country style with a fireplace, stone walls,
and a long, heavy wooden table – and by the time dessert arrived, all of the
guests applauded loudly for the cooks: Dario and his classmates.

Perhaps under the effect of the excellent
food, even Carlotta began to look at their host in a new light... an
unexpectedly stimulating light.

“Did you get a good look at Lucrezia?” 
Undeniably envious, Marika watched her rival as she moved confidently through
the crowd, wrapped tightly in a fire-engine red dress.

“Huh??...” her cousin bleated, coming out
of her fog from having observed Dario’s graces within his natural habitat:
Dario, in fact, wanted to follow in the footsteps of his family, owners of a
hotel chain throughout the county of Vicenza.

“Did you see Lucrezia?” Marika repeated,
annoyed at having to say her name twice.

“How could I miss her?  Dressed like that,
she’s scarier than Ms. Baker’s red pen,” she said, referring to the notorious
ballpoint of their English lit teacher.  “You can’t honestly tell me that she
looks good in that old-fashioned thing.”  She wrinkled her nose in disgust.  “All
she needs is a fur stole around her bony shoulders to complete her Grandma
Bertha style.”

Lucrezia, in truth, was not so bad either
inside or out, but she was so used to hiding her feelings behind her BB Cream
that she really did come across as a designer-label bitch.  Carlotta could
barely stand her presence within their group of friends; Marika, on the other
hand, was uncomfortably entranced by her, and terrified by the unspoken
competition between them.  “I hope you’re right,” she said.  “I think she’s
almost too beautiful for words,” she admitted, imagining how she herself would
look in a line-up next to her.

“Oh would you please cut the crap?  It’s
all just smoke and mirrors.  And sure... she’s beautiful... if eels are your
idea of beauty,” Carlotta said.  Then, turning her gaze to Matteo, she added, “Don’t
worry anyway.  She’s not going to steal him from you.  I’d be more careful
about not doing anything yourself to chase him away with all of your pathetic
insecurities.”

Marika nervously chewed her lower lip,
reflecting on Carlotta’s words.  Her honesty was enough to send her into
emotional upheaval.

After a round of coffee – some topped with
whipped cream, others spiked with whiskey – the party was taken over by music
and low lighting.  Sandra and Giacomo, to everyone’s surprise, were the first
to hit the dance floor, though their swaying, sleepwalker moves were hardly
inspiring.

“Thank God the
weed
stayed put in
her marshlands tonight,” Carlotta pronounced, walking toward the Christmas tree
that was standing guard over the presents.  “After the way I stuffed myself
tonight, I couldn’t have taken even a drop of her.”  Livia, Marika’s unwelcome
classmate, had been baptized
Livia the weed
because you couldn’t get rid
of her, and was pleasantly absent this evening because of a ski vacation with
her parents in the chic resort town of Cortina.

With the lights down low, the atmosphere
in the basement changed, becoming a cocktail of music, sensuality, and fun:
there was an undercurrent of transgression in the air, driven by the sounds of
an Oriental koto that fused with the scratchy vinyl of techno-house.  The girls
danced carefree in the middle of the room, where they were made more alluring
and mysterious by the music, which loosened their cultural inhibitions and
created a world of unspoken fantasies.  The guys watched from the walls.

As if she was magnetic, Matteo’s eyes
locked onto Marika, and his body followed straight after, slicing through the
cordon of friends in order to be next to her.  Moving to the rhythm, he stared
into her eyes, begging her silently not to move away from him, while she,
enchanted by the fragrance of the ocean in his cologne, let herself be
commanded by his wishes in this silly, serious private game.

Many of their friends watched them
surreptitiously – some out of curiosity, others out of dismay – but neither of
them noticed.  No one else in the world existed.

Lucrezia, livid over finding herself
relegated to the sidelines, was contorting and grinding her body like a
stripper in a vain and pathetic attempt to catch Matteo’s eye until the music
suddenly stopped.  It was time for exchanging gifts.

Carlotta, with the other girls at her
heels, dragged Marika toward the large Christmas tree standing in the corner of
the room, decorated with colored balls and countless gold and bronze ribbons
and bows, while Dario sidled up to his friend, chuckling, “Way to go, Matt!”

“What are you talking about?” he said,
trying to act indifferent, even though his face gave him away.

“Better watch your back!” Dario whispered,
giving him a hard time.  “I’ve got my eyes on you...” he said, pointing two
fingers in Matteo’s direction.

The two friends laughed it off while
everyone else around them dove into the sea of presents before them.  Marika,
for example, started off with a burlap bag that Livia had left before her
departure for the mountains and which contained a pair of felt slippers, most
likely a recycled gift from last year; Sandra, in accordance with her cautious
outlook on the world, gave her a pair of heavy, warm brown gloves; while
Lucrezia surprised her with a lingerie set in stretch tulle, the only problem being
that it was one size too small, hopefully not by design; and then Carlotta’s
gift, the one she had been most anxious for.  The curiosity was killing her,
and she ripped the packaging and poetry to shreds until she had unearthed a
pair of super-stylish purple-colored headphones, emblazoned with the logo of
that famous brand headquartered in California.  “
Carlotta, they’re the
greatest!
” she exclaimed, her eyes wide from surprise and her voice
sounding high-pitched and unlike herself.  “Thank you.”

“Thank you!” her cousin was saying at the
same time, beside herself with excitement over Marika’s gift, a distinctive
skull print scarf with fringed edge, perfect for an incurable fashionista like
herself.  “You know I’ve wanted this forever.”  They hugged, tripping over
their feet and tumbling in their excitement.  “I’ve been looking for it
everywhere, where did you find it?”

“Tricks of the trade,” Marika bragged,
blowing on her painted nails and brushing them off against her chest.  “Not
bad, eh?” they chirped in unison.

The space beneath the Christmas tree had
turned into a noisy anthill of activity, with everyone tearing off wrapping
paper, commenting loudly about gifts, and thanking their friends vociferously.

That is, up until Dario –
the usual
buzzkill
, as Carlotta would say – brought everyone to a halt by saying, “It’s
time to go, everyone, let’s move it out!”  The ants scurried off in every
direction, grabbing presents, bags, and coats on their way.