Entry #005 - The Secret Location
I refuse cannoli. I meet a group of travelling models. Espresso.
Ballabio, Italy, March 2023
‘Have the last one, rascal.’ Paul insisted, tapping the plate with the side of his vape.
‘L. will have it,’ I replied. She was out running. Paul had insisted on eating now to save time.
I hadn’t counted on being here. Two nights ago, we’d left Berlin and now here we were, enjoying cannolis on the terrace of an apartment near Lake Como. The place belonged to Paul's uncle, a veteran of the Bavarian farmer's insurance world, apparently. What had begun as a one-night visit to see Paul in Freiburg had escalated into an impromptu, three-person road trip with no discernible endpoint.
Who the hell is Paul, you ask? I don’t know. He was one of those faces from L.’s university days, the boyfriend of another, closer friend. That relationship went south after graduation, and Paul lingered in Berlin for years before eventually returning southwest to Freiburg. He wore Breton shirts, vaped like a prince and insisted on speaking English and calling me a rascal. Given his thick accent, it sounded like ‘wascal’.
‘You could put on some weight,’ Paul smiled, imparting a cloud of watermelon-scented smoke. ‘Your face is gaunt and it makes your lips look very big.’
He reclined in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. His wide brow hung over blue eyes set deep into his skull, a distance exaggerated by his long, curved nose. Sat there in his green y-fronts despite the morning chill, Paul resembled a chubby eagle.
‘You’re a charming host, Paul.’ I said, turning to the forested mountains. Each pine tree resembled a tiny dental brush on the canine of some immeasurable, fossilized behemoth.
‘I offended you?’
‘I’m not hungry,’ I said, which was true. I’m not one for eating first thing in the morning and the little appetite I had was suppressed by the oozing cannolis, as well as Paul’s habit of picking his molars.
‘Gut,’ Paul said, brushing crumbs off his paunch before leaning towards me. ‘I go in the shower. Tonight we go to the Secret Location.’
Since he’d had the grand idea to join us in Italy, Paul had talked of a ‘Secret Location’. Somewhere only he knew existed. Every time he said the words, ‘Secret Location’, he dropped his voice and came an inch closer.
I forced a smile. Paul stood and gestured to the pastry-flecked plates and I gave a thumbs up. With a loud, final slurp from his tiny espresso cup, he scraped his chair across the tiles and padded inside.
A movement on Paul’s plate drew my eye. The beetle moved among the sugary golden debris, its antenna way out in front like a pair of pathfinders. It recoiled at my touch but eventually decided the lift was worth the risk. Tiny legs scaled the ridge of my knuckles, the beetle’s black carapace a spot of night against the blue expanse above.
Though Paul was a vector for it, my irritability rose from other sources. Day three of our grand adventure and I was miserable and hating myself for it. Look at this! The harmless insect on my wrist, the snow clinging to the distant peaks, the verdant valley at my feet. How could I be sour? I had no right to be. I willed myself to enjoy the vista, anchoring myself to the present with the sensation of the bug plodding up my arm. But the more I tried, the tighter my chest felt. The beauty of the place seemed to mock me and say: ‘What now, rascal?’
*
‘It’s just two more days,’ L. smiled, sliding the van door shut.
‘He’s weird.’
‘He likes you.’
‘Because I don’t call him out on all the weird shit he says,’ I said and walked to the driver’s door. Through the glass, I saw Paul exit the small, timbered apartment block. He saw me and made a sign of the horns with his right hand.
‘I wanted to see the Raphaels and Titians in Bologna,’ I grumbled.
‘You didn’t say anything about that in Freiburg,’ L. responded and climbed into the passenger’s seat. ‘We made a plan and you agreed to it.’
‘Did I miss the part about him joining us through Italy?’
‘Yes!’ L. shot back, ‘he literally said he would join us for a few days.’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Really? Sorry.’
The drive took around five hours from Ballabio to Marzabotto, just south of Bologna. It should have taken three, but heavy traffic and Paul’s coffee request gifted us the additional two hours. He yelled ‘espresso!’ at one point from the backseat, causing me to jump in mine, and pointed at the upcoming petrol station. I pulled in and got out to refuel while he and L. headed inside. He’s such a moron, I thought, watching the pump ticker with every litre and every euro. After what seemed like an afternoon, the pump handle clicked. I approached the station and the doors parted for me, unveiling a world I’d never associated with petrol stations. A crowd gathered around the bar, which was manned by three staff, chatting and laughing as the staff took orders and operated the barista machine. Perfume and freshly roasted coffee hung in the air. Besides L. and Paul, the crowd wore oversized sunglasses and tailored suits, and the only object shinier than their leather shoes and stilettos was the chrome barista machine. Did models go on tours together?
‘Welcome to my Secret Place, rascal!’ Paul shouted.
Everyone looked at him. L. cupped her brow in her hand and I wheeled off towards the nearest metre-long Toblerone.
‘I’m just kidding,’ he called after me.
By the time we’d reached the Reno Valley south of Bologna, dusk was tilting into night. Marzabotto was nothing more than a series of shadowed facades glimpsed from the van, each building a reminder of the beautifully lit avenues and piazzas we’d skipped.
‘Take a right here,’ Paul said.
L. pulled off the main road, the tyres now biting into gravel. Bare trees hugged either side of the path, which gradually rose to a steep incline. The camper was over 30 years old and groaned at the angle. I imagined the engine spluttering, the tyres slipping, the handbrake snapping, and the three of us hurtling down into the village.
‘Will you stop whistling?’ I snapped at Paul.
‘We’re almost there,’ he reassured me.
L. eased the camper up the hill, holding steady at around 20 MPH, shifting between gears on the bends. If we stalled, gaining enough momentum again would be extremely difficult. Just as the van was about to give up and admit defeat, the incline finally relented. The road levelled out and reverted into a black strip of asphalt, draped across the ridge above the valley. There was no one up here. Our headlights were like two antennae, helping us find our way through the dark.
‘Just a little further,’ Paul said.
I was tired and we still needed to cook. From the north end of the Reno Valley, Bologna called out to me with Negronis and pepperonis.
‘There, by the oak.’
The place was, of course, empty. A rectangle of asphalt beside the road, unmarked and slightly raised above the hard topsoil. L. killed the engine and the van’s engine ticked in appreciation. I heard the door slide open and saw Paul get out and go into the boot. A cool breeze, its purity tinged with our diesel engine, crept into the van.
‘Close your eyes and stay there!’ Paul said.
I went to argue but L.’s hand found mine and squeezed gently, brushing the back of my hand with her thumb. I was drifting off when Paul opened the driver’s door, which I’d been leaning on.
‘Come on,’ he said, as if he’d been waiting for me this whole time.
Set a meter or so from the parking area was our plastic white dining table and three chairs. A bottle of wine and a cooking pot gleamed in the candlelight.
‘I was using the camping stove,’ Paul said, ‘I didn’t want to wake you guys.’
Slowly, like noticing droplets on a window pane, I became aware of the stars. Thousands of lights, as if someone had taken great fistfuls of them and thrown them at the sky. The gossamer of the Milky Way threaded a patch of sky. Lowering my gaze, I saw the foothills of the Apennines roll off in nearly every direction, rising and falling towards the horizon like the undulations of a dark, frozen sea.
‘There’s an observatory near here. Pretty cool Secret Location, eh?’ Paul said.
‘For sure,’ L. said.
‘Very cool.’ I smiled. 'Thanks, Paul.'