The Invisible Circus - Jennifer Egan [109]
Phoebe rested her gaze on Wolf’s soft T-shirt, the collarbones splayed beneath it. Sunlight soaked her hair, heating her scalp. What he’d said last night was true, she thought; nothing could happen between them.
“Good-bye,” Phoebe said.
She leaned into the car and seized her backpack. When she slung it over one shoulder, its weight nearly toppled her. The whole thing seemed only half-real. Wolf must have felt this, too, for he did nothing, just watched her go, a surge of pigeons pecking at his boots.
Phoebe crossed the cathedral square, alert to sounds of pursuit. None came. When she reached the opposite side, she adjusted her backpack to rest squarely on both shoulders. Still she heard nothing. So that was it, she thought. Wolf was relieved, or perhaps he simply refused to chase her. It made no difference. Phoebe crossed the street, determined not to look back. The bells were ringing again. The dazzle of light was surreal. A new phase, Phoebe thought, so long as there was money in her pocket. Though it was Sunday, of course, and not a penny of that money was Italian.
She reached a side street and hesitated, debating whether to cross or turn. Before she’d made up her mind, the Volkswagen peeled around a corner, cutting her off. Gears crunched, there was a yelp of rubber on the curb. Wolf leapt from the car, clearly beside himself. Phoebe stepped away. She felt like a tortoise, pinned beneath the giant backpack.
“Goddammit!” Wolf shouted. “Goddammit!” He kicked a tire, clonging the hubcap. Then he wheeled back around and let fly at the door, where his boot left a soft-looking dent. Phoebe watched him with unnatural calm. Finally Wolf faced the car, his arms crossed; from his agitated breathing Phoebe assumed he must be planning further assaults upon it. Instead, he turned to her, speaking with a gentleness that seemed to cost him great effort.
“Phoebe, please,” he said. “Please, get in the car. It was my fault, that stuff last night—please, just get in the car. We won’t go to Corniglia, we’ll just drive a little. Just get in the car. We’ll take it from there. Please.”
He moved close to Phoebe, took hold of her shoulders and looked into her face. It worked. The fight left her instantly. She was tired and dizzy, anxious to shed the massive backpack. The sun invaded her head, filling it with the thought of leaning forward and kissing Wolf, and an awful sensation flashed through her, a hot blade slicing her neatly in half. Wolf’s pupils were dishrunken to furious points, but it wasn’t anger now, or not just that. He wanted her. “Okay,” Phoebe said, and got in the car.
They hurtled from Milan. Phoebe relaxed into the speed. The sun was high. Wolf glanced at her now and then as if to make sure she hadn’t disappeared. “Lock your door,” he said.
Phoebe burst out laughing, a brassy, unfamiliar sound. “You think I’m going to jump out on the freeway?”
Wolf smiled grimly. “I don’t know,” he said. “Are you?”
Phoebe leaned against the window and shut her eyes. There was too much saliva in her mouth; she opened the window and spat a few times.
“Are you sick?” Wolf asked in alarm.
Phoebe laughed again, that strange metallic sound. “Yes,” she said.
An hour swept past. Wolf drove his car like an ambulance, accelerating until the Volkswagen began to shudder. Phoebe pictured herself as his stricken patient. They hardly spoke. Something had been decided, conversation supplanted by queasy knowledge.
Eventually Wolf turned off the highway onto a smaller road. It was clear they were nowhere near the sea. In the blood-heavy light of late afternoon they wove among tawny, feline hills. Olive trees ornamented the land, flashing silver. Occasionally a town would appear, blunt towers nestled on