WANTED: Love of my Life

47. Parisian Dwelling-inspiration

Only when we already were halfway across the Golden Gate did it occur to me: Where did Giacomo have this boat from? He was supposed to be poor, wasn't he? I took a closer look at the vessel. Never had I seen anything like it. It wasn't as big as a speedboat, but it seemed to be just as fast. It was sleek and small and despite the fact that it was still covered with seaweed, it looked expensive. Very much so. How had Giacomo come by it? Had he 'borrowed' it, too? More important, would I dare and ask him?

“I suppose you're wondering where I've got this boat from,” Giacomo said.

For some reason, I felt a guilty expression appear on my face.

“How did you know? Am I that easy to see through?”

“No. I just can put two and two together. You ought to know. I taught you how to do it yourself, remember?”

“Ha, ha. Very funny.”

“And I know you.” He still hadn't turned to me. He still stood in the front of the boat, staring out across the ocean. Well, since he was steering the boat I suppose that was a good thing. I wished he would look at me, though. I needed to see his eyes, to see the warmth in them. His voice sounded sad and distant.

“I know you,” he repeated. For a moment, he was silent. Then: “You'll never be able to stop wondering. To stop asking questions.”

It wasn't a question. But in a way, it was. He needed to know.

“No, I won't,” I said quietly.

“Why? Is my past that important? Why can't we just live our lives and look to the future?”

“Your past is important because it's part of you. I cannot ignore or forget about any part of you. I'm sorry, but I just can't.”

He sighed, and his head slumped down onto his chest.

“You needn't be sorry. You are right. My past is part of me, as much as I might wish otherwise.”

The boat turned to the left and water sprayed across my face. I ignored it.

“So will you tell me?” I asked.

The answering silence was deafening. I waited. And waited. We came closer and closer to the Golden Gate Bridge while the absence of answers stretched on. The red whatchamacallits they built the bridge on threw gigantic shadows towards us. Soon, we would be swallowed up by darkness. Ten seconds left. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.

The world went dark around me.

“We're here,” I heard Giaocomo say.

“Where?” I asked confused.

“Where I live.”

“I don't understand. We're right under the Golden Gate Bridge, aren’t we?”

“Yes.”

“Right,” I scoffed. “You live under the Golden Gate Bridge.”

By now my eyes had grown used enough to the dark to see him shrug.

“Well, yes. I picked the idea up in Paris. Homeless people there do it all the time – sleep under bridges, I mean. Over here it doesn't seem to be so popular. I don't really see why. You Americans have such big bridges.”

He stopped the motor boat. Beside us, I could see a ring of concrete growing out of the dark waters. A board reached from the ring of concrete to the massive support of the bridge in the middle, as if someone had recently wished to walk over there...

“Wait,” I gasped. “You really sleep under Golden Gate Bridge?!”

“Si.” He stared at me, confused. “I just told you that I did.”