Past imperfect - страница 9

Lera entered the hotel with a serious face of russa turista, but as soon as the girl tipped the porter and closed the door, all assumed seriousness flew off her. Lera ran forward with a girlish squeal and jumped into bed to bury herself in pillows and blankets, stifling laughter. Tired of freaking out, she went to the window and opened it wide. She leaned over the broad sill and inhaled fresh air of freedom with all her chest.

The room overlooked the Tiber technically, but the view was obscured by trees that grew thickly along the embankment. The river burned with fiery flashes in the setting sun's rays, sending fervent sunbeams through the leafless crowns.

Lera, without undressing, rushed back into the hallway to jump into high-heeled boots and run outside. The muddy Tiber, clad in stone, was slowly rolling south towards the sea, where Lera's plane had landed. The girl leaned against the stone parapet and looked at the river for a long time. That night, she slept peacefully, like in her childhood. Everything was fine.

The next morning, Lera got up nearly before sunrise and hurried out. Yesterday, during her extreme taxi ride, the girl realised that the ten days she had left were too short to see everything. So she would have to rush.

Even the damned morning ritual of taking pills did not cause her usual desire to turn her stomach inside out this time. This time, Lera put on comfortable sneakers and went out in search of new experiences.

It was the thirty-first of December. This was almost an ordinary day in Italy. The Christmas holidays were over, but the city was not in a hurry to get rid of the festive decorations. Decorated Christmas trees were everywhere, and tipsy tourists wearing cheap Santa hats walked the streets.

At first glance, it seemed unclear whether they had crawled out of their hiding places and started having fun or whether they hadn't yet managed to return home to their hibernation spots to get themselves sober. It was a peaceful sight! Lera enjoyed this festive atmosphere, breathing it in, drinking it up.

By the end of the day, Lera had trampled Capitol Hill and wanted to rest her aching legs and pamper yourself in honour of the upcoming New Year holiday. At random she went to the first restaurant in Sant'Angelo she spotted hoping for nothing – the very centre of Rome on New Year's Eve.

Imagine Lera's surprise when il cameriere pointed out a tiny empty table in the corner. That table was large enough only for a glass and a little saucer to place it on, but Lera didn't need more.

It was warm in the restaurant and there were delicious smells of a food from the kitchen and pine needles from wreaths hanging on the walls. Lera squinted like a cat who got warm and lazily watched passers-by hurrying home for the holiday outside the window.

She ordered a spumante and a cake with a huge cap of air cream. On top of the cream was a tiny hemisphere of reddish jelly – the pulp of the prickly pear fruit, frico d'India. A dessert spoon glittered on a beautifully folded napkin, and, looking at it, Lera felt a devil jumping on her left shoulder. The imp tugged at her ear demandingly and smiled toothily.

Lera looked around furtively, made sure no one was watching her, bent down and took the fruit pulp with her lips with inexpressible pleasure. Her face was smeared with cream, which had to be licked off for a long time with giggles. After making sure no one paid attention to her hooliganism, she drank half a glass of wine in one go.