by Joan Arling
When I finally returned, Rita was firmly asleep, her hands folded under her head on the headrest as a make-do pillow. I hated to, but I had to wake her up; if I needed to suddenly brake, she’d be thrown around like a rag doll. Her smile, as she opened her eyes, made my heart miss a beat.
I had the CB radio on by habit. Not that I’d be able to follow the babble in German. It caught my attention, though, when someone mentioned “Kind” and “Standstreifen” and Rita took a sharp breath. I looked at her, and she translated, “There seems to be a child playing on the emergency lane ...,” she listened some more, “somewhere beyond Limburg Nord.”
“Shoot, that’s the next exit!”
Traffic was quite dense. Already, impatient drivers were overtaking slower cars on the right lane, ignoring the risk of a collision. If that happened in the kid’s vicinity ... I had to do something about this. I handed Rita the microphone, pulled into the second lane, and accelerated. When we were even with the truck to our right, I gestured the driver that we wanted to speak.
He reached for his microphone. “Wegen dem Kind?”
Rita asked, “How do I operate this?”
“Just press the button when you want to speak.”
“Ja, genau. Augenblick ... ”
“Tell him we’ll try to block the road when we see the kid.”
“Können wir die Bahn blockieren, wenn wir das Kind sehen?”
“Machen wir. Sag deiner Pilotin, ich bremse jetzt ab. Denkt an den Warnblinker!”
“He’s going to slow down now, and we shouldn’t forget the ... emergency signals? Blinkers?”
I’d already switched on the hazard lights. We slowed to about twenty miles per hour, and before long, Rita pointed. “There!”
We brought the trucks to a stop. Rita hopped out, walked over to the girl who watched the trucks with wide eyes, and took her by the hand, talking to her in quiet tones.
Behind us some idiot was blaring his horn, obviously under the impression that we were doing this as a practical joke. Jeez.
Rita lifted the little girl into the cabin, and we started rolling again.
“Guten Flug!” That was from the fellow who had helped stop the traffic.
Rita looked a little puzzled.
I grinned at her. “No, we’re not going to lift off. That was just German trucker slang for ‘Have a good trip’.”
On our way to the next police station, Rita befriended the little girl, Elise, who seemed to take a liking to playing truck driver and had no idea of the danger she had been in. When we handed her over to the authorities, the officers looked like they were torn between applauding our action and being irritated at our “Eingriff” in the running traffic. You see why I prefer the French autoroutes?
“You know what this reminds me of?” Rita giggled as we were on our way again. I looked at her. “Convoy, the movie starring Kris Kristofferson.”
“Oh God, I hope you are not under the impression that driving a truck is anything like that.”
“Ah, too bad. But that’s a nice story, isn’t it? You just love to hate Sheriff what’s-his-name―Lyle.”
“Certainly. But I’d rather think of Ali MacGraw. Now she’s a sight!”
“You’ll hear no argument from me. But ...” She paused dramatically. “Can you take the brutal truth?”
I nodded. What was she getting at?
“Neither you nor I will ever get under her sheets.”
“Sigh.”
“Yes, let’s have a good sighing session together.”
“On the other hand, how old is that film? Wasn’t it released sometime late in the seventies? That would be thirty years ago. She probably has a plump belly by now.”
“Right. And sagging breasts, not to speak of cellulite.”
“Varicoses. And facial hair.”
We were both giggling like schoolgirls.
“I think I’ll look for other sheets to get under.” She turned around in her seat to consider the blinds separating my sleeping space from the rest of the cabin, and waited patiently for my coughing fit to pass.
In my book, that amounted to pretty heavy flirting, if not more. Not that I would object―it started a little flame in me, both warm and bright. And I had kind of advertised where my interests lay, hadn’t I? Perhaps it was being rusty from long non-use that made me feel insecure. But I would not let that feeling hinder me from pursuing, ah, things.
“Tell me if I’m being nosy. Do you have family?” Oh, brilliant, that term in this context! “I mean like brothers and sisters.”
She hesitated for just the amount of time to let me know that she had noticed my double entendre. “Yes, a brother two years older. He’s a meteorologist and currently freezes his ass off in Antarctica. My mother is a schoolteacher, English language and music.”
“Your mother would be the reason, then, that your English is so good?” I noticed that she didn’t mention her father.
“She laid the foundation, certainly. Anything but A grades were, of course, unacceptable. Later, I spent a year at the University of Kent as an exchange student, and most of the stuff I read is in English, too. Well, American, in fact.” She grinned.
“Seeing you’re travelling solo, are you living alone?” Uh-oh, now you’re definitely being nosy, S. But she didn’t seem to mind.
“Yes, I am. I had a partner I thought I’d grow old with, but when my business left me no time for her, she finally sent me packing. It took me a while to see that she was perfectly right, and when I realised that, it was too late for our partnership. But for her, though, I might be well on my way to a heart attack, instead of leaving it all behind for a while and talking to a lady trucker on our way south.”
I smiled at her and was just about to tell her that I was very glad that she’d decided to spend her time off with me, when a suicidal maniac cut across our lane in a desperate attempt to hit an exit at the very last second. I’d have shoved him right into the crash barrier, if that trailer hadn’t had excellent brakes.
* * *
We pulled off for a roadhouse near Munich, and she gathered a few of her things. “Can I leave my backpack with you?”
“Yes, of course.” Hmm, she was obviously aware that being given a lift did not usually include accommodation for the night. I might have made an exception this time; however, that decision had been taken out of my hands. For now. I hoped there would be other occasions.
“So when are we setting out tomorrow?” Rita asked. “Six o’clock? Seven?”
“Seven will be fine. We could have breakfast together, and then we should make it to Italy tomorrow. But the day is still young, how about dinner?”
She winked at me. “Candlelight?”
“Ummh ... that would be ... I mean, ummh ... kinda hard to arrange now, wouldn’t it?” Dang, she had me stuttering with one single look from her blue eyes.
“Pity.” She pouted. “You look sweet when you get self-conscious, you know that?”
“Mmph.” I could feel my blood rise to my face.
“I’ll go get a room. Meet you at the restaurant.” She grinned and turned away. Fifteen, love―Rita.
* * *
The following day we tackled the Alps. While they really were eye candy (provided the weather gods smiled on you), we would have to cross two borders, first into Austria, then into Italy. Even though the EU had simplified things enormously, you could, with bad luck, still spend hours waiting for some papers to get processed. That went double or triple for the Italian customs. It was not always their fault; sometimes farmers blocked their stations in protest, because, say, their tomatoes were not red enough to conform to―you guessed it―EU regulations. Gaaawwwd.
Well, the sky was blue with only a few tiny clouds for adornment, offering a clear view to a very distant horizon from the passes. Rita looked like a little girl watching a never-ending favourite movie. She excitedly pointed out some goats on a slope above us, only they weren’t goats, but “Gemsen”, something that she had no English w
ord for. I did not really care, but I did care for the bliss that made Rita’s face beam almost enough to outshine the sun. When we got to overlook Lake Garda, she was almost squealing with joy.
And I was falling for her, harder and harder.
* * *
When we passed Verona, I told her, “Milano is only two hours away from here.”
“Anything special about Milano?”
“Giacomo lives there.”
“Ah yes, Giacomo. How could I forget.” She turned a very serious face my way. “You feel pretty confident behind that wheel, don’t ya? But just wait until you’ve stopped, and I am going to find every ticklish spot you have. Who the hell is Giacomo?”
“Giacomo is Catherine’s lover, of course.”
She turned her eyes up. “Catherine. Of course.”
“Jamie Evans’ mother. Still no clue? Jamie and Ryan?”
I could see her thoughts click, and then she broke into a gale of laughter. “Stella, you have one devious mind. How could you be certain that I’d know that story?”
“Well, doesn’t everyone? Almost makes you want to move there, doesn’t it?”
“Oh no! I’m not into riding bicycles at all.”
* * *
A few miles behind Bologna, I brought Tiny to a halt on a small car park, killed the engine, and said, “This is how far we get today.”
Rita looked at me like she was not sure what to make of the situation. “You sure that you haven’t overlooked a small detail?”
I put on my most innocent expression. “What would that be?”
She pointed outside. “Anything you don’t see?”
“Hmm―pink rabbits. And no brass band either.”
She looked. “That would be right. Oh, there’s one more thing missing: a motel.”
“Why, indeed! You’re being quite perceptive.”
She fell silent, and if eyebrows could take on the shape of a question mark, then hers were about to. “Ummh ... I mean ... I’m not really prepared to spend the night under the open sky.”
“Nobody’s expecting you to. And if you insist, there’s a motel about twenty miles down the road, and I guess I could take responsibility for stretching my time at the wheel by a little.” Suddenly I was no longer sure whether this was such a good idea. Would the implied invitation be welcome?
Her eyes seemed to become darker. “So ... you have an alternative in mind?”
“Ummh, well ... in-fact-there’s-room-enough-for-two-back-there.” I found myself studying the rpm indicator just to make sure that the engine wasn’t still running, you never know, you know?
“So I take it that I’m invited?” Her voice turned soft.
I nodded wordlessly, but I still could not bring myself to look at her face. Two of her fingers pulling gently at my chin made me.
“In that case, I think this is a rather wonderful place, and I don’t think you should run the risk of getting fined.”
I exhaled deeply. I became aware that I could hear her breathing, too. I locked the car doors, opened the blinds behind me, and motioned to her. “After you.” I followed her, then closed the blinds behind us. On you, kind reader, as well. I feel certain that you are imaginative and generous enough to grant us a little privacy.
* * *
The next day, or evening, rather, I pulled up to a service station to quench Tiny’s thirst. “Why don’t you explore what the location has to offer? Filling the tanks will take about half an hour, and we could have dinner afterwards. Probably stay here for the night, too.”
While I let the diesel pour into Tiny’s tanks, I replayed the emotions I thought I had just seen on Rita’s face. Clouded eyes? Why? I was certain that her lips had been pressed together, her expression withdrawn.
“Rita?” She was nowhere to be seen. Dang. I had little choice but to stay where I was. When the tanks had filled up, I hastened over to the restaurant, and thank goddess, she was sitting at a table, sipping some colourless liquid from a glass.
I approached her table. “Hello, beauty!”
She turned a forlorn expression to me. “Hello, love―ooops, forgive me. It’s just that I ... I mean, there’s a motel here ... but after last night I’d ... well I’d hoped ...” A tear started down her cheek.
I held her glass to my nose. Oh, strong stuff. “Rita―you’re getting drunk! What’s the matter?”
“Becaush you will ne-ever see what I f-f-feel for ... oh damm!” She seemed to have trouble keeping her eyes open. “I know you are not I mean have not comm-mmitted and I sssought I could live with a one night shtand and why should I mean anyshing to you when I know I have no rights and o Gott I can’t ss-tand it ...” She hiccupped and peered into my eyes. “You’re sho damned, damned beeeauti―”, and with that she fell asleep against my shoulder.
I kept sitting there for a while, holding her to me, listening to her soft snores, and wondered how in hell I had given her the impression that she meant no more to me than a fling. I mean, the other way round, yes, not that I wouldn’t be hurt, but I certainly couldn’t hope for more from her than some tenderness, if that. After all, in a few days she would get out of my truck and out of my life. Ouch. And yet here she was, right in the middle of Heartbreak Square herself.
I sighed and tried to wake her, but she barely managed to open her eyes. No way would she be able to negotiate the steps up to Tiny’s cabin, and though the thought of carrying her over my shoulder was amusing, it was quite unrealistic as well. So I got us a room in the motel and helped a barely lucid Rita navigate her way into bed.
* * *
Ivy. That was my first thought in the morning. Rita had crawled all over me, and she held on tenaciously when I tried to slide out from under her.
“Rita?”
“Ungh, no!” came from somewhere beneath my left ear.
“Sweetheart, it’s delightful to have you hold me, but I’d feel so much better if you’d, ah, let me answer a call from nature.”
With a groan she rolled off me, and when I came back from the bathroom, she sat at the foot of the bed, a picture of misery. “You hate me now, don’t you? Oh, I hate myself.” She raked her tousled hair with her fingers, a sight that made me want to push her right back between the sheets. “Uh, my clothes? You ...”
“I assumed that you would not want to sleep with your clothes on, so I took the liberty of undressing you. I felt that after the night before, you would not be embarrassed. You okay with that?”
“Yes, no, I mean, yes, I am embarrassed, but it’s not because of that.” She sighed deeply. “I am such an idiot.”
“That you are definitely not. You might be, though, if you really assumed that I would not want much more from you than that one night.”
Tears were gathering in her eyes, and I sat down beside her.
“Hold me, please, please hold me!”
Gladly, my dear.
* * *
I had Tiny parked for the night near Naples, feeling a growing unease. There would not be a lot of time left in which to get to know her better. “How did you get into programming?”
“I started out with mathematics, but I soon realised that the really interesting work was computing-related―better compression algorithms, safer encryption, so forth. So I sort of drifted to that field.”
“And what kind of work does a programmer do?”
“Contrary to what you probably think, most of the time I’m not even sitting in front of a monitor. I re-arrange data instead to make it more useful. Writing the code when that’s done is the easiest part of the job, but hey, customers pay for it.” She grinned. “And you? A lady who not only steers but also owns her truck is remarkable.”
“Oh, I’ve been fascinated with everything motorised all my life. I was driving cars even before I got a license. In retrospect, I was damn lucky that I didn’t get caught.”
“You did?” She shook her head.
“Hey, I’m not proud of it now. Anyway, after finishing school I worked in a repair shop. Th
en I came into an inheritance and took that to be a hint from fate.” I smiled wryly. “Had I known beforehand what I was getting into, I would probably have backed off. Tax reports, becoming my own dispatcher, the endless bureaucracy, insurances ... you know, actually driving the truck is the easiest part.”
She laughed. “Surprise, surprise! Our jobs seem to have more in common than meets the eye.”
So do we, I thought―or rather wished.
* * *
Caltanissetta, Sicily. Sunshine and a light breeze. I shook my head at the contrast between the weather and the clouds in my soul. This was where we had planned to go, the end of the road for us. I had heard too many rumours about Sicilian machismo, though, so I thought it better if she accompanied me back to the mainland, at least, so technically our road together was extended by some miles. Pathetically few miles. My bothering bothered me. I had certainly said farewell to many hitch-hikers before, so this ought to be routine, no? Ah, well.
“Ah, benvenuto, bella Signorina! È arrivata con il camion? Viene anche il conduttore?”
It took some effort to convince them that I was the “conduttore”.
“Ma, Signora, non è proprio un lavoro femminile.”
I thought I heard one of them muttering something like “insane Englishwoman”, but I wasn’t certain, and anyway this was not a title I can lay claim to.
The meaning of “immediatamente” seemed to differ rather sharply from the related English word. Endless telephone calls delayed us long enough to miss the last ferry back to Messina. That gave us one more night together, but the doom of parting was heavy on our souls.
The next morning we boarded the first ferry, and I was headed for Catanzaro and a trailer for Taranto to compensate for the cost of the two hundred and eighty miles to Bari, where another trailer for Cracow, Poland, waited for me. We had already exchanged mobile numbers and mail addies, and even though she could have come with me up to Bologna―goodness, if it had just been me, she could have come with me, period―we had decided not to postpone the inevitable.
