The Sun and Other Stars by Brigid Pasulka Read Free Book Online

another big talker in a long line.
    I lock up and cross the passeggiata to Bagni Liguria, shielding my eyes from the sun. Mimmo is manning the entrance hut. It’s not July yet, so there are still a few tags left on the board behind him, a few empty chaises and umbrellas in the grid.
    He looks up from his book. “Delivery?”
    “Ciacco called it in.”
    Mimmo takes the bag from me and trots off to find Ciacco while I stay on the boardwalk and survey the beach. The sun is out in full force, the white sails of the boats poking up out of the waves like shark teeth. There are a few people treading water, their heads floating in the sea. The rest are lying facedown on their chaises, backs burned, arms and feet dangling off the edge in some sort of medieval torture. I hate the bagni. I never go.
    Mimmo hovers over one of the chaises in the front row, and Ciacco squirms until he finally raises himself to a sitting position, the rolls of fat rearranging themselves as he digs into the purse hanging around his neck.
    “Ehi. Ciao, Etto.” Franco appears in front of the showers with a bucket of crabs and a gaggle of little kids following him around like he’s the magic piper. We used to collect crabs when we were little, too. We’d leave those poor little suckers sloshing around in a thin soup of sand and water until Franco made us dump them back into the sea so they wouldn’t die.
    “Ciao, Franco.”
    “What brings you here? Delivery?”
    “For Ciacco.”
    “You should put on your suit. Go for a little swim.”
    “Thanks, but I have a delivery up in the hills.”
    “Who?”
    “Pia.”
    He shakes his head the way everyone does when Pia’s name is mentioned. “Ah . . . sì, sì,” he says, by which he means, what a shame, what a shame. “You want me to let Fede know you’re here?”
    “That’s okay, he looks busy.”
    Franco laughs. “As usual.”
    Fede’s on the shore, his tanned back shaped like an arrow pointing to his culo, just in case you missed it in those tight trunks. He’s ankle deep in the surf, flirting with three blond girls, as Bocca leans down from the lifeguard chair, poised to catch the crumbs if they happen to fall from Fede’s table. I hold up two fingers and squish Bocca between them. Poser . . . squish. Fede . . . squish. Blond girls . . . squish, squish, squish. When Luca was around on breaks from the academy, Fede at least had some competition, but now he’s out there completely unchecked, roaming the savannah like on Animal Planet, and all you can do is turn your head at the last second.
    “Hey, thanks, Etto!” Ciacco is holding up one of the sandwiches and waving at me from his chaise, his stomach doubled up. “Extra meat. Just the way I like them!”
    Ciacco’s voice is faint against the waves, but it’s loud enough to get Fede’s attention, and Fede spins around and starts waving at me, his whole arm sweeping into an arc as if he’s stranded on some fottuto island.
    “Ehi! Etto!” he calls. “Come here!”
    I shake my head. “I’m not translating for you, deficiente,” I say quietly. “You should’ve learned English in school when you had the chance.”
    “Ehi! Etto!” he calls again, still sweeping his arm back and forth.
    The blond girls are staring at me now, too, and Bocca twists around in the chair to have a look. Mimmo is taking his time chatting with sunbathers and children as he makes his way back to me with the money. I shake my head with more violence. Fede, if you think I’m coming over there to translate your stupidaggini, well, think again.
    Fede finally gives up and jogs over to me, his hand shading the left side of his face. He’s wearing his Terminator sunglasses and those painted-on black trunks with the silver scorpion printed over the crotch. He reaches up to the wooden railing of the boardwalk and gives me the same upside-down handshake the B-boys give each other.
    “Why the poser handshake, Fede? And why are you shading your