A dickhead in a Fiat flashes at me when I overtake a lorry on the Via Emilia and return to my lane, congratulating myself on the Maserati's perfect road holding. I'm going back to Reggio and I'm smoking a Marlboro Light and listening to Don't fear the reaper by Blue Oyster Cult on the radio which is just the right leit motif for this winter day where everything – sky, buildings, road – is the same colour, washed-out dirty grey.
I sing along with the song when it says, "Don't fear the reaper/Baby I'm your man/Valentine is done/Here but now they are gone/Romeo and Juliet/Are together in eternity, I finish my cigarette and throw it out of the window and, when the DJ on Radio 105 announces a piece by Cat Stevens, I change in a hurry muttering, "Oh my God."
I arrive in the city and stop at the Tropical Center which is open non-stop. A girl with brown skin accompanies me to the changing room and gives me the tanning oil, the plastic goggles and a paper thong advertising the salon. I strip off, don the thong and spread tanning oil over my face and chest. I decide to leave the goggles off, because I don't want to look like a racoon, then I enter the solar shower box closing my eyes.
Fifteen minutes later I dress, pay and leave Tropical feeling much more cool. I open the Maserati, get in and turn on the radio, passing from one station to another. I raise the volume when I hear the notes of My favourite game by the Cardigans, and only then do I turn the key and start the engine.
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LAST CUBA LIBRE
Ficción GeneralIf you're looking for a gripping read, look no further than "Last Cuba Libre". Meet Jessica, who's a bit of a slag. Claudio, who rocks designer threads and snorts lots of cocaine. Then there's Tony, cruising in his Porsche, leaving a trail of broken...
