It was raining hard when we passed through the suburbs of Genoa and,
even going very slowly behind the tram-cars and the motor trucks, liquid
mud splashed on to the sidewalks, so that people stepped into doorways
as they saw us coming. In San Pier d’Arena, the industrial suburb
outside of Genoa, there is a wide street with two car-tracks and we
drove down the centre to avoid sending the mud on to the men going home
from work. On our left was the Mediterranean. There was a big sea
running and waves broke and the wind blew the spray against the car. A
river-bed that, when we had passed, going into Italy, had been wide,
stony and dry, was running brown, and up to the banks. The brown water
discolored the sea and as the waves thinned and cleared in breaking, the
light came through the yellow water and the crests, detached by the
wind, blew across the road.
A big car passed us, going fast, and a sheet of muddy water rose up and
over our wind-shield and radiator. The automatic wind-shield cleaner
moved back and forth, spreading the film over the glass. We stopped and
ate lunch at Sestri. There was no heat in the restaurant and we kept our
hats and coats on. We could see the car outside, through the window. It
was covered with mud and was stopped beside some boats that had been
pulled up beyond the waves. In the restaurant you could see your breath.
The _pasta asciuta_ was good; the wine tasted of alum, and we poured
water in it. Afterward the waiter brought beefsteak and fried potatoes.
A man and a woman sat at the far end of the restaurant. He was
middle-aged and she was young and wore black. All during the meal she
would blow out her breath in the cold damp air. The man would look at it
and shake his head. They ate without talking and the man held her hand
under the table. She was good-looking and they seemed very sad. They had
a travelling-bag with them.
We had the papers and I read the account of the Shanghai fighting aloud
to Guy. After the meal, he left with the waiter in search for a place
which did not exist in the restaurant, and I cleaned off the
wind-shield, the lights and the license plates with a rag. Guy came back
and we backed the car out and started. The waiter had taken him across
the road and into an old house. The people in the house were suspicious
and the waiter had remained with Guy to see nothing was stolen.
“Although I don’t know how, me not being a plumber, they expected me to
steal anything,” Guy said.
As we came up on a headland beyond the town, the wind struck the car and
nearly tipped it over.
“It’s good it blows us away from the sea,” Guy said.
“Well,” I said, “they drowned Shelley somewhere along here.”
“That was down by Viareggio,” Guy said. “Do you remember what we came to
this country for?”
“Yes,” I said, “but we didn’t get it.”
“We’ll be out of it to-night.”
“If we can get past Ventimiglia.”
“We’ll see. I don’t like to drive this coast at night.” It was early
afternoon and the sun was out. Below, the sea was blue with whitecaps
running toward Savona. Back, beyond the cape, the brown and blue waters
joined. Out ahead of us, a tramp steamer was going up the coast.
“Can you still see Genoa?” Guy asked.
“Oh, yes.”
“That next big cape ought to put it out of sight.”
“We’ll see it a long time yet. I can still see Portofino Cape behind
it.”
Finally we could not see Genoa. I looked back as we came out and there
was only the sea, and below in the bay, a line of beach with
fishing-boats and above, on the side of the hill, a town and then capes
far down the coast.
“It’s gone now,” I said to Guy.
“Oh, it’s been gone a long time now.”
“But we couldn’t be sure till we got way out.”
There was a sign with a picture of an S-turn and Svolta Pericolosa. The
road curved around the headland and the wind blew through the crack in
the wind-shield. Below the cape was a flat stretch beside the sea. The
wind had dried the mud and the wheels were beginning to lift dust. On
the flat road we passed a Fascist riding a bicycle, a heavy revolver in
a holster on his back. He held the middle of the road on his bicycle and
we turned out for him. He looked up at us as we passed. Ahead there was
a railway crossing, and as we came toward it the gates went down.
As we waited, the Fascist came up on his bicycle. The train went by and
Guy started the engine.
“Wait,” the bicycle man shouted from behind the car. “Your number’s
dirty.”