Soon the Guzzi motorcycle stopped in front of a cemetery.
“We’re here,” Russell said, dismounting.
Reggie hesitated, taking off his helmet before he got off the bike.
“Here?” he asked, doubtful, looking around.
The Englishman let out a sad sigh. “Right, here,” he confirmed, then headed to the entrance. “What I have to tell you is not a happy story.”
Reggie followed him. Russell strode ahead, hands in his pockets like a young Marlon Brando, Reggie just behind.
“What do you want to show me?”
“My true self,” Russell answered, without looking at him.
A shiver ran down Reggie’s spine at those words. He looked from one grave to another, Russell’s melancholy seeping into him, too. The grey tombstones looked like old sleeping cats against the green mantle of freshly cut grass.
They arrive
