Chapter 35The short trip to town consisted of a series of long straight patches of country blacktop, punctuated by sudden hair pin curves. Eva drove erratically, the speed of the car accelerating in relation to her storytelling. At times she spoke with measured emphasis, driving slowly and leaning forward against the steering wheel, accentuating words by slapping one hand on the Jaguar’s dashboard. Then, heated, and speaking in Italian, she would speed up both the story and the car. At one point, I watched the speedometer creep to eighty as we tore through a curvy part of the route which was shrouded on either side by tall tangled winter trees. Always the full moon shone brightly ahead, a bold beckoning. Luckily the roadway was empty.
“What a gas,” she said, stopping the car on a dark, dr
