Page 7 of A Beginner's Guide to Forever
“It’s Alessia.”
“I know.” He smiles. I remember the way he said my name in Florence. Alessi-ah.
He asked me if I spoke Italian.
Sì, un po’.Yes, a little.
Anche io.So do I.
We smile at each other like we share a secret. I guess we do.
I swallow and fidget slightly, tucking my dark hair behind one ear. “Are you ready?”
He nods. “Lead the way.”
My driver, Edmund, is waiting for us in a black sedan parked at the curb. We climb inside.
Hart watches the passing sights, and Edmund points out landmarks to him in perfect English. From downtown Nairobi, with its skyscrapers, to the suburban streets, with foot traffic and merchants selling various handicrafts. Traffic can be unpredictable, regardless of the time of day, but today we make good time, cruising steadily along.
Neither of us say it, but it’s obvious we’re both thinking it—I didn’t think I’d see you again.The truth is, I don’t know him—not really—we talked for an hour, maybe, the time it took to drink a glass of wine, so I’m unsure how to proceed.
“Where do you stay when you’re here?” Hart asks.
“I rent an apartment downtown. Kind of like a long-term Airbnb.”
He nods. “How’d you get started in all this? It’s quite a ways from home, I presume? Your accent is American.”
“I don’t have an accent.”
“Of course you do. Everyone has an accent.”
I don’t argue, but I’m distracted by him. Disarmed. A young billionaire who wants to take a tour through the slums.
“You didn’t answer my question,” he says.
“How I got started? Or where is home?”
He smiles. “Let’s take them one at a time.”
“Home is California. I have a tiny condo that I’m rarely at in San Jose.”
“Did you grow up there?”
I nod. “Yes, my parents still live there. My mother—”
“Your Italian mother?” he interrupts.
“Yes, Elisabetta. She’s an artist and a very talented seamstress.” I have no idea why I’m telling him these things. I’m babbling. I never babble. “Anyway, my father was a doctor—he recently retired. And when I was young, he was part of an organization I’m guessing you’ve heard of, Doctors Without Borders.”
Hart nods.
“And since I’m an only child, I would often tag along on their adventures.”
I was a very idealistic, impressionable young girl, and my years spent on the periphery made an impression.
“Something else we have in common,” he says, glancing over at me. “Only child.”
I nod. “My father would perform surgeries, sometimes up to fourteen hours a day because the need was so great. I would entertain the children, read to them.” A memory of spending a hot, humid summer in Guatemala leaps to my mind. Of the friends I made, and left behind, including two sisters named Fernanda and María who taught me how to make the most delicious homemade tortillas. I have no way of knowing what became of them.
