Dei Laghi
by finnygan
i. The first time Santiago Solari gets into Zlatan Ibrahimovic's car, he hesitates, because he is still only Ibrahimovic, still only a name, a stranger about whom he has heard far too much. He hesitates, because he is still only Solari, and they've only known each other for a few weeks, but he has known of Ibrahimovic for far longer than that, and he doubts, very much, that Ibrahimovic has known of him. Still, it makes sense, this quick suggestion-statement, made with a shrug and half-smile, so in the end he does get into Zlatan Ibrahimovic's car, and lets him drive.
ii. At first, they take turns, picking up the other at not-quite-agreed-upon times every other morning, waiting with the engine still running for the other to emerge and strap himself in for the ride. If left unvaried, unchanged, and they leave it like that for weeks and months, it takes forty-five minutes through the quiet privilege of suburbs, and the busy rush-hour of traffic lights that never seem to change until one of them says something about it, and autostrade in the fast lane. Not that much later, Zlatan becomes simply Zlatan, and Santi notices that they're always in his car.
iii. Watching the landscape of his chosen home, this North Italian province, drift by, Santi wonders why it shouldn't be more familiar to him, why it is that Zlatan should know the road better than he, though Zlatan grins and says he is new, younger and less experienced, he has to practice more than him. Even if he agrees, and he does, Santi doesn't believe him, though he's learning to do so, but examines the territory all the same, so different from the Tuscan postcards he used to see. Still, he finds that he likes seeing it, the way they're taking.
iv. It takes a while for Santi to even notice, because he's not given to noticing these things, he could have sworn that he isn't, but he likes it when Zlatan drives, though he would never have expected that he would, or that Zlatan would drive the way he does. Correctly and meticulously, probably the way someone once taught him, far more calmly than anyone that Santi has ever known before, Zlatan drives exactly like you're supposed to drive. He asks about it, one morning, and Zlatan says that his teacher was Swedish, and Santi forgets to ask what that means.
v. A minor detour, Santi suggests one morning, might be nice, because they always take the same roads, the same traffic lights, and they see the same houses, the same trees; this is where they live, after all, and they should know more ways than one. Zlatan agrees that they should, admits that he is right, and Santi hasn't yet known Zlatan to being the sort who admits to very much, though he's very careful not to let Zlatan surprise him. For once, Zlatan hesitates slightly, and Santi takes his chance, tells him he might know of another way, another road.
vi. One road, it turns out, is much like any other; a little slower, perhaps, with a better view, but they find that neither of them really cares for the view, because at the end of the day that was never what they were looking for, and they never even have to agree on it. Even so, Santi finds a map and turns off the GPS; finds them a new road, not every day, not every other day, but from time to time, when they have all the time in the world. Neither of them would ever call it an adventure.
vii. They're late only once, and Zlatan admits it's his fault, even though they both know it isn't; not late in leaving, perhaps even a few minutes early, but late in arriving all the same. They don't mean to be late, and they don't know they will be, not to begin with; they hardly feel guilty when they realise, realise they should hurry, and don't hurry at all. Zlatan doesn't question him when Santi says there's nothing wrong with taking your time, if you don't make a habit of it, and Santi doesn't have to ask him to take the blame.
viii. The arrangement, such as it is, is nothing unusual; not a single one of its elements, the parts that make up the rules of their engagement, is anything out of the ordinary: the closing car doors of a fast German car, the space of time between one quarter of an hour and another on most mornings, the short-hand texts. It's established so easily, so naturally that everything that goes along with it never seems to be much of a point for conversation either, so they never do talk about it. There is no need, because nobody ever asks about it.
ix. Other parts of their arrangement come less easily, with much greater hesitation, and even fewer words; these are the parts that serve no fundamental purpose that they can name, even if they can dream up legions of words for it, though Santi suspects that the purpose is there nonetheless. Persisting in speaking of it like that, in thinking of it as an arrangement seems the best solution, and perhaps the easiest, and Santi would rather this didn't become difficult, so he never gives it any other name, not in front of Zlatan. There is no argument; there never really was.
x. Whispered conversations (because that's the only way they can talk about this: hushed tones, mouths pressed so close it almost tickles), once in a while, uncertainly searching for words in a language that belongs to neither of them (listening for the other's accent, missing it, but hearing traces of Spanish and Swedish and something else besides), Zlatan less secure than he usually is, Santi more so, because they know what to say (but only Santi is sure he doesn't have to say it, doesn't need to hear it), so he listens when it happens, sometimes, that Zlatan asks, "Drive me home."
Please note:
i. "Autostrada dei Laghi" is the nickname given to the motorway that you take in a north-western direction from Milan towards the lakes near the Swiss border. Normally, you would take this road to go to La Pinetina, Inter's training facility. It translates to "of the lakes".
ii. I came up with a number of rules for how I was going to write this, and I may as well admit what they were: there had to be ten parts; each of these ten parts had to have exactly one hundred words; these one hundred words had to be divided into three separate sentences; no direct speech; no parentheses; all of these rules, except for the first one, were to be broken in the final part.
iii. with much thanks to Conny and Nol for handholding, support and very good advice.
i. The first time Santiago Solari gets into Zlatan Ibrahimovic's car, he hesitates, because he is still only Ibrahimovic, still only a name, a stranger about whom he has heard far too much. He hesitates, because he is still only Solari, and they've only known each other for a few weeks, but he has known of Ibrahimovic for far longer than that, and he doubts, very much, that Ibrahimovic has known of him. Still, it makes sense, this quick suggestion-statement, made with a shrug and half-smile, so in the end he does get into Zlatan Ibrahimovic's car, and lets him drive.
ii. At first, they take turns, picking up the other at not-quite-agreed-upon times every other morning, waiting with the engine still running for the other to emerge and strap himself in for the ride. If left unvaried, unchanged, and they leave it like that for weeks and months, it takes forty-five minutes through the quiet privilege of suburbs, and the busy rush-hour of traffic lights that never seem to change until one of them says something about it, and autostrade in the fast lane. Not that much later, Zlatan becomes simply Zlatan, and Santi notices that they're always in his car.
iii. Watching the landscape of his chosen home, this North Italian province, drift by, Santi wonders why it shouldn't be more familiar to him, why it is that Zlatan should know the road better than he, though Zlatan grins and says he is new, younger and less experienced, he has to practice more than him. Even if he agrees, and he does, Santi doesn't believe him, though he's learning to do so, but examines the territory all the same, so different from the Tuscan postcards he used to see. Still, he finds that he likes seeing it, the way they're taking.
iv. It takes a while for Santi to even notice, because he's not given to noticing these things, he could have sworn that he isn't, but he likes it when Zlatan drives, though he would never have expected that he would, or that Zlatan would drive the way he does. Correctly and meticulously, probably the way someone once taught him, far more calmly than anyone that Santi has ever known before, Zlatan drives exactly like you're supposed to drive. He asks about it, one morning, and Zlatan says that his teacher was Swedish, and Santi forgets to ask what that means.
v. A minor detour, Santi suggests one morning, might be nice, because they always take the same roads, the same traffic lights, and they see the same houses, the same trees; this is where they live, after all, and they should know more ways than one. Zlatan agrees that they should, admits that he is right, and Santi hasn't yet known Zlatan to being the sort who admits to very much, though he's very careful not to let Zlatan surprise him. For once, Zlatan hesitates slightly, and Santi takes his chance, tells him he might know of another way, another road.
vi. One road, it turns out, is much like any other; a little slower, perhaps, with a better view, but they find that neither of them really cares for the view, because at the end of the day that was never what they were looking for, and they never even have to agree on it. Even so, Santi finds a map and turns off the GPS; finds them a new road, not every day, not every other day, but from time to time, when they have all the time in the world. Neither of them would ever call it an adventure.
vii. They're late only once, and Zlatan admits it's his fault, even though they both know it isn't; not late in leaving, perhaps even a few minutes early, but late in arriving all the same. They don't mean to be late, and they don't know they will be, not to begin with; they hardly feel guilty when they realise, realise they should hurry, and don't hurry at all. Zlatan doesn't question him when Santi says there's nothing wrong with taking your time, if you don't make a habit of it, and Santi doesn't have to ask him to take the blame.
viii. The arrangement, such as it is, is nothing unusual; not a single one of its elements, the parts that make up the rules of their engagement, is anything out of the ordinary: the closing car doors of a fast German car, the space of time between one quarter of an hour and another on most mornings, the short-hand texts. It's established so easily, so naturally that everything that goes along with it never seems to be much of a point for conversation either, so they never do talk about it. There is no need, because nobody ever asks about it.
ix. Other parts of their arrangement come less easily, with much greater hesitation, and even fewer words; these are the parts that serve no fundamental purpose that they can name, even if they can dream up legions of words for it, though Santi suspects that the purpose is there nonetheless. Persisting in speaking of it like that, in thinking of it as an arrangement seems the best solution, and perhaps the easiest, and Santi would rather this didn't become difficult, so he never gives it any other name, not in front of Zlatan. There is no argument; there never really was.
x. Whispered conversations (because that's the only way they can talk about this: hushed tones, mouths pressed so close it almost tickles), once in a while, uncertainly searching for words in a language that belongs to neither of them (listening for the other's accent, missing it, but hearing traces of Spanish and Swedish and something else besides), Zlatan less secure than he usually is, Santi more so, because they know what to say (but only Santi is sure he doesn't have to say it, doesn't need to hear it), so he listens when it happens, sometimes, that Zlatan asks, "Drive me home."
Please note:
i. "Autostrada dei Laghi" is the nickname given to the motorway that you take in a north-western direction from Milan towards the lakes near the Swiss border. Normally, you would take this road to go to La Pinetina, Inter's training facility. It translates to "of the lakes".
ii. I came up with a number of rules for how I was going to write this, and I may as well admit what they were: there had to be ten parts; each of these ten parts had to have exactly one hundred words; these one hundred words had to be divided into three separate sentences; no direct speech; no parentheses; all of these rules, except for the first one, were to be broken in the final part.
iii. with much thanks to Conny and Nol for handholding, support and very good advice.