Where the Stars Are Supposed to Be

Day eleven, Italy, evening.

„Go into the mountains, away from the lights of the towns. Where the stars are,“ Manoel had said. „Drive to Pian del Cansiglio.“

On the way it occurs to me that I am leaving the part of the map I know. I was at Lake Garda last autumn with Nicky, and it was a good holiday. From here on there is nothing I have seen before: small towns, then dual carriageways, then up into hills I have never driven. After that a few thousand kilometres of countries I know nothing about. What the people will be like there. What is waiting on the way.

Susi is managing. The weight of the trailer is just about within reason for sixty horsepower. I can hear her working — easy and unhurried on the flat, slow and stubborn uphill. After the first thousand kilometres I stopped worrying every time she made an unfamiliar noise.

There is a flapping from somewhere outside that has been coming and going since Garda, and I still can't place it. The straps on the trailer, probably. They can't fly off, so let them flap. There is also a rattle from the trailer on rough ground, which I think is the bar that holds the lid open. It got better after I put it down differently. Two odd noises from the trailer, three from Susi. I am keeping count.

„Old cars make noises. Let them live,“ Michael said before I left. Michael is like a brother to me and an engineer who knows cars. So I let her be. With every kilometre a little more of the fear goes. The further I get from home, the better it works, which is not a thing I would have wanted to know earlier.

I reach Pian del Cansiglio in daylight, a quiet valley in the foothills of the Alps. Trees all around. A golf course in the middle, for reasons of its own. I find a picnic area where I can put the car behind rocks and trees.

It rains. After the drive I will sleep like a stone.

The sky is completely overcast. No stars. Tomorrow, maybe.