I kept quiet, while they talked about their parachute course and how great it would be, how it didn’t really take up much time – two hours a week, divided between theory and physical preparation – and the fact that you could get a licence after just three jumps.
I felt like making a few acid comments, about how a parachute licence was an essential accessory for a young urban professional woman at the start of the new millennium. And how great it was that you could get that licence after just three jumps. Think of it, guys, just three jumps.
I kept quiet, which was just as well. Because having the courage to throw myself out a plane, into the empty sky, without being afraid, was one of my most secret, most forbidden dreams. A dream I’d never had the courage to reveal to anyone, and which I knew perfectly well I’d never have the courage to realize once I’d passed forty.
A dream that lay deep in my childhood fears and fantasies and was still there to remind me that time was passing. And that there were many other things – large and small – that I’d have liked to do and had never found the courage to do. That I would never find the courage to do.
They managed to convince her that she could find the time to do the course. They agreed to meet two days later at the premises of the parachute club, where they would all enrol together, with a discount, thanks to the friend of the two Giovannas.
“I’m going to see the film,” I said. “It’s starting in a few minutes. But don’t worry, you can stay and talk.” My tone was dignified.
“No, no. I’m coming too. They’re leaving.”
The two Giovannas nodded. One of them knocked back what was left in her glass, like a real tough guy. They said goodbye to us – well, to Margherita, really – and left.
When we entered the little screening room, the lights were already out and the film was starting. Before abandoning myself to David Mamet’s dark, surreal atmosphere, I thought, just for a second, how much I’d like to throw myself into the empty sky, from a plane or somewhere else very high up.