Only when we already were halfway across the Golden Gate did it occur to me: Where did Giacomo have this boat from? He was supposed to be poor, wasn't he? I took a closer look at the vessel. Never had I seen anything like it. It wasn't as big as a speedboat, but it seemed to be just as fast. It was sleek and small and despite the fact that it was still covered with seaweed, it looked expensive. Very much so. How had Giacomo come by it? Had he 'borrowed' it, too? More important, would I dare and ask him?

“I suppose you're wondering where I've got this boat from,” Giacomo said.

For some reason, I felt a guilty expression appear on my face.

“How did you know? Am I that easy to see through?”

“No. I just can put two and two together. You ought to know. I taught you how to do it yourself, remember?”

“Ha, ha. Very funny.”

“And I know you.” He still hadn't turned to me. He still stood in the front of the boat, staring out across the ocean. Well, since he was steering the boat I suppose that was a good thing. I wished he would look at me, though. I needed to see his eyes, to see the warmth in them. His voice sounded sad and distant.

“I know you,” he repeated. For a moment, he was silent. Then: “You'll never be able to stop wondering. To stop asking questions.”

It wasn't a question. But in a way, it was. He needed to know.

“No, I won't,” I said quietly.

“Why? Is my past that important? Why can't we just live our lives and look to the future?”

“Your past is important because it's part of you. I cannot ignore or forget about any part of you. I'm sorry, but I just can't.”

He sighed, and his head slumped down onto his chest.

“You needn't be sorry. You are right. My past is part of me, as much as I might wish otherwise.”

The boat turned to the left and water sprayed across my face. I ignored it.

“So will you tell me?” I asked.

The answering silence was deafening. I waited. And waited. We came closer and closer to the Golden Gate Bridge while the absence of answers stretched on. The red whatchamacallits they built the bridge on threw gigantic shadows towards us. Soon, we would be swallowed up by darkness. Ten seconds left. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.

The world went dark around me.

“We're here,” I heard Giaocomo say.

“Where?” I asked confused.

“Where I live.”

“I don't understand. We're right under the Golden Gate Bridge, aren’t we?”

“Yes.”

“Right,” I scoffed. “You live under the Golden Gate Bridge.”

By now my eyes had grown used enough to the dark to see him shrug.

“Well, yes. I picked the idea up in Paris. Homeless people there do it all the time – sleep under bridges, I mean. Over here it doesn't seem to be so popular. I don't really see why. You Americans have such big bridges.”

He stopped the motor boat. Beside us, I could see a ring of concrete growing out of the dark waters. A board reached from the ring of concrete to the massive support of the bridge in the middle, as if someone had recently wished to walk over there...

“Wait,” I gasped. “You really sleep under Golden Gate Bridge?!”

“Si.” He stared at me, confused. “I just told you that I did.”

“Well... yes.. but...”

“It was really amazing,” he continued, while securing the boat to a metal pole. “I never expected there to be so much room. In Paris, you have to register with the city counsel and wait for months to get a place under the bridges. But here? I just came, saw, and made myself comfortable. Incredible.”

“Yeah,” I croaked. “I suppose you could call it that.”

He jumped out on the board. “Are you coming? But be careful that you don't fall off.”

“Sure...”

I climbed out of the boat in a daze, and followed him over the makeshift bridge. (The board, I mean, not the Golden Gate Bridge.) As we came closer to the vast supports, I saw something I had never noticed before: a door.

“Amazing.” Giacomo shook his head, smiling and pointing to the door. “When I first arrived here, I could hardly believe it. In American bridges, there are doors, and rooms inside. Everything to make one feel welcome and at home.”

“Ehm... I think those are supposed to be for maintenance people.”

“They sleep here, too? I've never seen anything of them.”

“No. I mean they use doors like this one to go inside and check if the bridge is all right. I've heard something about it in school.”

“Oh. So normally, nobody lives there?”

“Not that I'm aware of.”

“What a waste of space,” he commented, opening the door and bowing.

“Ladies first.”

“Um... I think this door is supposed to be locked.”

“Well, it isn't locked now,” He said, straightening and grinning at me.

“I can see that.”

Still, I didn't go inside. Giacomo had said it wouldn't be what I expected – and he had been right. The dark inside of the bridge might hold things I wasn't ready to know.

His grin widened. “Are you afraid?” he asked.

I threw him a dirty look and stormed through the door.

“Ouch!”

“Should I switch on the light?” He suggested innocently.

“Yes, please,” I growled.

A moment later, a torch flared to life. In its light, I could see a tiny space that was... a total mess. There really wasn't any other way to express it. A sleeping bag lay on the floor. Heaped on it were various maps, frayed books, half-empty bottles of water, pencils and a pair of trousers that badly needed a wash. I don't know why – after all, it wasn't something that special to see – but at the sight, emotion welled up inside me, and my eyes started to tear.

“Angela?” His voice came from behind me, no longer joking. “Angela, what is it?”

Maybe that was exactly why. Take away the claustrophobically small reddish room and replace it with a normal room, and this would be exactly what you would expect a normal teenager's living space to look like. Well, except maybe for the sleeping bag. It was just so... normal. And yet, so unbelievably Giacomo.

“Mia Angela?”

I felt his hand on my shoulder, and turned into him, pressing my tear-stained face into his leather jacket.

“Thank you,” I whispered. “Thank you, Giacomo, for showing me this.”

“What? A pair of dirty trousers?” he laughed quietly.

“No.” I shook my head. In spite of the smile that crept onto my face, I was utterly serious. “A piece of your life.”

It seemed as though he didn't know what to reply to that. So settled for the best possible alternative: He kissed me.

“Dance with me, Giacomo,” I gasped when we finally broke apart.

“There isn't enough room for dancing.”

“For one kind of dance, there is.”

“What dance is this?”

“Put your arms around my waist. Yes, like this. And now I put my arms around your neck. And now you need to come a little closer.”

“Like this?”

“Even closer.”

“Like this?”

“Just a little more.”

“Angela...”

“Hey, you showed me about half a dozen dances. Let me repay the favor.”

He sighed but did as I asked.

“Is this close enough?” he wanted to know.

“It'll do. And now sway.”

“Sway?”

“You know, from left to right and back again.”

“I know what sway means, Angela.”

“Well, then you shouldn't have any problems,” I said. I pressed myself even closer to him and started swaying. And he did as well. For a few minutes, there was silence.

“Angela?”

His voice sounded kind of hoarse.

“Yes, Giacomo?”

“What is this dance called?”

“Slow dance. It's very popular here in America.”

“I... can understand... why.”

“Really?” I grinned up at him. “You like it?”

“It's different.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“But... good. Very good.”

“I'm glad you think so.”

We swayed and swayed. I was so happy that I couldn't find the words for it – that is, until I heard the sound of the second motor boat from outside, coming closer.