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“I swear it’s not my stomach.”
Within seconds, the rumbling grew into a sound so unnatural that it was like the very air was being sucked back up into the sky. Then from behind the palm trees came an enormous black plane. Flying at shockingly low altitude, it passed over us as if in slow motion; I could see its wheels locked into place, the silvery scratches on its black underbelly. Instinctively I pressed myself deeper into the lawn so as not to be grazed.
“Holy crap!” cried Pietro. “What the hell was that?”
Excitedly we went through a few hypotheses, finally agreeing it had to be a military plane.
“I’ve never been on a plane before,” Pietro said.
“Not even once?”
“No.”
I ran my palm over the little swords of grass. “Do you think there’ll be another one?”
“I hope so. Let’s wait a little.”
We were gripped with suspense. It was like waiting for the next set of fireworks on the Fourth of July; it was the desire to play with fire. Our patience was rewarded when shortly afterward another airplane appeared. The air was ripped apart, the earth shook. I thought our luck had run out and this time there might very well be a collision, maybe with the roof of the museum itself, and I let out a silent scream. And then it was over.
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