Cheating wives in Palermo
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During the winter before my wedding, I was on assignment in Sicily, where I met Diego — a photojournalist with black hair, a scruffy beard, and warm brown eyes that could liquefy concrete.
He was my guide in Palermo, driving me around the city on his motorcycle. On my last day, as we stood in a bombed-out cathedral — him talking about World War II, me trying to focus on his words — he started inching closer. Another inch. Then a fraction more, and he was in my personal space. The slightest gesture from me would have been an invitation. I froze. The desire to cheat is hardly a new emotion for me. In fact, I can fairly say that if you've dated me, there's a pretty good chance I was unfaithful.
I'm really sorry! You might even call me a natural-born cheater — and I think I get it from my father. Henry Pergament was a businessman, entrepreneur, and chemistry genius. By the time I was born, he'd raised several fortunes and had two families and half a dozen children in and out of wedlock. I have memories from my childhood that I wish I didn't: One night when I was about 10, I was at dinner with my sister, my father, and his friend Mike.
I overheard my dad say, "What have I been up to? What men are up to when they're not with their wives. Daily life in my family found my sisters, my mother, and me running around the house like it was a disrupted anthill, my father somewhere offscreen.
