by D. M. George
“Who are you trying to convince? Me or yourself?”
“Not fair.” Perla glowered. “I’m not that shallow. And who are you to criticize? You’ve never had a job”—Perla stood up and faced Parthenope—“or known the validation that comes with being a worker bee in the hive of life. Worthlessness sucks. Insolvency is terrifying. And it’s all because of these wrinkles.” Perla framed her face with her hands.
“Your lamentations don’t move me,” Parthenope said with her beautifully ugly inverted smile. “Beauty is a curse. It only brings trouble.”
Perla threw up her hands. “As you keep saying… Go ahead, curse me, bring on the trouble. I welcome it!” She shoved her kayak off the rock, climbed in, and stabbed the water with her paddle. It was too early in the morning for a personality critique.
“Wait!” Parthenope said, but Perla sped out of the cove without looking back.
Teddy
What a fish-bitch! Perla stomped away from the kayak-rental stand. What gave Parthenope the right to judge her sorry life, especially after Perla had helped her? She touched the cameo hanging around her neck. She should have thrown it back before she paddled away.
The line for the funicular was blessedly short, and the boutiques of Capri town beckoned. Retail therapy was just what she needed. Shopping was medicine—the panacea for all stress, including temperamental mermaids.
Tourists jostled each other down the sloping Via Vittorio Emanuele, Capri town’s main avenue. Perla loved the narrow, car-free streets and the way rustic storefronts housed big name brands like Ferragamo, Prada, and Bulgari. On the outside, Capri town was a quaint, ancient village. On the inside, it was Rodeo Drive. Well-heeled ladies bunched inside the chic, blue-tiled boutiques.
Perla passed a window that displayed eight-hundred-euro silk capri pants. Her lifestyle orbited light-years away from any garment that cost eight hundred euros.
The reverberating church bell reminded Perla that an hour had flown by. Her sweet tooth said it was time for a sugar fix. She drifted into one of Capri’s ubiquitous gelato shops and stared at the menu. The gelato she’d eaten with Luca and Gianna the previous night had been so delightful she’d promised herself she would sample every flavor before leaving Italy.
They were such an odd couple, Perla mused. Luca had described Gianna as a good listener, so gracious and trustworthy, but right away she’d proved herself the opposite. Poor guy. Whether beauty is in the eye or mind of the beholder, it still deceives with impunity.
“What’s lampone?” Perla asked the clerk standing behind a refrigerated display case. She pointed at a deep red icy mound.
“Raspberry,” he replied.
The day before she had tried crema, a luscious egg-custard flavor, which she’d loved. What the heck. “I’d like a scoop of lampone and crema, please.”
Perla drifted down the narrow cobblestone alley connecting Capri town to Marina Grande, a cup of gelato in hand. There was no need to take the funicular; it was only a fifteen-minute walk downhill. The crowds dissipated, leaving her virtually alone on the zigzag path. Plaster-covered brick walls rose around her, cloaking the homes behind them in privacy. Ironically, her 1950s tract home in San Jose was considered ancient by California standards, but these houses had existed on the same plots of land for hundreds of years.
She ate her gelato as she walked, peering through the occasional wrought iron gate at the gardens and patios inside. She lifted the little plastic spoon to her mouth and noticed the skin on her hand was smoother than usual. Must have been the lemon-scented hand lotion she’d bought in Sorrento. She made a mental note to buy more.
Perla slowed her pace as she approached an exceptionally large iron gate at the top of several low steps. Tall marble amphorae, burnished with the patina of age, sprang from stone pedestals on either side of the entrance. She hated the dreadful faux-Tuscan architecture and decoration so overused in California. These vases though were the real thing. They hadn’t been purchased in a big-box store’s garden department and probably belonged in a museum.
In the shadows behind the gate was another amazing sight: a long pathway covered by an arched trellis of lemon trees. Hundreds of lemons dangled like yellow Christmas ornaments. How many years and how many loving hands had it taken to train the trunks and branches to bend so perfectly?
Entranced by the sight, she missed the low step in front of her and tripped and fell onto her hands and knees with an “Oooof!” Her gelato spilled onto the cobblestones, and the cup clickety-clacked down the path.
“Crap!” Perla jumped up and looked around, relieved nobody had seen her. She assessed the damage: the heel of her right hand and her right knee were both scraped and bleeding.
“Are you all right?” a woman’s soft voice asked in English. A concerned face emerged from the shade behind the big iron gate. “You’re bleeding. Let me help you.”
The shadowy woman unlocked the gate with a large, old-fashioned key she took from her pocket and gestured for Perla to enter. She wore a floppy straw hat over a pink bandanna tied at the nape of her neck and elbow-high gardening gloves. She pulled them off, finger by finger.
“We need to get these bandaged.” Her voice tinkled like wind chimes, but it was not a question. She led Perla by the elbow into the dappled light of the lemon tunnel, toward a house barely visible through the hanging fruit.
The end of the arbor opened into a garden of dense vegetation. Stone stairs led to a sunny pool deck below a three-story house. More stairs climbed past the sparkling pool to a shady portico and outdoor dining area. The woman seated Perla in a brightly upholstered chair and excused herself into the house.
She returned a short time later, carrying a tray with a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses. Loose linen pants had replaced her dusty jeans. Chestnut hair with strands of gray tumbled to her shoulders.
“I thought you’d like something to drink.” She poured a tall glass for Perla, wrapped it in a cloth napkin, and set it on a coaster. She also handed her a tube of antiseptic cream and several bandages. While Perla tended to her wounds, they introduced themselves.
Her hostess’s name was Teodora, but she went by Teddy. She was an American of Romanian descent who had moved to Capri with her son five years earlier when he’d turned eighteen, the same year she divorced her husband. Perla shared that she was also divorced and that she’d come to Italy to reinvent herself as a travel writer. Teddy listened with rapt attention, as if Perla were the most important person in the world.
“You’re so adventurous to come here by yourself. Good luck winning the contest. Paid travel-writing jobs are rare these days.” Everything about Teddy screamed sophistication and understated elegance. She carried her willowy height with the poise of a runway model. At first glance, she seemed to be in her late thirties, but the transparency of her well-moisturized skin hinted late forties. Her face was arresting without the hat and bandanna, and although her features were too sharp by fashion-magazine standards of beauty, her gray eyes and aquiline nose captivated Perla.
“You seem so familiar to me,” Perla said as she continued to study her face, “but I can’t place where I’ve seen you.”
“You probably remember my ex-husband, Roger Wagner?”
“Oh my God! You’re Rayna Wagner!” A wave of lemonade sloshed out of her glass.
Perla’s mind struggled to reconcile the woman before her with decade-old images of the long-suffering wife of the famous American football quarterback turned action-film star. The humiliation the woman had endured in the media during her husband’s rise to fame was as relentless as his loutish behavior. Whenever Perla went to the grocery store, she’d see him on the cover of gossip magazines, “caught” with a different woman.
Perla wanted to clap with joy for Teddy’s new, unshackled life.
“I go by my middle name now, Teddy, and my maiden name Balan. You didn’t recognize me because I’m fat.”
“Not because you’re fat—because you’re happy! Liberation
becomes you. And besides, you must be what, a size four? Hardly bovine.”
“It is if you’ve been a size zero all your adult life. Don’t get me wrong though, I’ve enjoyed every pound. Roger ridiculed me whenever I gained an ounce. When I was pregnant with my son, Roman, he’d laugh at me and say I looked like a Volkswagen, but not in a nice way.”
“He said and did many cringe-worthy things. What sticks in my mind was the time your limousine arrived outside a big Hollywood awards show and Roger jumped out the door to schmooze the paparazzi, leaving you behind. I almost threw my bowl of popcorn at the TV. How did you cope?”
“I was just decoration. He only cared how I made him look. I could never be less than perfect.” Teddy pressed her lips in a thin line. She sounded like Parthenope.
Perla placed her hand on top of Teddy’s. “Excuse me for being inappropriate—this is so out of line for me to say—but on behalf of women across America, we’re ecstatic you left him! Why did you wait so long?”
Teddy blushed. “It’s complicated. I know people think I sold my self-respect for a glamorous lifestyle.” Teddy shifted in her chair. “And maybe that was true in the beginning. I met Roger at a fashion show in Milan, where sports celebrities hung out hoping to meet models. I was too easily impressed by his wealth and fame. In the midnineties, my native Romania was impoverished. Roger was my ticket to a better life, a life of glamour.”
“But you were already a model. Sounds pretty glamorous to me.”
“A low-paid runway model only, a glorified clothes hanger. I was also twenty-five, which is old in the fashion world. My days were limited, and I was terrified of returning home to nothing. I told myself I could divorce him whenever I wanted, but life changed. He became a big hit at the box office, I got pregnant, and our relationship soured. He didn’t want me but didn’t want anyone else to have me either. He threatened to take full custody of Roman if I left him.”
“What a beast.” An irrational bias had made Perla assume the rich and privileged did not have the same problems as everyone else, although the news was full of famous people ruining their careers and lives in big, dramatic ways. Maybe the myth of celebrities living charmed lives had been something she needed to believe. After all, if the wealthy, beautiful, and talented couldn’t find happiness, what hope was there for her?
“Roger knew Roman was, and still is, my world. I sacrificed my last shred of dignity waiting for him to turn eighteen. And you know how the story goes. Our divorce fed the tabloids for years.”
“It was a circus and I was a voyeur. I’m sorry for what you went through.”
“Don’t worry—I’m happy now,” Teddy said. “My son lives with me, I eat what I want, wear what I want, and do what I want. I don’t wear makeup, and all my friends are my own. Life is good.”
If only self-esteem were as easy as washing your face and eating waffles.
“How is Roman doing now?” Perla asked, remembering the withdrawn little boy who occasionally appeared by his father’s side in photos.
“Happy, for the first time in his life… Capri cured his depression, and he’s blossomed into a confident young man. He loves boats, and I helped him start a small tour company. He spends his days taking tourists around Capri and the Amalfi Coast.”
“When your child is happy, you’re happy, no matter what’s going wrong in your own life,” Perla said.
They clinked glasses.
“Do you have children?” Teddy asked.
“One daughter, Karla. She’s out of college now, a mechanical engineer. She moved to Los Angeles a year ago for a dream job at an aerospace company.”
“You must be very proud of her.”
“I am, but I miss her terribly.”
Perla wondered what Karla was doing at that moment on the other side of the world. She missed meeting her for lunch at their favorite Thai restaurant in downtown San Jose. She missed shopping with her at Nordstrom and getting Saturday pedicures—girl things. The only benefit of the distance between them was that it hid Perla’s tenuous financial situation. She refused to burden Karla at this exciting time in her young life by acting like the sucking black hole of need she was. Karla had grown into such a confident, accomplished, levelheaded young woman—the kind of person Perla had always wanted to be but fell short of in so many ways. But then mothers always want their children to do more than them, be better than them. Karla, bless her heart, still believed as Perla once had that the world was fair and great things were in store for anyone who focused, worked hard, and played by the rules. Perla was careful not to cloud Karla’s youthful optimism and ambition with her own negativity. Whatever hardships lay ahead though, nothing could taint her satisfaction that Karla, her one great accomplishment in life, was successfully launched into adulthood.
“What are you doing Wednesday?” Teddy asked.
“Writing.”
“Can you take a day off to join me and a few friends? Roman is taking us to the island of Ischia. Have you ever been there? It’s as beautiful as Capri but a lot less crowded. We’ll have lunch and do some snorkeling.”
“Are you sure?” Perla’s face brightened. Why would Teddy Balan, or anyone else for that matter, want to be her friend? Maybe people were just nicer in Italy.
“Of course! Just bring a suit and towel. Everything else will be taken care of.”
With a reckless spirit, Perla accepted. She thanked Teddy for her hospitality, and the two of them passed through the lemon tunnel toward the iron gate.
“See you next Wednesday!” Teddy said as she let Perla out and locked the gate behind her.
Timeless Beauty
Monday morning arrived with sunny skies and prickly anticipation. Perla fussed over what to wear to her ten a.m. appointment at the jewelry store. She dug through the few garments she’d brought to Italy and selected a short-sleeved white blouse and knee-length black skirt. Was it too casual for a meeting? She reminded herself that her days in power suits were over. She had donated her entire business wardrobe to the Salvation Army in a symbolic goodbye to her former career.
Perla showered and blow-dried her hair. Before applying makeup, she examined herself in the mirror. She guessed she looked “good for her age,” which was the best a woman could hope for when she was too old to be an object of desire. Threads of gray had infiltrated her dark blond, shoulder-length hair, but she dyed them away. Hair color, after all, was one of the few things in life an aging woman could control. Too bad she couldn’t shampoo away her age just as easily.
Slightly hooded blue eyes stared back at her. There was some loosening around her chin and neck, but she took good care of her skin and kept it clear of age spots. Perla considered herself neither pretty nor horrid, simply nondescript. Her self-assessment varied according to her mood though, and since today was a good day, she upgraded her appearance to pleasant.
In her excitement, Perla almost forgot about Parthenope’s cameo locked in the room safe. Should she wear it or not? Flaunting expensive jewelry while traveling was never a good idea, but she was meeting an expert on cameos—it would be a good icebreaker. She punched in the code, put on the necklace, and returned to the bathroom to brush her teeth. As she wiped her mouth, she noticed her lips were plumper. She raised her head to her full reflection and shrieked. She looked twenty years younger! Her hair had thickened and her forehead smoothed out, the corners of her mouth lifted and the triple parentheses had vanished, her eyes were bigger and more expressive, and when she smiled—no crow’s feet. How can I be my thirty-five-year-old self again? Perla wondered incredulously. She took the necklace off and her fifty-five-year-old face reappeared; she put it on again and the airbrushed Perla returned.
Perla threw back her head and shouted, “Thank you, Parthenope!” She skipped around the room, jumped on the bed, did her happy dance, and shouted, “Yes, yes, yes!”
Discombobulated and dizzy, Perla remembered that if she didn’t leave immediately, she’d be late for her appointment. Could she pull it off
? Could she act normal when her whole world had just been turned upside down? Fake it, she told herself. There will never be enough time to process a magical transformation like this.
Perla took ten slow breaths, composed herself as best she could, and hurried downstairs. As she rushed across the lobby, the girl at the front desk looked up. Perla twisted her face away in a spasmodic pirouette. A close call! Her to-do list now included finding a different hotel where she could come and go freely as her younger self.
Uber hadn’t reached the Amalfi Coast, so Perla walked a couple of blocks and hailed a cab—a white Fiat. It was small, like all cars in Italy, and Perla folded herself into the back seat with her knees sideways. She checked her face in the rearview mirror as they bumped along the streets of Sorrento, afraid the magic might wear off.
Her graver concern, however, was Parthenope’s intentions. Their last conversation had been an argument about the merits of beauty. If beauty was a curse and chasing it was shallow, why had Parthenope just granted it to her?
“Do you believe in mermaids?” Perla asked the baby-faced driver who was most likely in his forties.
He hesitated a moment and met her eyes in the rearview mirror. “Sì. Mythology is still religion around here… I loved the movie Splash.”
Perla agreed; it was also one of her favorite movies. She listened to the driver talk about how Daryl Hannah was so hot, his yearslong crush on her, and how he had named a golden carp in his mother’s fishpond after the main character, Madison. She smiled at the thought of Parthenope growing legs, going shopping, eating at restaurants, having sex, then jumping into the water and regrowing her tail. She imagined taking Parthenope’s hand and swimming underwater without needing to breathe, just like Daryl Hannah and Tom Hanks in the movie’s last scene.