by D. M. George
Perla followed Teddy and the others along a cobbled path that wound up the slope past crystal clear pools of all sizes; past stone walls recessed with small grottos where people sat on benches under streams of warm water; past neat rows of colorful lounge chairs; past classical nude statues, giant terra-cotta urns, and spouting fountains. Near the top of the labyrinthine park, below towering tufa-stone outcroppings shaped like giant Tootsie Rolls, Teddy unlocked a gate and led her guests down a narrow staircase and into the VIP area.
“Roman brings private tours to this terrace all the time, so the park lets him use it for no charge on the days it’s not reserved,” Teddy said to Perla as the others spread out on the patio. “I hope you like it.”
It was fabulous. Leafy trees shaded the secluded brick terrace from the intense midday sun. The high, crescent-shaped wall framed a panoramic view of the gardens with the sea below and lush green hills to the side. A table with a crisp white tablecloth and six cushioned chaises stood ready. Neatly positioned glasses, plates, cutlery, and napkins awaited the food. An ice bucket holding bottles of wine dripped condensation from its sides.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Teddy said. “We have time to freshen up before lunch is served. The bathrooms and showers are up there.” She pointed to a set of brick stairs on the far side of the patio. “Perla, Maria, come with me.”
Etienne and Roman passed on the showers and continued their conversation about the best fishing spots on the Amalfi Coast.
The stairs led up to another fenced-in terrace with a view even more spectacular. Teddy and Maria entered the showers, and Perla walked over to the balustrade.
“I’ll be there in a minute. I want to take some photos first.”
After a few shots, Perla dropped her phone back in her bag and entered the low stone building. Maria and Teddy occupied the only two shower stalls. Darn. She didn’t want to hold up lunch.
Perla stepped outside and noticed the terrace remained vacant. She stuck her head in the men’s side. “Hellooo?” she shouted. No answer. Why not? It was a private area, after all. She tiptoed inside, bent down, and peered under the stalls. Nope, no feet. She passed a row of sinks and did a U-turn around a wall into the shower room. Perla set her bag on one of the benches, removed her towel, and opened the door to one of the two fully enclosed shower stalls.
A deluge of hot mineral water gushed from the showerhead. Glorious. It pummeled her scalp as she relished the simple pleasure of a long shower, the water-bill-busting kind unaffordable in drought-stricken California. She scrubbed herself with citrus soap from the complimentary toiletry basket until she smelled like a lemon drop. Just a few more minutes, she told herself.
Before she knew it, twenty minutes had passed. Perla turned off the faucet and rushed out of the shower stall. Crap. Teddy and Maria were probably waiting for her. She held a bath towel to her chest, snatched her bag off the bench, and hurried around the interior wall.
Skin slapped against skin. Perla had just body-slammed a naked man who was standing at the sink. She shrieked, involuntarily raised her hands, and let go of the towel. They faced each other, less than a foot apart. Perla froze for a split second as the man regarded her with calm curiosity, shaving cream on his neck and a disposable razor held midair. Without thinking, Perla dropped to her knees to pick up her towel and found herself face-to-face with his flaccid, but nonetheless impressive, penis. The man lowered his head and raised one eyebrow, resembling the statue of David nonchalantly sizing up Goliath, as if it were the most normal thing in the world to go into battle naked. Perla flushed beet red.
She jumped back, her feet slipped on the wet tile, and she landed on her tailbone, legs splayed. As she crab-walked away, the man set down his razor, stepped forward, and extended his hand. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, but he courteously kept a straight face.
“Don’t touch me, you pervert!” Perla said. “What the hell are you doing in here?”
The man tilted his head toward the urinals behind him. “My name is Vito. Nice to meet you.”
Perla refused his hand, grabbed her towel and bag, and ran out the door to the women’s side of the building. Teddy and Maria were both drying their hair in front of the mirror.
“Oh, there you are,” said Teddy. “I thought we lost you.”
“I, uh, was on the other side…”
“Well, hurry up and get dressed. Lunch is almost ready. We’ll meet you on the patio.”
Minutes later, Perla descended the steps to the lower terrace and skidded to a stop. A fully dressed Vito stood by the food table, drinking wine and chatting with Roman and Etienne. Damn. There was no escape.
Double damn. Vito was as sexy clothed as he was naked. Somewhere in his mid to late fifties, he stood over six feet tall, had an athletic build and eyes that smiled independently of his mouth. Guffawing eyes.
“Perla, I’d like you to meet my friend Vito.” Roman draped an arm over Vito’s shoulder and gave him a sideways man hug. “He works for me and will be taking you guys back to Capri before it gets dark. I’m staying here in Ischia with some friends.”
Sensing her speechlessness, Vito reached for Perla’s hand, winked, and said, “Nice to meet you, Perla.” His grip was warm and firm.
“Vito is my best captain, the only one I trust with my scuba tours.” He turned to Vito. “By the way, how did the dive go at Baia this morning?”
“Easy. They were all experienced divers who just wanted to photograph the ruins,” Vito replied to Roman, his eyes still on Perla.
“Lunch is served,” Teddy announced and herded everyone toward the feast of antipasti and salads. Perla quickly piled food on her plate and slunk away to the farthest chaise. She had made such a fool of herself in front of Vito; why did he have to be so handsome? She loved the way he combed his thick, wavy hair back from his forehead and how the ends curled below his earlobes, complementing his neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard. Folded-back cuffs and canvas slip-on shoes dressed down the blue cotton shirt he wore tucked into his belted shorts.
Perla had noticed how stylish Italian men were the moment she’d arrived in Italy. An Italian man on his most casual day dressed nicer than a Silicon Valley techie on his dressiest day. Her former grungy colleagues didn’t own shirts with collars and probably didn’t have irons either. Cargo shorts, hoodies, wrinkled T-shirts, and flip-flops were de rigueur.
If she hadn’t made a gynecological spectacle of herself in front of Vito, she would have liked to get to know him better. She stared at her plate, wanting for once to actually be invisible.
“I’m a principled man, you know.” Two big feet appeared in front of her.
“What do you mean?” She couldn’t look up.
“I have a three-date rule. I never introduce Il Duce to a woman until the third date.”
“Il Duce?” Perla raised her head.
Vito struck a classic Benito Mussolini pose: he stood ramrod straight, rested a fist on his hip, jutted his chin, turned down the corners of his mouth, and squinted.
“You named your… your manhood after a former dictator?”
“Yes, he was quite the little fascist in my youth. But now, at my age, I control him. He no longer controls me.”
Perla smiled in spite of herself. She appreciated his rapprochement in such an awkward situation. Why do men name their penises? She’d never known a woman who’d named her vagina.
“Now that you two have met,” Vito said as he sat down on the chaise next to Perla, “I insist you make an honorable man out of me. I must take you out on a proper date.” He plucked an olive off her plate and took a slow bite, appraising her intently. Big brown eyes danced behind his swarthy complexion.
“Listen, Vito, I apologize for being rude and invading your privacy, but… a date? After my floor show? Oh no, no. I’m afraid the mystery is all gone.”
“But I insist. You don’t want me to break my moral code, do you? And besides, now that we’re intimate, we can take our time getting
to know everything else about each other. By the way, everything about you is lovely. I just wonder if you are as nice as you are pretty?” Vito flashed a megawatt smile.
God, he’s charming, she thought, wondering how he knew flattery was her Achilles heel. At that moment she remembered the cameo and sighed. If she weren’t wearing it, they wouldn’t be having this conversation.
“I think you’re getting ahead of yourself. Let’s start with snorkeling,” Perla said, caving far too quickly.
“Sure. Do you think you can keep up with me?” Vito teased. A double entendre or her imagination? His freshly shaved neck smelled of bergamot and lime.
“Keep up with you? Prepare to be impressed. What was the place you were talking about with Roman, the one with underwater ruins?”
“It’s called Baia, an ancient sunken city near Naples, now an underwater archaeological park. We can go there. You’ll love it—so many interesting things to see. Some of it is scuba deep, but Roman bought two new Seabobs, which need test-driving. It’ll be fun.”
“What’s a Seabob?”
“You’ll see.”
They agreed to meet at Marina Piccola in Sorrento on Tuesday, Vito’s day off. He reclined his long body on the chaise next to Perla, and over several glasses of wine, she learned he was a divorced, semiretired law partner from Rome who worked for Roman during the tourist season. He owned a summer home in Praiano—a little south of Positano—and an apartment in Rome. He was so funny, so easy to talk to, that Perla wished the day could go on forever.
Two hours passed in a blink. Vito excused himself to prepare the boat for their departure, and fifteen minutes later, Teddy herded everyone out of the VIP terrace. Perla listened to Maria prattle on about the latest clothing styles she’d ordered for her boutique as they hiked downhill to the dock. The words didn’t register though; her mind kept wandering to Vito.
When was the last time she’d been so charmed by a man? She’d thought herself far too old and jaded to be swept off her feet. But perhaps it was true that love struck when you least expected it. Meeting Vito was so random, so authentic, and so delightfully embarrassing. He had given her something she hadn’t experienced in a long time: appreciation. The most attractive thing about a man, she mused, is how he makes a woman feel about herself. With Vito, she was no longer invisible.
At the dock, Vito stood inside the boat, helping Maria and Teddy over the side. He extended his hand to Perla, but instead of steadying her as she jumped down, he lifted her in his strong arms and let her slide against his body as he lowered her to her feet.
Wow. That was not her imagination. Electricity shot through her core. On the ride back to Capri, she couldn’t help stealing glances at him behind the wheel. He sensed her attention and, without taking his eyes off the horizon, made his trademark Il Duce face: chin up, mouth down, eyes squinting. She blushed, and as she looked away, she saw Teddy beaming.
Beauty’s Curse
Perla sipped her lemon soda and adjusted the umbrella to shield her eyes from the western sun. She admired the ad-perfect scene: blue water, big sky, and her own bare legs tanning in front of her. These pier-mounted clubs made sense, she thought, given the scarcity of beaches in Sorrento. And this one had it all: a restaurant, bar, changing rooms, towels, and stairs that led down to the water. It ran parallel to the shore and connected to the pier in the middle. Perla had chosen a chaise at the far end of the cement platform. A few euros was all it cost to rent one for an afternoon of well-earned leisure—a reward to herself for finishing her second article, “Limoncello’s Revenge.”
Perla set her phone down on the tiny table next to the empty soda bottle and massaged her calves. Too much sitting had made them twitchy, and she needed to walk it off. It was time to go anyway; in the three hours she’d been there, the sky had clouded up and a light fog had formed along the water’s edge. Most of the beach club’s clientele had already left. She shivered in her tank top and wished she’d packed a sweatshirt.
The beach club sat on the south side of Sorrento’s main harbor, Marina Piccola. At the harbor’s center, a wide pier reached far out into the sea like an arm bent at the elbow—a perfect place to stretch her legs. Perla crossed the parking lot, passed the idling buses and taxis, and weaved around the seafood restaurant adjacent to the pier. She stopped abruptly in front of the restaurant, cursed, and turned around. She’d left her phone by the chaise.
Thickening fog muffled the din of voices coming from the restaurant’s outdoor bar area and had reduced visibility to less than fifteen feet. Perla had retraced her steps to the other side of the parking lot when her skin prickled. She glanced back. A man’s shape left the restaurant and strode purposefully in her direction. His features barely registered; she was completely focused on finding her phone before someone else did. Her pace quickened down the narrow path that led to the entrance of the beach club and the still-open gate. She hurried across the pier to the end of the cemented platform. Were those footsteps? Probably just staff cleaning up for the day.
Disaster averted! The phone was exactly where she’d left it. Her whole life was on that phone: photos for her articles, texts to Karla—everything. She’d have to be more careful.
The cameo buzzed against her skin as she zipped the phone in her bag. She spun around and spotted a man materializing out of the fog in front of her. It was Matteo, the jewelry-store salesman who’d tried to grope her. Adrenaline flooded her stomach. He stood between her and the edge of the platform. Three feet below were the large angular rocks on which the jetty was built, and farther down, dark water.
“Vecchia puttana!” Droplets of alcohol-infused spit sprayed her face. “You got me fired, you old whore!”
Old whore? Perla touched the vibrating cameo. She straightened her back and raised her chin in an attempt to look taller than her five-foot-seven self, adopting the recommended stance for when confronted by a mountain lion. “You got yourself fired, asshole. Next time keep your filthy hands to yourself!”
Oh God. She cringed. There goes my runaway mouth again! If only she could suck those words out of the air, but it was too late. This time she was going to pay.
Perla sized up Matteo in a split second. He was several inches taller and outweighed her by at least fifty pounds. Her only chance of escape was to outrun him… if she could get past. Matteo crouched as if reading her mind, his elbows out like a defensive lineman seconds before kickoff. His breath smelled of wet ashtrays and sour wine. Perla feinted to the right and shot to the left, but Matteo struck like lightning. His arm shot out and shoved her off the wall before she’d taken a single step.
Sharp rocks kicked her in the backside. For once she was thankful for the extra padding protecting her tailbone. She rolled sideways into the water and stood up, thigh deep, wincing in pain. Matteo jumped down and lunged at her neck with outstretched hands. His eyes were pinpoints of fury, but Perla was ready. She held an apple-size rock in her hand and swung it at his head with all her might. But again, she wasn’t fast enough. Matteo caught her wrist, wrenched it behind her back, and plunged her head under the water. His hand was a steel manacle, too tight to slip out of.
The cold water shocked her. Perla thrust her feet against the rocks but failed to knock Matteo off-balance. Panic seized her as her lungs screamed for air. Parthenope, where are you? You promised to protect me, and I need some superhuman strength right now! She kicked and twisted in a final burst of energy, but Matteo’s grip kept her below the surface. Something? Anything? Please, Parthenope!
Nothing. A calm resignation came over her. She yielded to it and stopped thrashing. Focus your remaining consciousness on your beautiful daughter, she told herself, let your last thoughts be of her. It won’t be long now.
Another minute passed. Perla waited for her lungs to burst, but they didn’t. Oddly, she no longer felt a burning need to breathe and her body didn’t convulse. Her blood was as oxygenated as if she had just hyperventilated. Was this the cameo’s magic? She let out the air
in her lungs—still no urge to inhale. Parthenope had come through after all!
Perla let her body go limp and played dead. She remained floating facedown ten minutes after Matteo’s hands finally released her. She turned her head, ever so slowly. No sign of Matteo. She stood up, wiped the water off her face, and crawled up the embankment. Crouching down, she peeked over the edge of the platform. He was gone. It was better, she decided, to stay put until it was completely dark than to risk encountering her would-be murderer again.
Perla lowered herself onto a rock and examined her injuries: multiple scrapes and bruises but no broken bones. Her body shook uncontrollably. She wrapped her arms around her knees and squeezed. As she took slow, deep breaths to calm her racing heart, she felt an odd iciness in her armpits, an empty, hollow feeling. She lifted her left arm and stifled a scream. Matteo must have slashed her with a knife! She hadn’t seen a weapon, but a deep gash bisected her armpit and left a loose flap of flesh at least four inches wide. She had watched enough action movies to know that a well-placed stab in the armpit could pierce the heart.
I’m going to die after all! Perla moaned. I’ll never see Karla again! She gnashed her teeth and wept angry tears.
A moment later she sat up and squeezed her head between her hands. Wait a minute… where’s the pain? Logic trickled back into her brain: if she’d been stabbed in the heart, wouldn’t she have bled out and died by now? Perla lifted her other arm and yelped at the same four-inch slit. She stared at the quivering gash. The flap of skin covered rows and rows of deep red membranes that opened and closed like the mouths of beached fish.
“I have gills!” Perla gasped. She watched her armpits in horror and fascination. As the adrenaline ebbed and her heartbeat slowed, the flaps of skin adhered back into place without a scar.
Joining the sisterhood of fish wasn’t the kind of magic Perla had expected, but she was alive nonetheless. Should she feel grateful or violated? She trembled to think what other liberties Parthenope might take with her body if she continued wearing the cameo. Fins? Webbed fingers?