by D. M. George
Luca’s perception shocked Perla and dredged up memories more painful than her divorce. She took several deep breaths before answering. “Yes, he was. We married after college, and he died in a motorcycle accident three years later.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too. We were happy.”
“You don’t have to talk about it,” Luca said.
“No, it’s okay. John deserves to be remembered.” Perla ground her thumbs into her eyes. “For years I’d nagged him to sell the motorcycle he’d had since high school. He finally agreed after our daughter was born. At last I could release the worries that had haunted me. He ran an ad, found a buyer, and arranged for pickup on a Sunday afternoon. On the morning of the same day, the weather was sunny and warm. John decided to take his beloved motorcycle for one last ride on Highway 9 in the Santa Cruz Mountains. It was his last ride. He hit a guardrail and died instantly.”
A fishing boat entered the harbor quayside, and Perla stopped talking. Luca let a polite moment pass.
“Getting involved with Gordon was no more foolish than me falling for Gianna,” Luca ventured. “I’m pretty sure she hit on me to get back at a boyfriend who’d dumped her.”
“But you had three good months together, right?” Perla focused on his wide mouth and well-formed lips as she returned to the moment.
“I was happy, yes. Gianna treated me like I was normal, like my blindness didn’t matter to her. For the first time ever, I felt worthy of a woman’s love. She was my fantasy, but all along she was using me. I was just her plaything, her freak.”
“Luca, listen to me.” Perla slid her hand into his. “You’re no freak. To sighted people, you’re a very handsome man, and nobody needs vision to see you are gracious, intelligent, and very talented. My girlfriends back home would line up to marry a guy like you.”
“Send them over,” he said with a flicker of a smile.
“Give yourself some credit. Gianna didn’t need three months to make someone else jealous. She stayed with you so long for a reason.”
“Like what, for heaven’s sake?” Luca sniffed and tears welled.
Perla squeezed his hand. “Being somewhat of an expert on the matter, my theory is we’re attracted like magnets to people who shore up our insecurities. Gianna gave you confidence with women and treated you as an equal, but you gave her something she lacked as well. Self-respect is my guess. You have a refined, dignified bearing. I’ll bet Gianna enjoyed being the princess you believed she was. She basked in your reflection for a while but knew all along she wasn’t your equal. Her infidelity had nothing to do with you.”
They sat quietly until Perla stood and pulled Luca to his feet. “I’m starving! Let’s go to the trattoria, the one where your friend works, and get some dinner.”
“Good idea.” Luca picked up his cane and mandolin, and they strolled arm in arm to the restaurant. The cat followed.
“By the way, you play the mandolin beautifully.”
“Thanks. My passion is collecting and playing antique stringed instruments. Gianna wasn’t interested in my music—she only listened to junk on the radio. I wish I could meet a woman who shares my love of music.” Luca cuddled his mandolin.
Luca’s friend Pietro spread his arms and welcomed them into the trattoria. Cobwebs of string lights hung from the canopy.
“Cat lady! Nice to officially meet you!” Pietro shook Perla’s hand with his banana-size fingers. “See? They’re expecting dinner.” He pointed to the alley where the gang of cats sat in a row. “They’ll just have to wait until my shift’s over. I hope they like spaghetti with clams.”
Pietro returned with a bottle of sparkling water, two shot glasses of limoncello, bread, and a flying-saucer-size plate of antipasti. Pink and red slices of prosciutto, ham, and several types of salami fanned out over thick slices of provolone, fresh mozzarella, and tomato slices. He recommended the house special, pignatiello all'amalfitana—a mixture of clams, squid, mussels, and shrimp cooked with spices in a clay pot. Perla and Luca agreed.
“Luca, I need to ask a favor of you.” Perla put some antipasti on Luca’s plate before serving herself. “I’ve been invited to a party tomorrow night. The hostess is a rich woman named Circe who lives on an estate near Sorrento. I don’t know her—I met her only once—but I promised the friend who arranged my invitation that I’d go. Please come with me. I’ll be so much more comfortable with you there. She gives me the creeps. Who knows, it might be fun.”
“I’m already going,” Luca said to Perla’s surprise. “Circe has hired me to play my lyre at her parties for the past five years. I’m one of a dozen musicians.”
“Really?” Sorrento had become a small town. “What are her parties like? What’s the occasion?”
“They’re the social event of the year around here. It’s her annual customer-appreciation party.”
“What customers?”
“Circe owns Castrati Prosciutto, purveyor of the finest artisanal prosciutto in Italy. It’s made from special heirloom pigs she raises on her estate. They wander the grounds like pets. You can hear them grunting when they come up to sniff you.”
The picture of Circe in designer overalls, tending to pigs, brought a smile to Perla’s lips.
“She’s stunningly beautiful but frosty cold, and I have no idea why I’m going.”
“Nobody knows her very well. Her manager runs the company from an office here in Sorrento,” Luca said, deftly spearing a piece of tomato with his fork, “which makes her all the more intriguing. People go to Circe’s parties to admire her mansion, drink her wine, and gossip about her.”
“Her wine?” Perla played with her shot glass of limoncello. The smell of it made her stomach lurch.
“She has a small winery on her estate, but her wine is for personal use only. She’ll serve it at the party. I don’t drink when I’m playing, but I hear it has a slight narcotic effect.”
“Are you taking her charter bus? We can ride together.” Perla raised her eyebrows hopefully.
“No, Circe has arranged for a taxi to pick me up early. Look for me when you arrive.”
They remained at the trattoria until closing time, Luca playing his mandolin until Pietro joined them at their table. Perla listened to them talk while she worried about Circe’s party and the depth of strangeness it promised.
Circe’s Party
“This is scarier than the drive to Positano!” exclaimed the woman in front of Perla. All the passengers sat stiffly upright, like people in an airplane during turbulence. Those on the cliff side looked out to sea into the deepening sunset, averting their eyes from the precipice below. Postures visibly relaxed when the bus veered inland and dropped over a ridge, away from the harrowing stretch of road. Even the bus itself seemed to sigh with relief after passing through the automatic gate onto Circe’s property.
The woman whispered to her husband, “Can you believe how the driver had to stop and back up to get around that hairpin turn? I’d never make it here, or back, on my own. Imagine driving this road at night after a few glasses of wine?” She laughed and adjusted her scarf.
Perla had admired the elegance of the woman’s white silk blouse and smart navy skirt when they’d boarded the bus. She, on the other hand, was a Christmas tree of subtlety in her new apricot dress and sparkly sandals. No matter. Better to be overdressed than underdressed, even if it pegged you as a tourist.
The bus rumbled down the hill, past a vineyard and a timeworn stone winery. Circe’s vast estate spread out over an isolated plateau on the Sorrento peninsula: a mix of farm, ranch, and vineyard, hemmed in by steep ridges and accessible only by one private road.
They passed through a vast lemon grove cloaked in green netting held up by timber poles. Its shade protected the fruit and sheltered the pigs that wandered underneath. Pigs were everywhere. Some slept; some wallowed in shallow, spring-fed pig pools; some sat in groups as if in conversation. They all stopped what they were doing and stared at the bus as it passed, mak
ing eye contact in an unsettling way.
“What unusual pigs,” the woman said. She lifted her hair and fanned her neck with her party invitation. All the pigs were black with a distinctive white stripe around their middle. Her husband leaned toward the window to get a better view.
“Those are Cinta Senese heritage hogs, an ancient breed from Tuscany that produces the tastiest prosciutto. Castrati Prosciutto is expensive, but it’s the only brand I sell. Look around—you can see why. These pigs are raised free-range and graze on only natural food like tubers, roots, and acorns. They have a real nice life… until the end.”
Perla shook her head. The pigs’ huge girth suggested secret stashes of biscotti and cannoli.
Circe’s mansion, an elegant nineteenth-century four-story villa, sat on a long finger of land that pointed at the island of Capri. To the north, a football-field-size lawn stretched to the cliff’s edge, and to the south a formal garden spanned an entire half acre. The bus passed a crumbling Saracen watchtower, several garages for farm equipment, and a caretaker’s cottage before reaching the wide circular driveway.
Yellow light glowed behind the manor’s many arched windows, welcoming guests as they exited the bus. Perla approached the open front door and joined the reception line. Tuxedoed waiters drifted through the crowd, offering small glasses of pink wine. Perla declined, remembering what Luca had said about its narcotic effect. The other guests were less inhibited; some took two glasses at a time and gulped them down.
Luca was right. Dozens of pigs milled about: fat, clean, and very tame. Three of them approached Perla and sniffed her. She reached down and scratched each one behind their large, floppy ears. They lifted their snouts to her and made a strange two-syllable sound somewhere between a grunt and a snort. Six pale-lashed little eyes fixed on hers as if wanting to tell her something.
Three mandolin players strolled among the guests like mellow mariachis. The reception line led through the foyer into a room with a high ceiling, pale yellow walls, and a black-and-white-tile floor. A crystal chandelier suffused the area with soft light, illuminating the antique furniture, huge vases of flowers, and the lady in the corner playing a harp. In another corner, a pig lay asleep on a large dog pillow.
Circe stood at the bottom of a sweeping marble staircase, greeting guests, a Grecian goddess in gold and white. Men and women gawked at her, some with ill-concealed lust, others with jealous fascination. A priceless brooch gathered the sheer fabric of her toga dress at one shoulder, leaving the sides of her breasts exposed. The gilded cord crisscrossing her tiny waist accentuated her already dramatic cleavage. A golden bracelet coiled up her arm.
Perla greeted Circe and averted her eyes from her extravagant bosom. She’d had plenty of practice with Parthenope.
“Thank you for inviting me to your party, Circe. I know it was at Parthenope’s request, although I still don’t know why.”
“She wanted me to show you something,” Circe replied. “Join the other guests on the lawn for dinner and I’ll find you later.”
A wet suction cup nose touched Perla’s leg.
“How do you get these pigs so fat?” Perla bent down and petted the bristly head of the pig nuzzling her. “Obviously it’s more than roots and tubers.” No answer. She looked up. Circe was talking to someone else.
The lawn had been transformed into a dreamscape in white: white canopies with flowing drapes, round tables with floor-length white tablecloths, randomly placed white upholstered chairs and love seats, and pathways lined with glowing white orbs. In the middle of the lawn stood a long rectangular buffet table with servers manning the chafing dishes.
Perla had almost forgotten about Luca until his beautiful strumming reached her ears. He sat in one of the upholstered chairs, playing his lyre.
“Luca, it’s me, Perla,” she said, and the corners of his mouth lifted at the sound of her voice. “I won’t bother you while you’re working—I just want you to know I’m here.”
“Come back when I’m on break,” he whispered.
Pork was the theme of the evening. The menu featured porchetta, the stuffed and rolled Italian pork roast, pork shank, osso buco served with polenta, pork tenderloin, braised pork ragu over Parmesan risotto, and grilled sausages. Besides the hot entrées, platters of prosciutto, salami, sliced ham, cheeses, bread, and fruit covered the table. Perla inhaled the mouthwatering smells and deliberated over what to choose.
She carried her plate, overflowing with tiny samples of everything, to a table near Luca and asked the three well-dressed couples sitting there if she could join them. They nodded but continued their spirited discussion without greeting her or introducing themselves. No matter—she eschewed insincere formalities and felt perfectly content to eat, listen, and watch. Between her rudimentary Italian and their animated gestures, she was able to catch the gist of the conversation.
“Such old news. Everyone knows what happened to Tommaso,” said a man in a beige linen suit to his friend across the table.
“The loudmouthed guy from Naples with the seafood restaurant who lied about having a three-star rating? That Tommaso?” asked one of the wives, who wore a sumptuous pashmina shawl.
“Si,” her husband replied. “Remember how he bragged last year, at this very table, about stiffing Circe on some invoices?”
“I couldn’t stand him.”
“Nobody could. It’s too bad what happened, but what nerve… Coming to Circe’s party, eating her food, drinking her wine, and complaining afterward that she charges too much for her prosciutto.”
“You have to admit, the accident had karmic justice,” said the red-faced woman to the right of Perla. “I heard they never found his body. Crabs probably ate it.”
“Eaten by the very creatures he served at his restaurant.” Her husband giggled. “Now that’s karmic.”
“Shhhh! You’re terrible,” scolded his wife with a smile on her face. The whole group burst into laughter.
“Here’s to Circe and her buses!” Everyone raised their glasses. “Now we can drink all we want and make it home alive.”
The woman next to Perla remembered her presence. “How do you like the wine, dear?” she said in English.
“I haven’t tried it yet,” Perla replied.
“Oh, you must. It’s delicious, sweetened with honey.” She poured some into Perla’s glass from one of the many open bottles on the table.
Where was the harm in one taste? Perla’s curiosity got the better of her, and she took a small sip. It tasted ambrosial, sweet but not cloying. Warmth immediately spread through her body and she became light-headed, like she had swallowed a tablespoon of codeine syrup. Now she understood the uninhibited behavior of Circe’s guests. Couples kissed and groped on the love seats, men waltzed with unseen partners. Some just wandered about, warbling at the rising moon. There’s magic in this wine, she thought and took another sip, a little larger than the first.
Circe appeared unannounced behind Perla, startling her and causing her to spill her wine. A dark splotch spread across her lap like a burst pipe. Perla frantically blotted the wet spot with a napkin, but the stain had already ruined her new dress.
“Is everyone having a good time?” Circe asked with a counterfeit smile. She circled the table in a cloud of violet and vinegar. All conversation stopped.
“Perla, come with me,” Circe said and took a half-empty bottle of wine from the table. The guests who had ignored Perla watched as they departed, whispering among themselves.
Perla followed Circe across the lawn and into the mansion. They stopped in the reception area before a large display case that contained an ornate golden chalice. Circe removed a small key from a hidden pocket, unlocked the door, and gripped the heavy cup by its ruby-and-sapphire-encrusted stem.
“Let’s go out to the garden.” Circe led Perla through tall french doors and down a pea-gravel path.
The wine’s buzz had evaporated and Perla shivered with trepidation. What did Circe want to show her? Perla remembe
red how Parthenope had denied Circe was a friend. She broke into a sweat.
A mild sea breeze cut through the balmy night air. After passing statues, potted palms, topiaries, and neatly barbered hedges, they stopped inside a circle of Roman columns that were connected by a low cement bench. The fragrant bushes surrounding one side of the alcove blocked the moonlight, leaving half the circle in complete darkness.
“How much did Parthenope tell you about me?” Circe asked as she set the wine bottle and the chalice on the bench.
“Only that you’re immortal, like her.”
“She must think highly of you…” Circe raked her eyes over Perla. “…a lowly mortal. I don’t understand why. Sit over there and be quiet.” She pointed to the dark side of the gazebo. “I’ll be right back.”
Perla obeyed without a word.
Several minutes passed before Circe returned to the gazebo with a man. They talked quietly together, voices friendly. Perla recognized the voice and choked. It was Matteo, the man who had left her for dead, walking with Circe toward the moonlit center of the gazebo. Perla trembled, invisible in the shadows.
Matteo babbled giddily. “I drove here like a demon when I got your invitation tonight. I was so honored. Thank you.”
“Well, I’ve heard so much about you I had to meet you in person,” Circe cooed.
“Me? Really? What did you hear?” His eyes feasted on her décolletage.
“That you like to touch breasts.”
“Who told you that?” His head jerked up.
“Well, do you?”
“Oh yessss.”
Circe stopped and faced Matteo. “Well then, I have something to show you.”
Matteo reached both hands toward her breasts, but Circe stepped back.
“First, a toast. Out of my special cup.” Circe poured some wine from the bottle into the chalice and handed it to him. “You first.”
Perla watched Matteo quaff a mouthful of wine, seemingly annoyed by the formality. He bent forward as if he wanted to bury his face in her breasts and blow bubbles but jerked upright in a full-body convulsion. Circe caught the goblet before it hit the ground. Matteo emitted a loud groan, his face contorted in pain.