by D. M. George
The water flushed them into welcome unconsciousness.
When Perla opened her eyes, she was back in Parthenope’s cave, leaning against the pile of fishing nets. Parthenope sprawled on her chaise, hair hanging over the edge, neck exposed. This was the moment Perla had been waiting for. She unclasped the golden chain, held an end in each hand, and reached toward Parthenope’s throat… But her hands froze midair. The cameo swung back and forth: yes, no, yes, no.
Perla curled her fingers around the pendant. She sat down and scrutinized the sleeping mermaid. Their visit with Janus had improved Parthenope’s haggard appearance even more than the wine. Her bones were less visible, and her fins had regained much of their previous suppleness. Maybe Janus had dosed her with his magic…
Perla would never let her friend die even if she had to wrestle the cameo around Parthenope’s neck and do a marathon depression intervention with her to keep it on. But not before spending her last weekend with Vito. There was time.
Parthenope will be fine until Monday, she said, trying to convince herself. It’s only five days away.
Luca’s House
Perla clutched the rim of the toilet as guilt-flavored bile splattered her hands. Over and over she heaved until nothing came out but a croaking, gagging sound. A headache of migraine proportions rapped on her forehead with a hammer and shouted, What were you thinking? Circe’s wine had more than avenged Perla’s insult from the day before. She imagined Circe watching her with her third eye, or whatever omniscient capability her particular brand of immortal possessed, and laughing with delight.
Oh God, what had she done? Morning light poured into the hotel room. She remained on the bathroom floor, cheek pressed against the cold tiles, dispassionately examining the base of the toilet between bouts of nausea. That old woman couldn’t have been Parthenope; dolphins never ferried them to the Faraglioni rocks because they were too high to swim; and certainly, hopefully, her encounter with the odious Janus was a nightmare. The one memory she didn’t doubt, however, was that of herself about to clasp the cameo around Parthenope’s neck but pulling away at the last second.
Weak justifications circled like buzzards: Parthenope would have thrown the cameo away when she woke up. She gave me the cameo in the first place—it’s her fault. I refused it in the beginning, but she insisted. She rolled on her back and groaned. However fair or unfair, Parthenope’s life, and the responsibility for her death, rested in Perla’s hands.
Perla took a shower and let the hot water massage her scalp. Even if she forced Parthenope to wear the cameo, she reasoned, it was a temporary fix. The fundamental problem was that she lacked the will to live. How could she motivate her mer-friend not to chuck the cameo the moment she left Italy?
Thirty minutes later, Perla stepped onto the bathmat with puckered skin and a plan. It wasn’t a perfect plan, but with luck and her friend Luca’s help, she’d make Parthenope knock off the suicide nonsense. Perla brightened when Luca answered his phone.
She recognized Luca’s mop of unruly hair and daddy longlegs limbs from across the plaza. He sat at an outdoor table in old town Sorrento’s Piazza Tasso, legs crossed at the knees, back straight. Although he was dressed simply in jeans and a crisp white shirt, he had an odd sophistication that set him apart from others. Townspeople stopped to greet him as if he were dispensing handfuls of sunshine.
“Luca, it’s Perla,” she said, bussing his prickly cheek. She noticed patches of whiskers he’d missed while shaving. She sat down and put her hand over his. He liked to maintain physical contact during conversation.
“Perla!” He squeezed her fingers. “I’ve missed you. It seems like ages since Circe’s party.” The glacial-blue cast to his eyes only enhanced his artistic cachet. Had Beethoven resembled Luca in his youth?
“Me too. How’s your love life?” Perla ordered a café Americano from the hovering waiter. An infusion of caffeine might dust the cobwebs from her brain.
“Nobody since Gianna. I’m alone with my music.”
Perla balled her fist in a silent Yes!
“Luca, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine, a woman I met on Capri the same day I met you.”
“Is this what you Americans call a blind date?” Luca laughed at his own joke.
“Definitely.”
His lowered his voice. “Why would she, or any woman, be interested in meeting a blind man? I’m damaged goods.”
Perla squeezed his hand. “Well, to begin with, you’re not damaged goods, and she is not any woman. To her, your blindness will be your most attractive feature. She hates people staring at her.”
“My most attractive feature…? Impossible.”
“Sighted men are blinded by her incredible beauty; they cannot see past her appearance to appreciate her equally incredible musical talents. She sings like an angel by the way. Sadly, she distrusts men and has given up on ever finding love.”
“Thanks, but I’m not ready to lose my heart again.”
“She plays the lyre…”
“A goddess seeking a lyre-playing blind man she can jam with and sing to—are you teasing me?”
“Nope.”
“Does she want to meet me?”
“Yes, but she doesn’t know it yet. If she hears you play though, she’ll find you irresistible. And when you hear her sing, you will fall in love immediately.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Trust me, she has that effect on men.”
“I’ll consider it, but only if you keep me company for a while. Do you want to see my house?”
“Here in Sorrento?”
“No, south of town, by the water. It’s a bit of a walk but very beautiful. At least it was the last time I saw it.”
“When did you lose your sight?”
“At nineteen. I have a type of retinal dystrophy. There’s no cure.”
“People say it’s more tragic to have sight and lose it than to never have experienced it. What do you think?”
“It is. Just like love. But I’ve learned to see with my ears. It’s amazing what you can pick up if you really listen.”
“Should I find us a cab?” Perla offered.
“No need. Walk with me. Someone always stops.” Luca paid their tab and they headed down the street.
Stray cats crept from the shadows and followed Luca. By the time they’d walked several blocks, a small pack had formed as if he were the Sorrentine Pied Piper. Sensing the cats’ presence, he reached down to pet them. They purred loudly and rubbed against his leg. Perla lowered her hand to a tabby, but it hissed and raised a warning paw. Luca said something in Italian and the cats scattered. A car pulled up alongside them.
“Hey, Luca, need a ride?” said the driver through the open window. His olive complexion and loopy hair resembled Luca’s.
“Perla, meet my cousin Paolo.”
Paolo nodded and asked, “Where to?”
“Home.” Luca opened the passenger-side front door for Perla and squeezed himself into the back seat.
“Nonna’s mad at you for not visiting her,” Paolo said as he maneuvered the car through the narrow streets and around the larger vehicles.
“When isn’t she? I had coffee with her last week.”
“You know how she is. Certain she’s going to die at any moment.”
“She’s been saying that for decades.”
“Hey, Francesca and I are having everyone over to our house for supper on Sunday. Why don’t you and Perla come? Nonna will be there and maybe you can redeem yourself.” He winked at Perla and whispered, “I like you so much more than Gianna.”
“I’m sitting right here,” Luca said from the back seat.
Paolo made a funny face and Perla laughed.
Paolo shared family gossip until he pulled the car to the side of the road and let them out. They thanked him for the ride, said goodbye, and were left standing on top of a high bluff overlooking the sea. Perla spun around, bewildered.
“Are we walking down there?”
A narrow dirt trailhead dropped through the bushes and olive trees in steep switchbacks.
“You think I can’t do it because I’m blind?” Luca said in mock offense. “You forget I grew up here. Watch and be amazed.” He folded up his aluminum cane with an emphatic snap.
Perla had to hurry to keep pace. Luca hiked with the sure-footedness of a mountain goat. He navigated every step, twist, and turn from memory on their descent to the secluded cove below. About halfway to the bottom, a picturesque stone cottage came into view. Other than an electrical line strung down the hill on wooden poles and a spring-fed water tank in back, the ancient home had probably changed little over the centuries. In front of the house, the ground sloped gently to a gravel beach. To the side, a stone jetty with a cemented top reached out into the water. A high crescent peninsula sheltered the cove from the wind and passing tour boats.
“Your house is so beautiful!” Perla exclaimed and followed Luca onto its cobbled patio. “It looks like a Thomas Kinkade painting.”
“Kinkade…? I don’t think I know him.”
“He was a popular American artist who painted ridiculously cute stone cottages in bucolic settings, usually with a brook flowing through the yard, smoke drifting from the chimney, and golden light glowing in the windows. I believe he tried to capture the emotion of coming home.” Had Parthenope’s childhood home resembled this place? In her mind’s eye, Perla saw Sabina and her father loading fishing gear into their boat and rowing out to sea. Parthenope would like it.
Luca led Perla through a rough-hewed door and propped it open with a stone wedge. Cats appeared out of nowhere and streamed in the door. The cottage’s one large room functioned as a kitchen in front and a bedroom in back. A small door in the corner led to a modern bathroom attached to the side of the house. The interior was dim; the small four-paned window in front of the kitchen table provided little light but kept out the heat. The interior coolness was like a refreshing drink of water after their hot, dusty walk down the hill.
“Wow, it’s a music store in here!” Perla circled the room, mouth open. A collection of stringed instruments hung on the wall: Neapolitan mandolins with their deep, striped bowls; a lute with its bent neck; several small Italian guitars decorated with flowers of inlaid wood and mother-of-pearl; antique Cremona violins; a zither; and several classical Greek lyres with their outward-curving arms.
A seahorse-shaped harp stood by itself in one corner, and in the other Luca’s clothes were hung along a pole suspended from the ceiling. They were all the same color and arranged neatly in order: six pressed white shirts, seven pairs of khaki pants, six pairs of jeans, two blue blazers, and a black leather jacket.
“Who does your laundry and shopping?”
“My aunt. She and Paolo come by boat once a week to deliver groceries and supplies. She’s spoiled me since my parents died. Please, sit here.” Luca pulled out one of the two chairs from the small table.
Perla sat on the woven cane seat facing the beach. How she wished to see Parthenope’s young, beautiful face emerge from the water.
“Something to drink?” Luca opened the door to his vintage refrigerator and pointed to four rows of soda bottles grouped by flavor.
“Orangina for me, thank you.”
Luca uncapped a bottle and handed it to Perla. “Please excuse me while I feed the beasts.”
Luca poured kibble from a big bag into each of the twelve plates lined up on the floor and refreshed the big water bowl. The cats twitched the tips of their tails and crunched contentedly.
Perla watched Luca. “You must speak cat.”
“Sì, cats like me.”
“They are good judges of character,” Perla said, rubbing her cameo between her index finger and thumb.
Luca sat down opposite Perla, soda in hand. “I’ve decided I will meet your friend, more out of curiosity than expectation. What’s her name, by the way?”
“Parthenope.”
“Like the mermaid?”
“The very same,” Perla said. “Do you believe in mermaids?”
“Of course. I come from a long line of fishermen. I grew up on those stories. But I come from a long line of alcoholics too.” He laughed. “When we were kids, my grandfather, a notorious drunk, always told the story of how he met Parthenope.”
Perla was intrigued. “Please tell it to me…”
Luca relaxed in his chair, letting his mind drift back to childhood. “My grandfather left in his boat every morning at dawn from the pier outside and returned every afternoon. One day, when he was halfway to Capri, a storm kicked up. The wind blew harder and the waves got bigger, but it was nothing an experienced fisherman like him couldn’t handle. On his way back, however, he encountered a dolphin tangled in an abandoned fishing net and struggling to breathe. My grandfather loved dolphins. He called them the Lord’s lieutenants. Anyway, he jumped into action. He was unable to get close without hitting the dolphin with his pitching boat, so he threw out the anchor, dove into the water knife in hand, swam to the dolphin, and cut it free.
“The dolphin escaped, but my grandfather became entangled in the nets and accidentally dropped his knife. He fought hard but couldn’t free himself. The weight of the nets pulled him under. As he tells it, right before he lost consciousness, two small but powerful hands grabbed his arms and pulled him to the surface. He searched the face of his savior and beheld a beautiful, auburn-haired woman with glowing white skin. He thought she was an angel about to escort him to heaven. Instead of flying away with him though, she scrunched up her face. The wind and waves abruptly ceased and the clouds evaporated. She boosted my grandfather over the side of his boat and shredded the net with her teeth into bits so small they couldn’t stop a sardine. My grandfather leaned over the edge to thank her, but she had disappeared. He said he heard cackling laughter in the distance and looked up just in time to see Parthenope leap high into the air, her long, beautiful tail trailing behind her.”
“Nobody believed him of course,” Luca added.
“Did he ever see her again?” Perla asked, captivated by this compassionate side of Parthenope.
“Yes, and this is where the story gets more outlandish.” Luca steepled his fingers and continued. “My grandfather claimed the mermaid appeared at the side of his boat several months later while he was drinking grappa—he always had a bottle hidden under the bow. I think he left home every day to get away from my grandmother and drink in peace rather than to fish. Anyway, she said her name was Parthenope. My grandfather thanked her for saving his life and offered her a sip of his grappa. Apparently Parthenope liked grappa because, as the story goes, they became regular drinking buddies afterward. He said she’d hang her arms over the gunwale and talk with him for hours. She loved to hear about current events, and he loved to hear her stories about the vain and imperious Poseidon, his pesky Nereid spies, and his long-suffering green-haired son, Triton. After I became an adult, he confessed he also liked to catch glimpses of her perfect breasts. My grandfather claimed Parthenope helped him fish because he reminded her of her father.”
“What happened to him?” Perla asked.
“He continued to fish into his nineties, until the day he died. Nobody figured out how he came back every day with a boatload of fish. He was barely strong enough to row and no longer used drift nets.”
“Interesting,” Perla said. Luca’s story added more poignancy to Parthenope’s lonely life. “If you ever met Parthenope, the mermaid, what would you say to her?”
Luca’s eyeballs fluttered under his closed lids as he pondered the question.
“I suppose I’d ask her to sing for me. My grandfather said her voice alone made him drunk. Did you know the name Parthenope means ‘maiden-voiced’?”
Perla’s mind was elsewhere. She stood up and paced in front of the table. “Okay,” she said. “Here’s what we’re going to do Tuesday…”
Rome
The Circumvesuviana commuter train headed north, dark, dirty and slow. It made over twenty
stops along the relatively short track between Sorrento and Naples. The only scenery inside the graffiti-blackened windows was the train’s dilapidated interior and the solemn-faced passengers on their way to work. Three Romani tumbled into the vestibule between cars, lugging an accordion, clarinet, and violin. They played lively Balkan music and trundled out again several stops later. But not before the one wearing a vinyl Michael Jackson jacket and puffy high-top sneakers with sequined stars moved down the aisle, holding a hat. Perla avoided eye contact.
Friday had finally arrived and she couldn’t get to Rome, and Vito, fast enough. She checked her watch. Damn it, the rolling garbage can was running late. When it spasmed to its final stop in Naples, Perla burst out of the overstuffed car, salmoned up the packed escalator to street level, and ran through the main station just in time to catch the spotless Frecciarossa bullet train to Rome. Breathless, she sank into her seat next to the big picture window. The train reached full speed past city limits and streaked through the dreary landscape. The sight of monochromatic apartment blocks, light industrial sprawl, and dilapidated farms plucked Perla out of her Italian fantasy and dropped her back into the dismal reality of her life.
Dismal by her own making though. Guilt sat like a brick on her diaphragm. What the hell was she doing? Waiting until Monday to give back the cameo was reckless, but after what Vito had asked her, she was even more incapable of giving up her weekend with him. The image of Parthenope’s gaunt face wrestled with the image of Vito sitting on the pergola terrace of the Bellevue Syrene hotel, framed by the indigo sea. She squeezed the bridge of her nose and pressed her eyelids shut. Rome was still an hour away, plenty of time to torture herself with the bombshell he’d dropped.
Drinks at Sorrento’s five-star Bellevue Syrene had been Vito’s idea. He’d insisted they have a cocktail before he dropped her off at her hotel, and she readily agreed. Neither wanted their magical Sunday to end—especially not after agreeing they wouldn’t see each other until Friday. Over mimosas at the former Roman villa, Vito had asked her to stay in Italy with him, at least through the end of summer, to give their budding relationship time to develop.