Tiptoeing through the front hall, I see Piero #4 enter through the front door. He is radiant and fit, as if he’s just come from a work out. “Buongiorno, signorina. Would you like some breakfast?”
“You’re up early, Piero.”
“I was jogging and then helping to load il maestro’s camera equipment into the car. Our photographer friend has an early flight today,” he replies.
“He’s—gone?” I ask, shocked.
“Sì, he left a few moments ago.” Piero’s voice is gentle. I can’t believe it. Frantonio is gone? He left? Just like that? I feel as if I’m back in the tub and the plug has been yanked out. “He asked me to give you this.” Piero hands me a book. La Divine Comtesse. On the cover is a black and white photograph of a glamorous Italian woman in an elegant costume, looking mysterious. It’s Virginia Oldoini. In the book I find a note. The water in my tub drains from around my body, inch by inch, moment by moment. I see Frantonio’s elegant, sweeping script. This is his goodbye. I feel the weight of my body, heavier and heavier, as I read.
My Dear,
Merci beaucoup for The Alchemist. I shall think of your irrepressible spark and keep it next to my bed. Enjoy the countess, you are as strong willed as she. May your adventures be romantic and your romances be adventurous.
With admiration,
Your pompous pal
As I stare at his words, my eyes sting. The last of the tub water vanishes down the drain with a gurgling echo and I am left lying naked and alone on the cold, white marble, heavier than ever before. I feel a hand on my shoulder. It is Piero, with a sweet expression on his face. Not sympathy, but understanding.
“I’m sorry you didn’t get to say goodbye,” Piero says softly.
“Thank you,” I say, trying to hide the immense disappointment in my voice. “I’ll just put this in my room.”
Casa di Pavone, Italy: Sunday, 12:30 p.m.
I am not pouting. I am working. And, also hiding from everyone, because I’m hurt, annoyed, and sexually . . . disappointed. Yin and Yang are enjoying each other in their rooms, and everyone else is enjoying a post-lunch snooze or a walk somewhere. Not far from the pool, I’m lounging in one of the garden cabanas with the curtains drawn. The luxurious cabana bed is covered with silk pillows and the “door” of the cabana is a long, gauzy, white curtain that billows softly, allowing a cool breeze into my hideaway. Romantic guitar music playing on my phone, I have the book from Frantonio open, but I’m mostly just looking at the photos. They’re beautiful, odd, and provocative. No wonder he thought I would like it. I drain the last of my sparkling water and lean back on the lounger with my knees up. The breeze slips under my long skirt, and I suddenly remember I came out with no panties or bra. I took a shower after lunch and just threw on a tank and long, hippy skirt, intent on reading alone.
My head and shoulders now sink into the giant, down pillow behind me. I close my eyes and think of . . . yes, Frantonio. I wonder how it would have been to actually have spent the night with him. He was one of the best kissers I’d ever met. His confidence was bold and sexy. I remembered his tongue on mine, slipping in and out of my mouth. As I remember his hand on my breasts, my own hand slips into my tank top and I squeeze and caress my own breasts. My breath gets a little faster, and I smile. I remember his body pushing into mine against the wall in my room. I recall the feel of his fingers slipping up inside my wet figa. I wanted him so bad. I remember his hard cock pressing against my leg through his pants. I wonder what it would feel like pushing inside me now. But, I’ll never know.
Here on the lounger, this realization throbs through me, and I want him even more. My eyes closed, I slip my own hand up under my skirt, widening my knees. As I remember the smell of his hair, and the sweat on his neck, I tickle my figa. My heart beats faster. I imagine him reaching down, pulling my silk dress off my hips and dropping it around my ankles. As my fingers rub harder against my now throbbing figa, I imagine myself unbuckling his pants and pulling out his—
“Ciao, Marina.” I hear a voice. My eyes fly open and I see Piero #4 standing just inside the gauzy curtain. He is wearing linen shorts and a white Cuban shirt.
“Oh! Piero! Hi,” I sputter, embarrassed, yanking my hand out of my skirt.
“I would have knocked but there is no door,” he says. “I am sorry to interrupt.”
“Non c’è un problema,” I smile, trying to play it cool. So what if he just caught me with my one hand squeezing my own breast and the other up my own skirt? It’s no problem. Fuck. In truth I’m mortified.
“I only came to see if you needed anything,” says Piero. He steps closer and says a little more quietly, “I wanted to check on you.”
“Oh really?” I say. Still too embarrassed to meet his eye, I find myself gazing at the button on his shorts. Now I realize it looks like I’m staring at his—
“You seemed un po unhappy this morning,” Piero says as he sits down on the edge of the lounger next to me. He looks me right in the eyes.
“Thank you. I’m totally fine,” I lie.
“Bene. I am glad,” he says. “Then, I will leave you alone?” It sounds more like a question than a statement.
“Sì?” So does mine.
“Unless, you need help with . . . anything?” he asks with a little shrug. I stare more deeply into his beautiful dark brown eyes. They’re almost black. “Sometimes, when I am sad or frustrated, a little sexercise makes me feel better,” he winks.
“Sexercise?” I laugh.
“Sì. I am studying sports medicine and therapy,” he grins.
“And you think some sexercise would help me?”
“Sì,” he nods. “Cento per cento. One hundred percent.” He nods and gently puts his hand on my leg. Somehow, right now, this is all I need. As I launch myself toward him, his athletic arms are ready. I’m kissing him madly, my hands in his hair, on his shoulders, his back. I don’t even waste time with his shirt, pushing him back onto the lounger as he laughs and kicks his shoes off. “Okay, let’s play!” I’m kissing him again and then, quickly, hungrily unfastening the button on his shorts. I reach in to find his cock, stroke it a few times, and then plunge my head down, sliding his cock inside my waiting mouth, sucking and massaging him with gusto. I moan with anticipation as he gets hard inside my mouth. His hand reaches under my skirt, tickling my already wet and ready figa. I can’t do this long before I must have him fully inside me.
When he pulls a condom from his shorts pocket (he came prepared), I quickly open it and put it on him. Panting, I slide myself down onto him, rocking my hips back and forth. Piero sits up, pulling up my tank so he can grab my breasts. He moves his pelvis upward. I ride him up and down, as he grips my hips and pulls me onto him harder, thrusting his cock up inside me again and again. I finally throw my head back, gasping for air as I climax. He pushes into me a few more times, prolonging my pleasure, and then finishes also. He falls back onto the silken pillows as I collapse onto him in a heap of blissful satisfaction.
“You were right,” I say, my face muffled in the pillows. “Grazie mille.”
“Il piacere è tutto mio,” he laughs. “Feel better?”
“Cento per cento,” I laugh.
Casa di Pavone, Italy: Tuesday, 9:32 a.m.
“The actual fall happens so fast you can’t process what’s happening. Your reptile brain is switched on, watching things flash by.” Yang is telling Regina about a bungee jump she did in South Africa called Face Adrenaline: six hundred feet down from a bridge, over a river with about two feet of water in it. It’s been a couple days, and the sting of Frantonio’s abrupt departure has subsided, but I still find myself wondering if there’s any chance we’ll meet again.
“So what is this euphoria people speak of? The rush?” Regina asks.
“When it catches you. Then you’re like, floating, flying back up, the world around you suddenly comes into the sharpest focus you’ve ever known. It’s fucking glorious,” says Yang as she rips a doughnut in half and dunks it int
o her cappuccino.
“It sounds like when you fall in love,” I say.
“Yes,” Yin smiles.
“Any moron can fall in love, mate. To make a jump like that you’ve got to override every self-preservation instinct you’ve got and just hurl yourself into the unknown.”
“That still sounds like love,” laughs Regina. “And the thrill doesn’t last forever. It was like that with my third husband. He was a chef. A lot of passion, and heat.”
“A lot of heartburn,” quips Yang. We groan at her horrible pun.
“You were married three times?” I ask Regina.
“Four actually,” she replies. “Marriage is great. Everyone should try it at least once.” The girls laugh. “Speaking of ex-husbands, my second husband is due for a visit from his mother. I was thinking maybe you could take her?” The table goes quiet and then I realize she’s looking at me. “Would you like that, Marina?”
“Me?” I ask, surprised.
“She likes you quite a lot. She showed me a dog you sculpted out of clay,” Regina smiles. She’s talking about Bob, my nocturnal artist friend.
“That was a donkey,” I admit. Yang laughs.
“I would take her myself, but she refuses to fly and the boat to Palermo is ten hours from Naples,” Regina explains. “Do you like boats? I’ll pay for everything of course. You’ll have a first-class cabin. If you haven’t been, I think you’ll love Sicily.”
“What about you guys?” I ask Yin and Yang.
“We’re returning to Rome tomorrow,” says Yin.
“Oh,” I say, suddenly feeling glum. “Well I was thinking I should try and get back onto my original itinerary.”
“Fuck your itinerary!” says Yang. “When will you get another chance to escort an elderly blind woman who doesn’t speak English to the birthplace of the mafia?” I consider her words and then look at Regina. She’s been so kind and generous to me. How can I say no?
“I guess I’m going to Palermo,” I say, still trying to wrap my head around it.
“Thank you! She’ll be so pleased,” Regina smiles broadly.
Villa Rufolo, Ravello: Tuesday, 3:55 p.m.
Ying, Yang, and I are spending our last day together exploring. After stuffing ourselves at a local trattoria with a three-course lunch, I suggest an espresso by the pool at the exquisite Villa Rufolo. Yin and Yang stretch out together and I find my own Belgian linen-covered lounge chair in the shade. I have tried not to check my phone every hour, to see if there are any more song lyrics from Frantonio, but I failed. There have been none. He’s gone. He said his goodbye in a note. This is fine. For the best, really. So why do I keep thinking about him? To put my mind on something more constructive, I pull out my tablet and continue my research on an Italian poet, Alda Merini. Yin notices.
“Let us read some of your writing, Marina,” begs Yin.
“The juicy parts, not the research,” says Yang.
“I’ve decided to write an adventure travel blog—separate from my book.”
“Brilliant,” says Yang. “Put the good stuff online for free.” She shakes her head.
“Okay, you’ve got a point. But some of these women may surprise you. You’d like Alda Merini, for example. Her poetry is pithy and sexy. Like an Italian Dorothy Parker. But Alda’s tone is darker. Reading about her life, you understand why.” I read the girls some of my notes.
NOTES ON ITALIAN WOMAN OF INFLUENCE: Alda Merini
1. Born 1931, Milan, to an insurance salesman and a housewife.
2. Her writing talent was discovered at age of fifteen, but by sixteen she was interned for a month at a clinic for mental health.
3. When she was nineteen, two of her poems were published. She married a bakery owner at twenty-two.
4. Committed by her husband to a psychiatric hospital, this time for seven years.
5. La Terra Santa (which she calls her masterpiece) are intense poems inspired by her stay at this hospital. She fought long to get this published.
6. After her husband died, she remarried to a much older doctor, Michele Pierri; she then wrote twenty poems, La Gazza Ladra (The Thieving Magpie).
7. From 1986 to 2006, able to live outside the hospital, she published at least one book of poems or prose every year.
8. Wore fire-red lipstick; some of her work was collected into a book called I Am A Furious Little Bee, in which she describes herself as such.
9. In 2004, an album of her poetry sung to music was released by Milva.
10. Find and read: Love Lessons, and Sogno e Poesia (Dream and Poetry). Find and watch: The Crazy Woman Next Door by Antonietta de Lillo.
“That’s fucking depressing,” Yang says.
“No,” objects Yin. “She’s fascinating.”
“Her writing is fierce, witty, rhythmic,” I say. As I peruse my notes, I realize the woman completely baffles me. She’s been through all of this shit in her life, and somehow still manages to wear her red lipstick and write about love. To me love is an anchor. To her it’s a life raft.
Gardens, Villa Cimbrone, Ravello: Tuesday, Sunset
As the overripe sun smears itself across the sky like a soft, runny peach, we wander through the incredible gardens at Villa Cimbrone. Pale purple Wisteria flowers, like little bunches of floral grapes, drip from every wall and brush our heads as we walk under wooden trellis walkways. Roses of every variety explode in yellow, orange, red, various pinks, fuchsia, white, and cream. Blues and purples blush from every hydrangea bush.
“This garden is a wonderland. All we’re missing is the fairies,” I say.
“Wrong,” smiles Yang, as she points her camera at Yin.
Yin has found a swing. Her ballet flats lie abandoned in the grass. She’s floating in billowy arcs through the air. The ruffles of her pale yellow taffeta sundress flutter and flap around her like the wings of a hundred butterflies. Her bare toes point at the sun as she leans back in the swing. Blonde hair blowing freely around her face, she smiles puckishly at the camera each time she passes us. The dainty pearls she wears shiver on her earlobes and dance at her throat as she laughs. She is resplendent.
“Wow,” I say.
“Yeah,” agrees Yang.
“You’ve captured yourself a fairy princess.”
“No mate, I captured nothing,” Yang says softly. I’ve never heard her voice sound small like this. “She’s just decided to fly next to me for a while, like one of those seagulls when you’re on a sailboat. It drifts along, riding the same wind you’re using. Then, when the wind shifts, it flies away.”
“Maybe,” I agree. “Alda Merini wrote about this idea: that we can never predict how long the tongues of our lovers are going to linger on us.”
“Fucking true,” she grins.
“And, she believed that we know we’re in love with someone when our bodies are perpetually evolving.”
“Okay. You can put her in your book. Alda’s got it. That evolution is the painful gift our lovers bring to us as we cry like children outgrowing our toys.”
“Wow,” I say, impressed. “You may keep your fairy princess after all.”
“No,” Yang shrugs. “But it’s okay. I’m still jammy as fuck right now.” She’s smiling but her eyes are sad. “Some people are sent into your life for a beautiful minute mate, and you can’t waste any time worrying about next. Just enjoy now.” She walks over to Yin, pushing her higher on the swing. I watch, knowing Yang’s right. Was my minute with Frantonio already over? Had I wasted it?
Casa di Pavone, Amalfi: Wednesday, 1:00 p.m.
Piero #4 helps me bring my luggage out to the car. We haven’t seen much of each other since the cabana. He gives me a sweet goodbye kiss.
“Thank you, Piero.”
“You are a pleasure to know, bella,” he says. “Buon viaggio.”
“Okay pretty boy, our turn,” says Yang as she walks up, taking my bag from him. Yin is with her. Piero #4 gives me a wink and disappears back into the house. I don’t do big goodbyes. I always think
I’m going to see that person again. It’s clear that Yang shares my MO, since she unceremoniously tosses my bag into Regina’s car alongside Bob’s luggage.
“See ya, mate. Don’t have too many dick sandwiches,” she says as she slaps my back.
“Good luck with the book. We can’t wait to read it.” Yin kisses my cheeks.
“Thank you both, for trashing my itinerary,” I smile. “Really.”
Chapter 26
How Not to Disco
Dining Room, SNAV Mega Salacia: Wednesday, 8:36 p.m.
Bob and I enjoy a mediocre dinner in the dining room. Aside from needing help navigating new spaces, she’s remarkably self-sufficient. There was a bit of effort involved helping her squeeze into the granny spanks she insisted on wearing to dinner. It was like squeezing a bony, old cat with loose skin into a scuba wetsuit. But her upside-down beehive hairdo she did on her own. I’m feeling good about my choice to come. Another adventure will keep my mind from dwelling on people it should be forgetting. Despite the excellent and well-timed sympathy fuck from Piero, I’m still thinking of Frantonio. Damn him!
Now, as I sip my mediocre wine and pick at my mediocre verdure fritte (fried vegetables), I notice a handsome young guy at another table. Tall, blond hair, well built. The handsome guy is with an elderly man wearing a dapper hat. We exchange knowing smiles. We must be thinking the same thing. We’re both traveling with oldies. We’re both do-gooders. We both deserve a drink together after our oldies have gone to bed.
I’m picking mushrooms out of my risotto con funghi (risotto with mushrooms) when I suddenly remember the Trusty Translator app on my phone. Why aren’t I using that more? I pull it out and speak English into the microphone.
“Tell me about your son.” With a tap of my finger, Trusty translates this into a computerized voice that asks Bob the same question in Italian (I hope). “Dimmi di tuo figlio.” Bob laughs at the computerized voice. Apparently this is the funniest thing she’s ever heard. She takes the phone from me. I show her where to tap, and then I hold it up to her mouth. She starts speaking.
A Not So Lonely Planet Page 16