“My- son- is- Alfredo, an asshole,” Trusty Translator chirps. Someone at another table looks over. My eyes go wide and I turn the volume down. I didn’t know Trusty was programmed with swear words. But Bob is laughing. Then she presses the button again and launches into a rant, during which she continues to eat, and Trusty struggles to keep up. Pieces of lasagna fly in different directions each time the roller coaster of Bob’s rant reaches a pinnacle. Tears threaten to fall each time it crashes back down the other side. She gulps her wine. By the end, Trusty has crashed, and Bob’s so upset I’m afraid she’ll have a stroke. But I have learned the following:
1. Alfredo is either a heart surgeon or works at a quarry, driving a big machine.
2. His current wife, Gen, is a strega manipolatrice (controlling witch).
3. They have a son called Luigi. Or a dog? Luigi eats too much.
4. The also have a son called Akio. Or a cat? He doesn’t eat enough.
5. There was a fight between these two sons. Or dog and cat?
6. Gen kicked Bob out of the house at Christmas. Or Bob kicked Gen out. Or maybe it was Luigi? Someone was kicked out at Christmas.
7. Two things are certain: Alfredo drinks too much and Gen is a bitch.
8. One thing is unclear: Why is Bob going to visit them?
At various times throughout the meal I’ve glanced over at Do-Gooder. Each time I do, he’s talking to his companion, but looking at me. Clearly, this guy is totally into me. I’m commanding the gaze now and not even trying. I’m a sexy-siren do-gooder. What a great way to get Frantonio out of my head. I’ll just tease him a bit. I shovel tiramisu onto my fork and then lift it gracefully to my mouth, sensually opening my lips and mouth, sliding the sweet, creamy, messy—shit he’s coming over! I now have a mouthful of mush, which I’m still chewing as he arrives at our table.
“Good evening.” His accent is German, but his English is perfect.
“Hello,” I wave with my mouth full.
“There is a bit of—” he says. I realize I’ve got whipped cream on my lip and try to lick it off sexily with my tongue, but just smear it. I grab my napkin.
“Enjoying your dinner?” I ask politely.
“Yes, thank you. My friend, Mr. Gutzewarner, wants me to introduce us. I am Fritz. He is Mr. Gutzewarner.”
“Oh, he wanted you to come talk to me?” I give Fritz a smile, playing along with his thinly veiled ploy to hit on me. “Well, nice to meet you both. I’m Marina.” I introduce Bob, but she’s more interested in disassembling her cannolo. I look over at Mr. Gutzewarner, who is now squinting in our direction, napkin tucked into his collar.
“Mr. Gutzewarner wanted me to inquire if you ladies have separate cabins for the crossing?”
“Wow, that’s direct.” I laugh. “Mr. Goosewarmer is interested in where I’m sleeping? Please tell him we’re sharing a cabin.”
“I see. Mr. Gutzewarner wanted me to let you know that he and I have separate cabins.” Fritz smiles, all dimples and blue eyes.
“He did? That’s promising,” I smile. “Shall we make an appointment for later?”
“Yes! In fact, this is exactly what Mr. Gutzewarner would like.” Fritz’s accent is adorable, and so is this ridiculous pick up scheme.
“Oh yeah? He’s pretty liberal for an old man,” I continue the joke.
“Yes, indeed, he is,” Fritz laughs, glad that I’m amused. What a cutie.
“Impressive,” I say.
“Yes, quite. Mr. Gutzewarner has two different medications to ensure erectile performance. But he finds it difficult to sleep unless he has ejaculated more than once,” explains Fritz. I stare. Suddenly his accent is not cute at all. WHAT?
“Mr. Goosewarmer wants me to sleep with him?” I’m appalled.
“Oh! Sorry. No. We have some confusion.” Fritz is alarmed.
“You bet we do, Umlaut. You can tell Mr. Goosewarmer, I don’t sleep with men who take their teeth out first. Sorry.”
“Yes. Mr. Goosewarm—” He’s flustered. “I mean, Mr. Gutzewarner would like to invite your companion to sleep in his cabin,” Fritz explains. Bob? Seriously? The old lady is getting propositioned, not the sexy-siren do-gooder.
“Wait a minute. This whole dinner you’re looking over making googly eyes at me, you’re just trying to get your old man laid?”
“Googly? I am Mr. Gutzewarner’s traveling assistant.”
“You mean grandpa pimp. Look, my friend here is Sicilian Catholic and she doesn’t speak English. I can’t exactly proposition her for you. For him. Whatever.”
“Oh. Okay, I understand,” he says. “I can ask her.” He turns to Bob and speaks fluent Italian. Shit! Bob looks up at the sound of his voice, listening intently. I wait for Bob to explode. Will she throw her cannolo at him? No she likes her cannolo. Her plate maybe? Fritz finishes and points at Mr. Goosewarmer, but Bob doesn’t look around. In fact, she doesn’t react at all.
“Wait, you told her the part about the sex?” I ask, confused.
“Yes. But, does she see him?”
“No, she doesn’t see him. She’s blind, you idiot grandpa pimp.”
“Blind? Oh, I see,” he says, startled. “Excuse me for a moment.” Fritz returns to Mr. Goosewarmer for a consult. I’m fairly certain Bob missed his question, but suddenly she takes my phone and speaks into Trusty.
“È bello?” (“Is he handsome?” recites Trusty Translator.) I am floored. Bob’s considering the proposition? Holy shit. I take the phone and speak into it. Our conversation via Trusty goes something like this:
“Not terrible.”—“Non è terribile.”
“Quanti anni ha?”—“How old is he?”
“Eighty?”—“Ottanta?” I have no idea.
“Preferisco più giovane”—“I prefer younger,” Bob says. I giggle, and suddenly realize the fifty-something, geeky Italian man I saw coming out of Bob’s room the other day may not have actually been a doctor.
“Ha i capelli?”—“Does he have hair?” she wants to know.
“He has a hat.”—“Ha un cappello,” I answer via Trusty.
“Calvo.”—“Bald,” Bob decides.
“So?”—“Allora?” I ask.
“Nessuna fiducia in se stesso, amante cattivo.”—“No confidence, bad lover,” she asserts. I giggle again. Okay, this oldie rocks.
“He’s confident.”—”È fiducioso,” I confide. “He has drugs.”—“Ha droghe.”
“Non facio più droghe.”—“I don’t do drugs anymore.” Bob shakes her head.
“Drugs for him.”—“Farmaci per lui,” I clarify. Her eyebrows go up.
“Farmaci del pene?”—“Penis drugs?” Trusty chirps.
“Sì,” I answer.
“Perchè no?” Bob smiles.
“Yes, perchè no?” I laugh. Theme of this trip. Why the fuck not? “Life is short”—“La vita è breve.” I say via Trusty.
“La mia è più corta ogni giorno,”—“Mine is shorter by the day.” This hits me right in my soft spot. Now I want this for her. Holy crap. I’m about to arrange a sexual liaison for Regina’s blind ex-mother-in-law with a stranger on a ferryboat! But then I see Fritz and Mr. Goosewarmer leaving their table. Wait, where are they going?
“Mr. Gutzewarner is feeling tired,” Fritz calls to me. “We must bid you ladies good night.” What? They’re leaving after all of that? That rat bastard!
“That’s bullshit!” I yell. “Your boss just doesn’t want to screw a blind woman. He’s no peach himself. In fact, he should be relieved she’s blind!” People in the dining room stare at us. Bob looks confused.
“Che cosa e successo?”—“What happened?” Bob asks. But I’m standing up now, giving both men the middle finger as they hobble out.
“You tell Mr. Goosewarmer my friend doesn’t fuck wrinkly, drooling, hairless, horny, drugged up bags of bones!” They don’t look back. The dining room is now completely silent. Except . . . Bob. She’s laughing. No, she’s cackling. About to split her granny spanks ri
ght open. She pats my hand.
Private Cabin, SNAV Mega Salacia: Wednesday, 10:34 p.m.
Bob and I return to our little cabin. It’s pretty small, with narrow single beds on either side of the room, and a tiny bathroom in the middle. It’s not long before she’s scrolled through the four television channels and clicked it back off. I offer to help her get undressed, and she looks confused. “Perchè?” She asks. It dawns on me—Bob is nocturnal, she’ll be up all night. Perfetto. Another long, sleepless night, trying not to think about Frantonio. Fine. I’m relieved not to have to try and pull her back out of those granny spanks right now. I sit on my bed and Bob sits down next to me. She reaches for my phone.
“Grazie per essere venuta.”—“Thank you for coming.” She smiles. A small golden bee hairpin dangles from her hive of hair. I reach up and shove it back in.
“Of course. We’re friends.”—“Ma certo, siamo amiche.” Trusty chirps for me. Bob smiles, squeezes my hand.
“Se siamo amiche, devo fare qualcosa.”—“If we are friends, I must do something,” chirps Trusty. Bob takes a small knife out of her pocket. My eyes widen. What the hell is she going to do with that? Cut our palms and mix our blood in some ancient Sicilian friendship ritual? I quickly reclaim my hand. But then Bob reaches over, digs in her bag, and pulls out a small chunk of wood. “Fare qualcosa per te.”—“Make something for you.” Oh. Okay. That’s nice.
I realize that Bob is going to camp out on my bed for her whittling project, so I lean back, get comfy, and pull out my tablet to work on my book. I scroll through music choices until Bob is happy. Tonight we shall be working to Leonard Cohen. Moody and mellow. That seems appropriate. Bob’s whittling away, creating something wonderful for me out of wood, so I read about another inspirational Italian artist: Artemisia Gentileschi, the first woman to be accepted to the Accademia in Florence.
Things are going well until the playlist hits Leonard Cohen’s “A Thousand Kisses Deep.” The first few chords of the song drag my heart into my stomach. By the end of the first verse, my throat is aching. Will used to play this, one of his favorite old songs, trying to get me to dance with him. I don’t slow dance. It’s a rule I made on my sixteenth birthday. I’ve never broken it. There were other songs, lots of them, but Will always came back to this one. Now it cuts me to the core. I should have danced with Will. It’s too late. Suddenly, I’m crying. And all at once, Bob’s arm is around me. My head is on her shoulder. She fumbles with the tablet and manages to stop the music. But now I’m weeping openly. What is wrong with me? Am I crying because I left Will? Or because I lost Frantonio? Or am I just lost?
“Shhhh, basta, bella. Basta.” Bob wipes my face. “Colpa mia. Leonard Cohen è troppo.” She’s right. Leonard Cohen is too much. She squeezes my shoulders. “La discoteca è aperta!”
“Disco?”
All-Night Disco, SNAV Mega Salacia: Wednesday, 11:24 p.m.
The twenty-four-hour Mega Disco is like a dive casino in Reno at four a.m., complete with slot machines, electronic poker, and a janitor vacuuming up puke from the carpet by the bathrooms. A flashing video DJ blasts Euro Techno music from a speaker that looks like it’s going to vibrate itself right out of the wall. Badly shot music videos play on a screen. A deckhand is passed out on the bar in a puddle of drool. The female bartender swipes right unenthusiastically on her phone, unlit cigarette hanging limply in her mouth. Two teens make out in a dark corner. A baby stroller is parked right in the middle of the dance floor. WTF? Surely there’s no baby inside. I walk closer and see a child, staring directly up at the slowly rotating, blue mirrored disco ball. Uhhh . . . I look around for the mother and see her slumped in a nearby chair, dark circles under her eyes, a colic zombie. I watch her, watching the baby, watching the ball turn. Anything to keep him from crying another six hours.
An elderly couple slow dances in place. Or they could be just leaning up against each other, swaying in their sleep? But the song is not slow. It’s fast and loud, pressure washing the inside of my head. Bob loves it. She laughs and starts to dance. Her arms wave, her hips wiggle. Her black, orthopedic shoes slide along the tile as she inches like a Rhumba vacuum around the dance floor.
“Stai ballando?” she yells to me.
“Sì!” I yell back. “Ballando.” But I just stand there, watching her. I cannot dance to this crap.
“Stai ballando?” Bob yells again.
“She want you dance,” Zombie Mom tells me. Yes, I gathered that. Reluctantly I move closer to Bob and move my hips a little. “I’m dancing,” I yell over the music.
“Tutto bene!” Bob grabs my hand and dances with me. She cackles with delight. She breaks free, spinning slowly like the disco ball above that showers us with blue spots. My arms float overhead, pulsing to the beat. I close my eyes, lose myself.
Private Cabin, SNAV Mega Salacia: Thursday, 12:54 a.m.
We’re both sweating profusely and exhausted. I have managed to dance out my frustration, sorrow, and doubt. No thought of Will or Frantonio. Until I see the message, waiting on my phone.
Chapter 27
How Not to Refuse An Offer You Can’t
Palermo, Sicily: Thursday, 8:55 a.m.
Sicily is a beautiful, old island. She has been had by many. The Phoenicians, Arabs, Byzantines, Swabians, Normans, Spanish, Moors, Neapolitan and Austrian royalty, and of course the pirates. Palermo, once richer than Rome or Milan, is still vibrant, if somewhat confused by her colorful past. I like Palermo immediately. She sits in a basin, surrounded by mountains. Her discordant style and character suggest one too many cultural makeovers. She doesn’t quite know who she is anymore, with her baroque churches, Arab bazaars, and Spanish gardens. Her old and new bits are mashed together; ancient, crumbling beauty with urban seediness. A church, once Greek Orthodox, now bedazzled baroque, tries to ignore the bold, new vape shop next door, even as a hot pink neon sign bathes its stone cherubs with cold, rosy light. It’s all a bit strange. But somehow it works: like Bob and I do. We are strange, young and old, mismatched together perfectly.
In the Borgo Vecchio, at the port, we’re collected by Bob’s grandsons, Luigi and Akio. Both are in their twenties, and apparently “Italian-Japanese” translates to dark hair, perfect skin, and sexy eyes. So Luigi is not a dog, and Akio is not a cat. However, I see why there was confusion. Bob must have been describing them to me. Luigi, muscular and clumsy, is boisterously loud and overly happy about everything. He doesn’t make eye contact for long, but he’s very affectionate, lots of greeting kisses and touching. His brother, Akio, is lean and graceful. He stares at you until you’re uncomfortable. He’s moody and quiet. They’re both fantastically patient and wonderful with their nonna, Bob. The boys strap our luggage to the top of their little blue Cinquecento, and we all squish inside. On the way, Bob snoozes and the brothers clue me in on some customs and house rules.
CUSTOMS IN A SICILIAN-JAPANESE HOME, ACCORDING TO LUIGI AND AKIO:
1. NEVER: wear your shoes in the house. Your host will provide you with rubber booties to be worn indoors. (Japanese)
2. ALWAYS: pause to knock on each side of the doorframe when walking through any doorway; this is for luck against earthquakes. (Sicilian)
3. NEVER: show your teeth when you smile. It’s considered rude and aggressive. (Japanese)
4. ALWAYS: bow when greeting someone. (Japanese)
5. NEVER: blink when answering a question, it means you’re lying. (Sicilian)
6. ALWAYS: keep your head lower than the man of the house, if you’re a woman. (Japanese)
7. ALWAYS: burp during a meal to show true appreciation. (Japanese)
8. NEVER: touch another woman’s husband without her permission. (Sicilian)
9. ALWAYS: say “Bugitaimu!” loudly, with conviction, when someone sneezes. (Japanese)
10. NEVER: refuse an offer from a host. (Sicilian)
Mondello, Palermo: Thursday, 12:04 p.m.
I’m happy to have some alone time in my room before lunch. Alfredo is
at a hospital meeting (apparently he’s a surgeon and not a driver of heavy machinery) and his wife Gen is shopping, so I haven’t met either yet, but will at lunch. I’m told that Akio has been experimenting in the kitchen, so the family (and guests) are his guinea pigs. Luigi slipped me a bag of chips and an apple with a warning look. I’m guessing the experiments have not gone well in the past.
Lying on the bed, I stare at the new message I got last night. I’m still not sure what it means, but the very fact that I’m getting lyrics again has put a bounce back in my step. Frantonio is still thinking of me.
She flees like the wind
Hides like the sun in winter
But her warmth endures.
I can’t answer him until I know the rest of the song. This is a fantastic game. I search the lyrics online. It takes a little digging and I soon realize why: the original lyrics are in Icelandic. The song is by a rock band. I play the song and listen as I lie on my bed. Ethereal tones, mystically romantic. It’s beautiful. In the library, Frantonio had said I had a light inside me. So, he thinks I’m like the sun. I decide to answer with lyrics from the same song, so he knows I found it.
To the smallest whisper
I am listening. She is mine.
Alfredo’s house, Palermo: Thursday, 1:16 p.m.
In the kitchen, Akio is tossing a strange-looking mush and Luigi is seated with a beer. They exchange a smile as I pause to tap the doorframe twice (#2: preventing earthquakes).
“Good, you remember,” Luigi says.
“Don’t forget the rest also,” says Akio. “Very important.” I nod. After the embarrassments at Regina’s, I’m determined not to offend anyone here. Bob is going to sleep through to dinner, so I’m on my own with her family. Just then, Gen walks in, carrying shopping bags. She’s tiny but fit: Japanese Kickboxer Barbie. High-waisted pants emphasize perfectly shaped hips, a silk tank shows off her biceps and her “just buff enough” shoulders. Her ebony hair is pulled into a ponytail. I walk up eagerly.
A Not So Lonely Planet Page 17