The man glowers at me and merely says, “You should be more careful,” and doesn’t give me a second glance as he hobbles away with his cane.
A group of young men, probably about my age, walks by me. One whistles and stares at me from head to toe while the other dares to lift the hem of my skirt, revealing my thighs. I quickly pull my skirt out of his grasp. The third man comes close to me and whispers in my ear, “Quanto, zingara? Eh?” “How much, gypsy?”
I run away. I can hear them laughing. Rounding the corner, I take my time walking around the church, giving the vulgar young men enough time to have gone. Once I’m assured they’re nowhere in sight, I wait at the foot of the church steps and resume my begging.
A beautiful woman who is on the arm of a young man walks by me. The woman is smiling shyly at whatever her beau has just whispered into her ear. I can remember when that was me, not too long ago.
“Excuse me. I’m sorry to trouble you, but can you spare a lira? My bag was stolen.”
The couple stops. The man looks slightly irritated, but the woman holds her hand to her mouth, astonished that I was robbed. She turns to her companion, giving him a pleading look. He pauses for a moment and then takes out a few liras and hands them to me.
“Grazie. Grazie molto. May God bless you.”
The woman smiles before the man leads her quickly away as if I have some contagious disease.
Today isn’t the first time I’ve begged since I arrived in Salina. But at least now I have the more sympathetic excuse that my purse was stolen. Of course, many beggars lie to elicit more sympathy. But I refuse to do that.
I continue asking for money until the church has emptied, managing to scrounge up a few more liras. I count my money and sigh. It still is not enough for a full week’s rent. I suppose I should get it over with and go explain to the widow that I won’t be able to pay my rent.
When I reach the dilapidated one-story house, I see the widow is outside, hanging laundry. She is barely five feet and must stand on her toes to place the clothespins on her laundry. A black headscarf always covers her hair. I now see why. The wind kicks up the flaps of her scarf behind her head, and I can see only a few wisps of gray hair clinging to her bare scalp.
“Signora Bruni,” I say in a very low voice, forgetting that she is quite deaf.
She doesn’t even sense my presence since she continues hanging her laundry. I tap her arm.
“Ai! Brutto diavolo! Ugly devil!” She presses her palms to her chest, but when she sees it’s just me, she says, “Ah! It’s you! Why did you not just call me? You gave me quite a fright.”
I hold my tongue and dare not say I did call her.
“Mi dispiace, signora. I’m sorry. May I talk to you for a moment?”
“Si. But hurry. I have a lot to do.”
She turns her back toward me as she continues hanging her laundry. I don’t understand why she has so much laundry since she lives alone. But then I notice she’s washed all of the drapery and linens. I remember seeing the drapery and linens hanging from the clothesline a few days ago as well.
“My purse was stolen at the marina. Most of my money was in it. I’m afraid I don’t have all of my rent for next week. Would it be all right if I paid you as soon as I have all of the money?”
“No,” Signora Bruni says in a sharp, clipped tone. Again, she doesn’t give me her attention as she begins smoothing out the wrinkles from the wet bed sheets.
“I promise I will pay you as soon as I have enough money. Please! I have nowhere to go!”
I step in the widow’s line of vision, forcing her to look at me, but she still keeps her gaze averted.
“That is not my concern. I have my problems, too.” She tosses her head as she says this.
Her indifference enrages me. Without thinking, I wave my index finger in her face, forcing her to finally look at me.
“Strega! You are a miserable witch! You cannot even show some compassion to a poor, starving girl who has no other place to go. I hope when you are shriveling in your old age no one shows you any compassion as you rot away.”
For the first time in the weeks I’ve known her, Signora Bruni finally shows emotion. She blanches at my words. I turn away from her and walk quickly toward the house to pack what few belongings I have.
She follows me into the house and watches me as I throw my clothes into my bag. No doubt she is worried I will steal from her.
As I leave, I give her an icy stare, but she remains silent. I’m sure I have frightened her with my curse. I feel a small sense of satisfaction, for I know how superstitious old Sicilian women are. She will not rest for days, maybe even weeks, wondering if my curse will come true.
Walking back toward the marina, I decide to go to the beach. I think about my confrontation with the widow. I regret that I’d only been paying her rent per week instead of for the entire month. If I had paid for the month, I would have a roof over my head right now. But I also would have starved since I barely would’ve had enough money left over for food.
The rain has finally stopped, but the sun hasn’t come back out. The beach looks quite ugly when the sun is gone. My spirits have continued to sink deeper since I’ve come to Salina. Perhaps if I had found work at one of the few hotels or restaurants here, that would have kept me from pitying myself so much and from thinking about Carlo. I’m also scared. I don’t know how I will provide for myself in the coming days with the little money I can scrape from singing and fortune-telling. And some weeks, I don’t earn any money.
My desperation has even caused me to entertain the idea of returning home. What does it matter if my father kills me? I’ll die here eventually from starvation if I don’t find regular work. Shaking my head, I realize how silly I’m being. Perhaps I should just leave Salina. Go to a city, maybe even Messina. Though my father goes to Messina from time to time, it is quite a large city. I might not ever run into him. And even if I do, I will put up a fight if he tries to take me with him. A small smile slips my lips as I think about the scene.
Not a day goes by that I don’t wonder what Carlo is doing. Then I run through the same questions in my head: How did he react when he heard I had left? Is he looking for me? Has he finally accepted it wasn’t meant to be between us? Is Gemma still comforting him? Does he hate me?
I keep walking along the shoreline, oblivious to the chill. It isn’t until I reach a hotel on the beach that I realize how far I’ve strayed from the marina.
Walking away from the shoreline, I walk toward the hotel that sits atop the bluff that overlooks the beach. I want to see if there is a shed or supply room to the side of the hotel that is unlocked and where I can possibly sleep for the night. But there are workers everywhere, preparing for what looks to be a wedding. Straining my neck, I can make out the bride and groom behind the window of the hotel’s ballroom. The bride looks so happy. I can’t seem to escape happy couples.
I leave but am too tired to walk all the way back to the marina. Sitting on the sand, I take out my tarot cards and spread them in a fan before me, hoping one of the hotel’s guests might stroll by and ask for a reading. I don’t see any gypsies here, so I should be all right out in the open.
An hour later, someone’s voice awakens me, but I cannot understand what is being said to me other than “ciao.”
“Ciao. Are you all right? Do you hear me?”
“Ciao.” I greet the man who’s speaking in another language, which I believe is English. A tourist. Perhaps he wants a reading. I smile feebly, then point from my cards back to the man, hoping he’ll understand I’m asking if he wants a reading.
“Oh! I’m sorry. You don’t know any English. Let me switch to Italian. Ti senti bene?”
“Grazie. I feel fine. So you do know Italian. Would you like for me to read your fortune? I am very good at predicting what your future will be.” My desperate circumstances have led me to become more assertive and confident in my promises to potential clients. I remember, when I worked with Maria and her
family, how reluctant I was to mislead anyone. Now near-starvation has forced me to lower my morals.
“No. Thank you. I saw you sleeping here, and you looked very pale. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
I cannot hide my disappointment, but I force myself to be polite. “Thank you, signore. I am fine.” I begin collecting the tarot cards I’ve laid out. It’s getting late, and I should walk by a few of the restaurants that have alfresco seating to see if I can steal any food the guests have left behind before the waiters clear the tables. The man remains rooted in place, staring at me. As I finish picking up my cards, I notice his foot is bleeding.
“Do you realize your foot is bleeding, signore?”
He looks down. “Oh! You’re right. I must’ve cut it on one of the pebbles on the beach. Would you look at that? It’s bleeding a lot.”
I pull out of my bag a small jar of my homemade ointment.
“This will help it heal, but first let’s quickly rinse your foot to clear some of the blood.” I stand up, taking him by the hand, much to the man’s astonishment, and lead him to the edge of the water.
“The salt in the ocean will sting you a bit, but we have no choice unless you want to hobble over to the hotel and create a sight with the wedding that’s going on.” I smile.
“Oh no! That’s okay. They would probably laugh and call me ‘the stupid American’!” He returns my smile.
Laughing, I say, “That is true. They would call you that!”
I instruct him to quickly dip his foot in the water. After he does so, I’m about to tear off another strip of fabric from my skirt’s hem, but when he sees what I’m about to do, he shouts, “No, don’t ruin your skirt.” First he takes off the linen button-down shirt he is wearing over a plain white cotton T-shirt. Then he takes the T-shirt off and uses it to stop the bleeding from his wound.
“Now you’ve ruined your shirt. On the other hand, my skirt was already ruined.” I point to my leg that still has the strip I tore from my skirt earlier to stop the bleeding from the cut the gypsy boys gave me.
“What happened to you?” The man looks genuinely concerned.
“Nothing. It’s a minor cut.”
I take over pressing on his wound with his shirt. After a couple of minutes, I check to see if his foot is still bleeding, which it’s not. I apply some of my healing ointment on his cut with one of the clean corners from his shirt. Tearing off a strip of the shirt that hasn’t been soiled with blood, I tie it firmly over his cut.
“That should be fine until you get back home and can apply a more proper dressing.”
“Grazie molto. Mi chiamo Paulie.”
“Poli?”
“Paw-lie. Paw.”
“Puhli?”
He scratches his head as if he’s trying to remember something. “Paolo! Come l’apostolo.”
I nod my head. “Ah! Paolo! Si. Like the apostle.” I laugh. “Why don’t you just go by Paolo then?”
“That’s not how they say it in America. It’s Paul in America. But everyone calls me by my nickname Paulie. But if it’s too hard for you to say, you can call me Paolo.”
“Where in America are you from?”
“New York.”
“Very big city.”
“It is.”
“You’re here on vacation?”
“Yes, I’m here on vacation with my parents. I was actually born in Calabria. My parents and I immigrated to America when I was six years old. That’s why my Italian is not so good. I didn’t keep up with it, and my parents were more concerned with my learning how to speak English.”
“It’s enough for you to get by, and I can understand you.”
“That’s kind of you to say. May I ask your name?”
“Sarina.”
“Nice to meet you.”
I nod my head. “I should get going.”
“Wait. I’d like to thank you properly for taking care of my cut. Would you like to have an espresso with me?”
My stomach grumbles lightly at the thought of espresso. Of course, I need something more substantial. I feel a bit uncomfortable having espresso with this man I just met, but he was right when he suspected I wasn’t feeling well.
“You don’t have to do that. Buona sera.” I turn and begin walking away, but Paolo calls me.
“Sarina. Perhaps you could tell me more about your cards. Maybe I’ll buy a reading after we have some espresso. I promise I don’t bite.” Paolo holds his hands up.
Though I barely know him, I sense he has never hurt a fly. And who knows? Maybe he will let me read his cards, and I can make some extra money.
“Va bene. All right.”
Paolo and I are seated at a café. Not wanting to be rude, I only order espresso, but Paolo insists I order a panino, too, saying I can’t let him eat alone.
“You look better now that you have some food in you.”
As I suspected, this was Paolo’s plan all along, to get me to eat. “Thank you, Paolo, but you didn’t have to feed me. I work and can provide for myself.”
“I see that. But like I said I just wanted to show my appreciation, and I didn’t want to eat alone.”
“You said you were here with your parents. Where are they?”
“They’re visiting relatives who moved from Calabria to Sicily a few years ago. There’s only so much I can take of the relatives. They talk so fast, and I can’t always keep up with the Italian and what they’re saying. You’re not going to believe this but our surname is Parlatone.”
“Parlatone. That means big talker.” I can’t help but laugh.
“I know.” Paolo whistles. “And boy, can they talk forever!”
Ironically, from that moment on, Paolo doesn’t stop talking for a good half hour. He talks about everything under the sun, from the amazing fresh produce of Sicily to wondering how his life would have been different if his parents had never gone to America and so on. I let him talk, only too grateful that he isn’t asking me questions about myself.
When Paolo pays the check, he offers to walk me home. My face reddens as I try to think of something to say. And for some reason, I decide not to lie to him. I don’t have the energy for coming up with an elaborate lie tonight, and there’s something kind about his eyes that compels me to be honest.
“I’m afraid that as of today, my home will be on the beach until I can find another room to rent. My purse was stolen earlier today, and my landlady would not let me stay until I have the money to pay her rent. But I’ll be fine. This isn’t the first time the beach has been my home.”
“Oh. I’m so sorry to hear that, Sarina.” Paolo looks away as if he’s embarrassed for me. His hands are in the pockets of his Bermuda shorts. He starts jangling loudly the coins in his pockets and shuffles his feet from side to side.
“Thank you again for the espresso and panino. Have a good night.” I turn around quickly and begin traipsing through the sand.
“But you haven’t given me my tarot reading yet! I was talking so much that I forgot to ask you to explain more of it to me,” Paolo shouts to me.
Once again, Paolo has managed to stop me in my tracks. Before turning back around, I ponder whether I should give him a reading. I know I need the money, but I also don’t want to give Paolo the wrong idea. It’s obvious he is trying to help me without causing me to lose my pride.
I turn around. “I’ll tell you what. If you are still interested in a reading tomorrow, come by where you found me earlier today on the beach, and I’ll give you a reading then. It’s late, and I’m sure you must be tired, too. I really must get going now. It was nice to meet you, Paolo. Buonanotte.”
“Sounds like a plan. Oh! What time will you be there?”
“I’ll be there all morning.”
“I’ll see you then, Sarina. Buonanotte.”
As I walk away, I wonder if Paolo will come by tomorrow after he’s had some time to think. It won’t matter if he doesn’t keep his word since he is a tourist. He can disappear, and I’ll nev
er see him again. I’ll just remain for him the Sicilian gypsy who took care of his cut and kept him company while he was feeling lonely.
Two weeks have passed since I met Paolo. He has been coming to the beach every day for a reading. But after the first week, I refused to give him any other readings. I could tell he had taken pity on me and was merely getting the readings so he could give me money. The other gypsies on Salina would probably think I am a fool for turning away Paolo’s money. But I know it’s the right thing to do.
I am standing at the shoreline watching the sun begin her descent. My stomach rumbles, but I ignore it. Though I have money, thanks to Paolo, I am being careful and saving as much as I can since I don’t know when I’ll have a week in which I won’t earn any. All I ate today was a blood orange, a roll, and a small piece of cheese. My ribs are beginning to protrude from my chest and my cheekbones are much more pronounced now. Carlo would probably not recognize me if he saw me.
Shaking my head, I stare at the sea. Her waters are calm this evening even though we are in mid-November. I wrap my shawl tighter around me, but it’s doing little to keep me warm against the light winds that have been blowing today. How much longer can I continue sleeping out on the beach, especially since winter will soon be here? While the winters do not get that cold in Sicily, by the water it can be quite uncomfortable at night. I need to get away from the beach, from the Aeolian Islands. It all reminds me too much of Carlo. But where will I go? Perhaps I could find employment at a hotel in Messina. I don’t care if I’m not hired as a singer, for I’ve abandoned those dreams.
I was a foolish girl, thinking I could support myself as a singer and have Carlo, the son of a wealthy hotel owner. I was a fool for letting Carlo convince me I was no different from the rich tourists on the islands we visited. Now, the ache of all I have lost in the past few months can be quite unbearable at times. If I had never sung at the Villa Carlotta, met Carlo, and traveled to beautiful places, I would be stronger now. Now, in addition to my family, I ache for Carlo. But it was my choice leaving him. I loved Carlo too much to watch his father destroy him. No. I had to let him go. I just pray someday he can forgive me and possibly understand why I left without saying good-bye.
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