by Ann Turner
Stephen followed my shocked gaze. ‘Don’t tell me this is it?’
I turned into the tiny space for cars by the wall. Beyond, the sun broke through and the sea twinkled a rich blue, dancing in the light.
‘It’s just a cliff!’ said Stephen.
‘Sorry. I think I stuffed up.’
Stephen shook his head. ‘Well, I’m not going anywhere. I don’t plan to be on this road ever again.’
‘Look, there’s a ceramics shop and little cafe at the top.’
Stephen, dismayed, glanced at the colourful building that had seen better days, and then gazed around. There was no way in or out except for the sliver of road. Opposite, the hill was brown and bald. No sweet groves of citrus grew there. Below us was nothing but a spine-tingling drop to the sea.
‘I thought this was in Amalfi,’ I groaned. ‘Anyway, I don’t mind driving, that’s the good news. I’m quite happy to take us anywhere. I haven’t felt this alive in years. Where shall we go tomorrow?’ I added.
‘Let’s just check in and have a drink,’ Stephen replied gruffly. ‘And I mean it – I’m not going on that road apart from when we leave.’ With difficulty he forced the smashed boot open and grabbed both bags, almost getting hit as a massive tourist bus trundled past.
‘Careful!’ I called, alarmed.
He wheeled the luggage into the ceramics shop, which was lined with shelves of garishly painted bowls and jugs, and garden ornaments in startling blue and yellow. ‘We’re looking for the hotel check-in,’ he said to an unusually handsome man in his late twenties who, lithe and tanned like a panther, leaned against the marble counter sipping a fresh orange juice. His eyes were dark liquid, his slim body toned in the peak of youth.
‘Let me take those. I’m Marco Romano, your host. Welcome,’ he drawled in a soft accent.
Stephen introduced us and Marco took my hand, giving my fingers the lightest squeeze.
‘What a lovely place,’ I said, confident and buoyed from having driven the road.
‘We’ll go to reception,’ he purred. ‘I’ll get these later.’ We had no choice but to leave our luggage in the empty shop, vulnerably unattended. ‘It will be all right,’ said Marco as he guided me into a stone passageway where steps funnelled us down into the belly of the cliff. ‘So, you’re the hero who drove?’
‘Of course.’ My smile split from ear to ear.
‘You must be tired?’
‘Exhausted,’ said Stephen. ‘Do you have a bar?’
‘Precisely,’ replied Marco. ‘But first, your room.’
My stomach rumbled and it hit me we hadn’t eaten all day, except the gelato in Positano. I glanced at my watch.
‘You’re not too late for lunch,’ said Marco, reading my thoughts. ‘I can fix you something in our restaurant. There’s a beautiful sea bass on the menu today. You will love it.’
His old blue jeans clung in all the right places, his fine cotton shirt the colour of the ocean billowed lightly, and when we came into the blasting sunshine of reception, situated by a terrace that looked across the sea for miles, the silhouette of his torso through the fine cloth sensually matched the mood.
‘You made it!’ A tall, raven-haired woman, Italian to the core but with an upper-class English accent, came shooting from behind a desk and hugged us as if we’d been friends for years. ‘And your eyes are dry! You know the famous John Steinbeck wept in his wife’s arms as he was driven along the Amalfi coast. You two must be bravehearts!’
‘That makes me feel a lot better,’ said Stephen and the woman laughed, even though he hadn’t been joking. I did indeed feel like a victorious warrior.
‘Thank you for bringing our delightful guests,’ she said to Marco. ‘Leave them with me.’
‘I will see you in the restaurant,’ Marco said, giving a little bow as he left.
The woman announced dramatically that she was Adriana. ‘Later I will get you to fill in the registration. But for now, your passports, please?’
She held out a long, olive-skinned hand. Stephen obeyed, placing his blue booklet into her palm. I dug into my bag and retrieved mine, and she slapped both onto the desk.
‘Perfetto! Now we go.’
She led us down a long corridor, leaving the passports sitting alone near a display of sightseeing brochures. Stephen and I both flinched at the passports being left in the open, but neither of us dared raise it with Adriana.
She stopped by a lift and stood aside for us to enter. ‘You start your stay with us in Paradise!’
Do not use elevator if broken, a sign in the tiny space announced nonsensically. Stephen and I both stifled a smile.
‘Don’t let the sign frighten you. It rarely happens.’ Adriana flicked her thick hair to one side and pressed a button, sending us whooshing down into the bowels of the mountain. When the doors opened, she led us along a cold, gloomy corridor and finally stopped at door 37, which she flung open dramatically without using a key. ‘Pronto!’
The immaculately decorated room, ochre walls, white-tiled floor and spotless white furniture was framed by a dazzling azure sea that dashed away to meet the watery sky. As we stepped out onto a huge balcony, replete with padded lounges and a little table with two tall glasses, ice and a jug of freshly squeezed orange juice, Capri floated on the horizon, beckoning us again.
Adriana clapped her hands like an excited schoolgirl. ‘Yes, that’s Capri,’ she said, as if seeing it for the first time. ‘A millionaire’s view, just for you. And now, I leave you to enjoy. Please ask for anything, anything at all, that your heart desires.’
Stephen tried to slip her a tip but she waved him away. ‘We are family!’ she cried, shutting the door gently behind her.
Stephen turned away from the view. ‘I’m going to have to finish my paper or that island will haunt me. It’s like it’s hunting me down,’ he chuckled, wrapping his arms about me, lowering us onto the vast expanse of the bed. His skin glowed against the pearly sheets as he kissed me softly. My fingertips burned as I ran them over his shoulders and dug in, massaging, feeling the tautness evaporate. Stephen groaned and tipped over, ‘Keep going, Bec. Don’t stop.’ I straddled him, pummelling his flesh, fighting off my fears about him. After all, I was a road conqueror. I could feel Dad’s pride. Surely, then, I could vanquish any threat to our marriage? ‘Ouch, not that hard!’ cried Stephen.
‘Sorry.’ I lightened my strokes; I’d made his skin glow red.
He rolled over, grabbed me, and flipped me onto my back, where we lay cuddling in the mellow heat until, after a brisk rap on the door, Adriana barged in with our luggage.
• • •
Marco brought the plate of sizzling fish and a huge bowl of salad to our table, perched on the cliff-face above a mighty drop to the diamond sea below. Uncorking a bottle, he poured pale-straw liquid into our glasses. ‘Buon appetito.’ His torso swayed sensuously as he headed back inside and we drank the wine.
Stephen cursed. ‘I just remembered we have to report the car.’ He rose, taking his phone from his pocket.
‘But eat first, darling?’
‘I don’t want trouble because we waited too long.’ He perched on the squat stone wall that separated us from the drop to infinity.
‘Careful!’ I cried. Stephen smiled but didn’t move.
‘What’s the name of the company again?’ he called.
‘Speedi.’ Stephen rolled his eyes and looked up the number. When the phone finally answered he spoke quickly, flapping his hand at me to start eating.
The sea bass was sweet and salty, as fresh as the ocean. I could taste the tidal currents and for a moment felt panic as I envisaged the sea floor and its treachery. I washed it down with more wine.
‘Flavia says we must report it to the police.’ Stephen sat down heavily, reaching for his knife and fork, slashing a huge piece off the fish and lifting it deftly onto his plate. ‘Such a bore. It’s going to mess up the rest of the afternoon.’
Marco appeared with a jug of sparkling wat
er. ‘Everything all right?’ he asked and Stephen explained our predicament. ‘Ah, you’ll have to drive to Amalfi or Positano.’ Marco shrugged. ‘Positano is further but it’s probably the best. But, please, you must do it today.’
‘We can’t, we’ve both been drinking,’ Stephen said. ‘The police will have to come to us.’
Marco replied softly. ‘There are not many. They can’t. What if someone needs them?’
‘But we need them.’ Ice crept into Stephen’s voice. ‘The boy hit us. We’re not at fault in any way.’
‘I have an idea.’ Marco’s eyes lit up. ‘I can drive. In your car, of course, so they can see the damage.’
‘Marco, you’re a godsend,’ I said.
‘Thanks,’ Stephen said, after a long pause. ‘I guess you know the road pretty well?’
‘Usually I go by boat. But not today.’ Marco grinned, a perfect set of teeth flashing in the sunlight. He was the essence of summer. The wine had gone to my head.
‘That was delicious.’ I pushed my plate away. ‘I’ll need a walk after all that food.’
Stephen snorted. ‘What, along the road?’
‘You can go down to our beach,’ said Marco excitedly. ‘And then when you get back, I’ll be ready and we can go.’
In our room we put on walking shoes. ‘Honey, I can go and report it with Marco, if you like. You could stay here?’
Stephen tapped my arm gratefully. ‘Thanks, but I’ll cope.’
My phone bleeped. I hurried out onto the balcony and flicked up the text.
In Athens already. Sofia had the day free, so we changed our flight. Await further news! Love Burton. PS: Hope you’re managing to relax in spite of all this.
I smiled as I deleted his words. For a brief moment the Amalfi coast had taken me further from my worries than I’d been since my troubles began. This area was fabled to be the home of the sirens. I could hear their sweet songs serenading as Stephen and I left the room and made our way along a tiny path that zigzagged down the cliff-face.
I pushed the alleged fraud far away as we moved among wizened olive trees, groaning in unnatural shapes from fierce storms and the rigours of age. Cicadas screeched in the heat. The breeze smelled of fresh rosemary, lemons and salt. Suddenly a high, rusty gate cut off the path. Locked, barring our way. Beyond and below, the sea was turning a deep blue, fringed with clear, bright emerald.
‘Damn,’ Stephen said. ‘I want to see this beach.’
‘I can’t imagine where it will be. It all looks so rocky,’ I muttered.
‘Come on, I’ll give you a leg over.’ Stephen grabbed me playfully, lifting me off the ground. I was worried how my ribs would cope but I was feeling mellow from the wine and bold from conquering the road.
‘When you reach the top, just drop down,’ said Stephen.
The top of the gate wedged into my chest and I hung suspended like a fish on a hook, then Stephen gently pushed my legs and I toppled over onto the other side, where I lay laughing in the soft dirt, amazed my body didn’t even hurt. Stephen hoisted himself up, scrabbled like a mad ant and flung down beside me. We kissed like teenagers and I caught a furtive look in his eyes.
‘Is everything all right?’ I asked, alarmed.
‘Yes, of course. This place is magical. It’s taking my mind off this looming road trip.’ He stood, brushing dirt off his shirt. ‘Come on.’
He pulled me up and hand-in-hand we continued down the hill, the sea bobbing in and out of view as if we were playing hide-and-seek. Birds called in the still air, their cries haunting and foreign. The heat baked into us and I imagined myself as Odysseus on an enchanted island, expecting Circe to appear at any moment to whisk me into a den of forbidden pleasure.
Hotel Della Mare was casting a spell.
We passed under a spreading plum tree laden with fruit, and a single plump orb dropped onto the path behind us with a dull thud, breaking open to reveal its bruised, purple flesh. A blackbird flew down and gorged on it.
‘Can’t spy the lido yet,’ said Stephen craning his neck over the cliff as we came into an opening. Below, the water swirled, cool and inviting. A breeze fluttered my light cotton dress and I felt a thrill of excitement.
We scrambled down to the next section of path, which was steeper and covered in tiny pebbles. I lost my footing and one leg shot out in front. Stephen grabbed me and held me up. ‘You okay? Don’t hurt yourself, not down here.’
I glanced back to the steep slope and realised just how far we’d come. I tested my leg. ‘It’s fine. Good catch.’ Pecking him on the lips, I led on.
As the ground fell away and the roar of the sea drew us onward, the temperature dropped suddenly. We rounded a bend and a flat rocky ledge came into view, gripping the side of the cliff and ending with a two-metre plunge to the water. There was no beach, no sand: only this thin wedge of stone.
‘Is this it?’ Stephen stood with his hands on his hips, disappointed.
‘I guess so.’
A wave rolled in and exploded high into the air as it hit the rock, then sucked back down in a greedy, roiling mass.
‘This isn’t a beach, it’s a blowhole!’ Stephen gazed in disbelief. ‘I’d really been looking forward to it too.’
He paced along the stark ledge, staring forlornly out to sea as another emerald wave crashed in, soaking us, before slurping into itself in a roar of froth. I leaped back in fright and slipped on the wet surface. Again, Stephen caught me.
‘Please God, let there not be a third time. You might not be there, like in a fairy tale,’ I joked.
‘Of course I will.’
Stephen folded me in his arms and bent to kiss me. Then we both felt a presence and turned. At the far end of the rocky ledge, two sets of eyes lay staring at us: a mother and her teenage daughter, both topless. They were as surprised as two deer caught in headlights, their respective aged and nubile bodies slicked with oil, exposed and vulnerable. Neither moved, as though hoping we might not see them.
‘Hello,’ Stephen called, neutrally friendly.
The mother nodded, the teenager rolled over and put her head to the stone, sunbaking.
‘Do you think they locked the gate?’ mumbled Stephen. ‘Their own private beach.’
‘Come on.’ I waved and turned away. ‘You won’t be swimming here.’
But Stephen’s attention had focused on a string of white buoys about fifty metres from the blowhole, and as we walked back we noticed an old rusty ladder dropping down into the water from the ledge.
‘Wow, people really do swim here!’ He bent and touched the ladder. ‘It’s firm. Properly attached.’
A huge wave rolled in and he jumped back, but not quickly enough to avoid another drenching.
‘You are not swimming here,’ I repeated. ‘Don’t even think about it.’
He grinned and grabbed me, transferring salty water in a sharp blast. I squealed.
He took my hand and we moved off, laughing, to the other end of the ledge where it widened enough to allow a thatched hut and tables to be tucked against the cliff-face.
‘My God, they must have functions down here!’ Stephen looked around. ‘Is there a lift? How would they get stuff in?’
It made an eerie sight, like a wedding with no guests. Some of the thatch had torn off the roof and flapped crazily in the breeze. Stephen clapped a damp hand to my head and I squealed again in fright.
17
From the tiny back seat of our car I watched Marco’s neck, as slender as a swan’s, as he steered us effortlessly to Positano. The erratic wasp-trails of the scooters and the buses with their snorting turns didn’t seem so bad with Marco in control. Beside him, Stephen’s body was a rigid block of nerves.
As the blazing bougainvillea at the turn-off came into view I was sad that we had reached our destination. Marco roared down and stopped beside a pink building marked POLIZIA.
A tall, thin man in a smart blue uniform, Giotto, pulled faces dramatically as he inspected the damage: the crumpled r
ed boot and curled bumper bar looked like a giant had punched his fist into it. Giotto brought forth a small notepad, looked at Stephen’s photographs and took the details of the offending youth’s car along with our own. Then we went inside to an atmosphere of convivial bonhomie and sat in a neat, windowless, whitewashed room. Giotto typed up his report while two other young policemen joked with Marco and asked where we came from, insisting on making us espresso coffee, hot and sweet.
Finally Giotto handed over a copy of his report, shook Stephen’s hand then my own, and told us how sorry he was that this had happened. ‘Definitely not locals,’ he concluded.
‘That’s what I thought,’ I replied and he grinned, clapping me on the back. ‘You could be a local,’ he said and Marco agreed so enthusiastically I blushed.
‘The police are lovely,’ I commented as we headed off, leaving the sparkling blue water of Positano behind.
‘They are good men,’ replied Marco. ‘I went to school with most of them. They even like their Commissario, the district boss. One big, happy family.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘The Amalfi coast is a very inviting place. Perhaps you will stay longer?’
• • •
By the time we sat down it was almost ten o’clock and the terrace was filled with well-dressed diners surrounded by strings of fairy lights beneath a star-filled sky. The nights here had an old-fashioned feel, like a charming ristorante from the fifties. The clientele ranged in age from early twenties through to elderly couples who were chattering animatedly in Italian.
‘Clearly a favourite spot for the locals. Always a good sign,’ said Stephen but the comfortable tone in his voice didn’t match his face, which was lined with worry.
‘Hungry?’ I asked, watching him, concerned.
‘Famished.’
‘Then you must have the sea-a bass.’ A waiter who looked like he’d walked straight out of Night of the Living Dead loomed above, flesh grey and eyes sunken, in a formal black suit. ‘I’m Alessandro,’ he said curtly, glaring down at us with disdain. ‘Two sea bass and two salads? Primi has finished for the night, so we’ll go straight to secondo.’ He left as quickly as he’d arrived, giving us no chance to choose something different. After shouting our order through to the kitchen, Alessandro slunk back to attend to the mother and daughter we had seen sunbathing earlier. He fawned upon the young girl and we were close enough to hear her effusive replies to his questions. She had a thick Russian accent and they spoke together in English while the mother looked on, quiet and intent. Alessandro was in his late sixties, the girl no more than seventeen. My neck stiffened, as the mother seemed to be encouraging Alessandro’s attention to her child, which was in no way fatherly.