The Lost Swimmer

by Ann Turner

  ‘I reckon he locked the gate,’ whispered Stephen wryly. ‘Probably heard Marco tell us to go down.’

  ‘I wonder why Marco has him here?’

  ‘Bad taste?’ Stephen shrugged. ‘A shocking judge of character?’

  ‘Marco’s just gone to a great deal of trouble for us.’ My phone bleeped and I casually pulled it out of my handbag and onto my knee where Stephen couldn’t read the text: Sofia was blocked when she tried to access the papers. She thinks something fishy is definitely going on. Has a plan for tomorrow. More then, love B.

  ‘Who’s that?’ asked Stephen.

  ‘Just Burton with some gossip. What’s for dessert? I need a sugar hit.’

  Sfogliatella, the local specialty – flaky pastry filled with sweet ricotta custard – was served bitterly by Alessandro. His slate grey eyes met mine. ‘Did you enjoy your sea-a bass?’ he quizzed intently.

  ‘Yes, very much.’

  His expression was cunning. I couldn’t fathom why he had taken such an extreme dislike to us, but suddenly I wondered with horror if he had slipped something awful into the dish. He turned and left the table, disappearing into the shadows to resume staring at the young Russian girl. He reminded me of a big black spider viewing its prey.

  ‘Creepy,’ said Stephen in a low voice. ‘I hope our door locks.’ But my attention was taken by Marco, who had changed into a white linen suit and now made his way from table to table chatting animatedly with our fellow diners, most of whom he knew well. An elegant woman and her husband laughed gaily at his jokes and the woman clearly found Marco attractive. Her eyes followed him jealously to the next table, where two middle-aged women melted under his attention. At the subsequent table, a husband glowered while his well-built wife told a long and boring story about her day’s sightseeing. Marco hung off every word, occasionally passing comment, and the woman reached up and touched his hair, running her plump bejewelled fingers through in a highly charged manner.

  ‘Ten quid the husband will punch Marco’s lights out if that goes on much longer,’ said Stephen. I wanted Marco to visit us but a startling burst of singing in a striking soprano suddenly took all our attention. One of the guests, a chic, immaculately groomed woman in a tight silver dress, had risen from her table of friends and, with a heaving chest, flinging her arms around wildly, was performing from Madame Butterfly. Her voice soared and dipped magnificently as she waited loyally for her beloved Captain Pinkerton to return. Marco beelined for her, pulling up a chair at her table, resting his delicate chin into his hands and watching captivated, like a small boy.

  He didn’t move for the rest of the night, as the singer sang one famous aria after another, peppered with wildly enthusiastic, deeply reverent applause from the adoring Italian crowd. Finally the diva indicated that she had finished, and amid deafening cries of ‘Brava, Brava!’ diners raced to beseech her for an autograph. A man at a nearby table playfully picked up a napkin and passed it around, soliciting money from us all, which he placed cheekily at the soprano’s feet. We applauded again until our hands stung and finally, with mock reluctance, the grande dame sang again, her voice soaring out across the water, floating towards Capri, as she died, heart-breakingly, in La Traviata.

  • • •

  The next morning at breakfast there was no sign of Marco or the diva, and as Alessandro came to take our orders, he kicked a poor mangy cat hanging around the tables.

  ‘Hey,’ I cried as the cat moaned and hid under a chair.

  Alessandro scowled and muttered something in Italian that I couldn’t catch. A man at another table threw a scrap of bacon to the forlorn creature whose ribs stuck out at right angles through its sparse coat.

  ‘Please do not feed the vermin,’ spat Alessandro and turned to stand over us. ‘What do you want?’ he said sharply.

  ‘For you to not hurt the cat,’ I replied. Alessandro rose like a cobra about to strike and a death-look flashed through his eyes.

  ‘I will bring you eggs and bacon.’ He stalked off furiously and Stephen burst out laughing. Alessandro reeled around. ‘Is there a problem, sir?’

  ‘Eggs and bacon will be fine,’ said Stephen. ‘I think the cat could use some too.’

  Alessandro froze, and everyone assembled turned to watch.

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said Alessandro, walking slowly towards Stephen.

  ‘Please just go and get the breakfast,’ Stephen waved a hand dismissively. ‘If you’re cruel to animals don’t expect us to give you the time of day.’

  Alessandro looked like he might spit. He came close to Stephen, who suddenly stood up.

  ‘Stephen!’ I called, alarmed. Stephen walked up to Alessandro, who was now backing away.

  ‘Yeah, kick me. But I’m bigger than the cat.’ He loomed above Alessandro, not only younger but much stronger. ‘What are you waiting for?’ Stephen asked.

  Alessandro scowled and left. The cat rubbed around Stephen’s legs, purring loudly. Stephen bent to pat it and was nearly hit by a huge steak, which came flying from the kitchen. It was raw and bloody and the cat bit into it with a pleasure so intense it brought tears to my eyes.

  ‘Satisfied?’ Alessandro glowered beneath the eaves of the building, then disappeared inside.

  ‘Jesus.’ Stephen rose and came back to the table. ‘That guy’s a lunatic.’

  I took his hand and kissed it. ‘I love you.’ Stephen’s phone bleeped. ‘Sorry, I have to take this.’ He walked rapidly to an overgrown path and his body deflated as he spoke to the mystery caller. When he finally returned he was sombre.

  ‘What on earth’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Stephen sat heavily and briefly met my gaze, which was fixed nervously on him.

  ‘Are the kids okay?’ I couldn’t stop my voice from trembling.

  Stephen sat back. ‘Oh, Bec, it’s nothing like that.’

  I waited. Alessandro shoved plates laden with egg and bacon under our noses and slunk off. Stephen put some of his food onto a napkin that he placed gently in front of the cat. The cat ate noisily, purring.

  ‘Please tell me what’s happened?’ I asked. ‘I can see it’s something serious.’

  Stephen’s body heaved in a long sigh. ‘It’s nothing to bother you about.’

  I wondered yet again whether he was seeing someone, but his mood didn’t seem that of a jilted lover. I took a stab at the vice I knew. ‘Is it to do with your investments?’

  Stephen laughed spontaneously. ‘I do leave some things behind on holidays, Bec. It’s just a work thing, don’t worry about it.’

  He ate quickly and as soon as I’d finished too, he scraped back his chair.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said.

  As we walked through the fecund gardens alive with birdsong in the fresh coolness of the morning, I pressed my body into his.

  ‘Just share it? Please?’

  Stephen stopped and took one step away. ‘Then tell me what’s going on with you and Burton? You suddenly seem very close.’

  I felt a pang of guilt that I was hiding things too. ‘You know what it’s like when you’ve just caught up with someone,’ I replied. We stood in silence, our secrets hanging between us in a gossamer web as strong as steel.

  ‘Come on. Let’s hit the road before I change my mind,’ said Stephen.

  • • •

  I peeled out behind a bus packed with tourists. Stephen held his breath, trying to appear brave. A surge of adrenalin rushed through me as I navigated the crazy scooters and winding, hairpin treachery.

  By the time the bustling cafes and souvenir shops of Amalfi came into view I was thoroughly enjoying myself. Stephen had been silent the entire trip. ‘That was the worst fifteen minutes of my life,’ he said as we crawled along looking for a gap in the endless line of parked cars.

  My memory jolted as I glanced at the white jewels of houses bustling up the hill. ‘There’s a cathedral here with a lot of steps.’ I smiled slowly as connections jostled in my mind, overwhelming with nostalgia. The
re was my mother standing far away at the top of a flight of stairs, blonde hair tied in a scarf, a few escaped wisps blowing in the wind. She was the most beautiful woman alive, even more beautiful than Grace Kelly. Her face was lean with sadness but that only accentuated her deep blue eyes and generous mouth. My brother John was beside her, pulling one arm at a right angle; a lanky thirteen year old, impatient for the dark passages and secret garden inside the cathedral. I’d held my tiny instamatic camera aloft and clicked. Where was that photo now, faded orange with age? Did I still have it? That cameo revealing the awful gap left by death, the overseas holiday to take our minds off things that focused us all the more on being three not four, a single-mother family where just months before we’d been a solid unit, our dad the fisherman always looking out for us, his humour crackling as we laughed at his bad puns and ribald jokes. And coming to the Amalfi coast because it was where Dad had always wanted to take us. A place by the sea where fish were caught in abundance and where he’d fit like a glove.

  A space opened up as a campervan pulled out and I shot in. My eyes drifted again to the houses. Subtle colours were emerging, muted yellow, soft terracotta, faded green shutters, the occasional slash of deep marine blue. As I followed Stephen onto the footpath, the sparkling harbour bustling with fishing boats and pleasure craft gave off a fresh breeze full of promises. A ferry ploughed in.

  ‘Come on!’ I grabbed Stephen’s hand and we ran flat out to a small booth on the wharf. In the nick of time we bought two tickets and joined the last stragglers aboard. I led the way to the top deck where the sun scorched down.

  ‘You sure you’re okay with this?’ asked Stephen worriedly.

  ‘Yeah, it’s a ferry. Not a small boat.’ I sounded much braver than I felt, but I was determined to take this trip. It was the only way, given Stephen’s fear of the road – and he, after all, had ventured back in the car to at least come here.

  The engines churned into reverse and the sun caught the cathedral high on the hill. It glowed like molten gold. Stephen peered into his phone, having difficulty seeing the screen in the bright light. He tensed, frowning.

  ‘Something wrong?’ I asked.

  He shook his head as he quickly tapped out an email, then turned his phone to photo mode and rose to stand behind me, goading me to turn around. As he snapped a photo, Amalfi framed my tentative grin. Old memories and new.

  I hooked out my own phone, switched places and filled the frame with Stephen, the colourful houses jostling behind. I took photo after photo, Stephen mugging and finally looking directly at the lens with a haunted quality that made my heart jolt.

  I sat down heavily. Salt and foam sprayed up in a white mist. Stephen, surprisingly, turned his phone off. I watched him closely, taking his hand in mine. It was hot with a thin bead of sweat. He smiled. ‘So, we’re off to Pompeii?’

  The ferry sailed high on the waves, plunging into cool troughs before soaring up again like a giant seabird. I tried to adjust to the roll and swell of the open sea, my stomach lurching. I kept reminding myself over and over that a ferry wasn’t a tiny dinghy and sought to find pleasure at being back on the water, with Stephen beside me.

  Thoughts of the last time I’d been on this boat as a teenager flooded in. I swept away the sadness, brushing my mind clean.

  We donned sunglasses and gazed at the rugged coastline where spectacular cliffs fell into the deep blue sea and houses clung on for dear life. A few tiny beaches lay at the foot of the sheer rock.

  Beneath the ferry, a frothy white path cut into the intense indigo, a colour so completely different to my own aqua ocean back home. I tried to distract myself with detail to quell my fear.

  ‘I think that’s our hotel up there.’ Stephen pointed.

  ‘I don’t think so. How about that one?’ I indicated another that seemed to be suspended in mid-air.

  ‘Not the right shape.’

  ‘That one!’ we cried together. The hulking, sprawling Della Mare was unmistakable. ‘There’s the beach!’ Stephen waved excitedly at the row of buoys marking out the swimming area. The blowhole’s massive wall of spray was clearly visible.

  ‘No way are you swimming.’

  ‘We’ll see about that.’

  A small distance on was a proper beach, small and pebbly with a few shacks along its shore. ‘That’s where we can go,’ I said with certainty.

  Stephen chuckled. ‘See the stairs?’

  With dismay I absorbed what must have been well over a thousand steps snaking up the mountain.

  ‘I’m going to find somewhere to swim in this gorgeous water.’ Stephen sat back, hair whipping in the wind as he surveyed the coast like a sea eagle.

  Positano came into view as the ferry churned through choppy waves, heading for the wharf. I tried to relax. Stephen put his arm around me and gave me a supportive squeeze. ‘I’m fine,’ I said, leaning into him and feeling his body warm against mine.

  As a crowd clambered off and more filed on, crew dangled homemade fishing lines into the pristine depths. Silver fish darted about. I thought of my father as Stephen ambled down and chatted to a sailor whose bronzed face was etched deep from storms and salt. Dad’s face had been like that; so different to Stephen’s, which was soft and unlined. Laughing loudly, the sailor offered Stephen a cigarette and for a moment I thought he was going to take it. Stephen hadn’t smoked since the kids were born.

  Then the ferry roared to life, the sailor deftly flipped up his line, and Stephen came back beside me. ‘You’re doing well. I’m proud of you,’ he said as he entwined my hand in his. I sank into him again and wrapped my arm around his back. I placed my head on his broad chest and felt his heart beating. Did I imagine it, or was it running fast?

  He bent and kissed me, chaste and warm, on the cheek.

  By the time we arrived in Sorrento, where lemon and white hotels with soft terracotta roofs perched on a cliff-top, merging with the sky, our skin was burned to a crisp from the sea glare. In blistering heat we trundled up a steep, narrow footpath to the train station, avoiding being crushed by a bus only through a miracle. I was terrified, but Stephen was strangely complacent.

  A fresh breeze burst through the windows as the train took off, vibrating up to speed as it shot through dense lemon groves heavy with fruit. With rattling ease it brought us to Pompei Scavi, where we disembarked and wove through hawkers touting tours and cold drinks, through a wide new arch, to join a concertina-queue beneath the baking sun.

  Finally we passed through the turnstile and walked up the cobbled path to the Marine Gate, a salty breeze ruffling our backs. Stephen stopped and turned to look at the sea, twinkling on the horizon beyond a snarl of new houses. I photographed him within the vast hole of the ancient stone entrance. His craggy white smile was his usual but his stance was tense. I sucked in my breath. How could I reach him if something was wrong? And was he concerned for me too? Picking up the tension I was trying to hide?

  We walked through streets crowded with tourists scurrying to keep up with their guides, until we found ourselves alone between silent buildings where life had stopped so suddenly in the summer of 79 AD. Ruins of shopfronts huddled together brought forth the once-bustling world, skeletons of villas still exuded calm and luxury – everything captured in that frozen moment when Vesuvius erupted and spewed ash and molten lava, setting the vibrant city alight as it buried it, with those forced to stay behind, guarding the wealth of their masters, dying in writhing agony. Pompeii was vast, much bigger than I expected. Even in the height of tourist summer you could still get lost.

  As I stood at the side of a villa, in what were once slave quarters, I reluctantly drew myself back to the present and flicked on my phone while Stephen was a distance away studying frescoes in faded reds and pinks. Birdsong filled the air as I registered with disappointment that there was no news from Athens. I clicked the phone off, impatient, impotent, wishing I could be there investigating. The desire to discover who had set up and accessed the Athens accounts burned wit
h a fury. I double-checked my phone, just in case I’d missed something. Scrolling through I found, to my horror, an email from DiStasio.

  Dear Professor Wilding,

  I have received information that alleges you visited the branch of the bank in Athens where the accounts were set up. We view this matter very seriously and request that you phone or reply in writing as to what you were doing. Please do not try to access the accounts.

  Regards,

  Margaret DiStasio

  ‘Let’s go to the Basilica?’ Stephen called and my phone dropped skittishly as I rushed to put it away. Picking it up, brushing off dirt, I wondered if the bank manager had alerted DiStasio. Or was it the second visitor that day, the person who had come after me?

  Our footsteps echoed through the cobbled streets as I thought of what I would say to DiStasio. Who had told her about my visit? I was caught in a web that was being drawn tighter but I had no idea who was doing it. I fended off panic, feeling helpless. In the distance the chatter of tourists bubbled like a stream but nearby there was no other human life. Behind us, Mount Vesuvius rose on the horizon.

  We entered the Basilica, where a few pillars cast long shadows on the packed earth.

  ‘Is this ancient graffiti?’ Stephen’s voice made me jump.

  He was peering at a line of faint Latin script carved roughly into the stone wall.

  ‘ “Chius, I hope your haemorrhoids flare up in pain, and may they burn worse than ever, forever!” ’ I translated and Stephen roared with laughter.

  ‘The Pompeians were straightforward,’ I said. ‘I wish we could be too.’ I felt I was becoming as bad as him. I looked over but he kept staring at the graffiti. We returned to the streets, Stephen searching for more graffiti etched into the ruins.