Absolute Zero_Misadventures From A Broad

by Margaret Lashley

  I stretched in the bed like a cat, then smiled at my new outfit. It was laid out, waiting for me on the chair beside the bathroom door. This morning the hotel room was full of a delicate, purple light. I got out of bed and stood on the balcony, naked, looking out at the sea. Take that, Tammy Jeter! I watched the violet morning sky fade to pink, its color whisked away on the cool, gentle breeze that fluttered the lacey white curtains hanging on either side of the terrace’s French doors.

  The sea was calmer this morning. As the sun began to crack the horizon, strange, shadowy lumps appeared in the water. As the light grew stronger, the lumps slowly took on the shapes of a dozen or so small boats, each piloted by a one-man crew. On shore, I could see a man flailing his arm up and down repeatedly. Curious, I got dressed in my new outfit (and sexy new panties and bra, yay!) and went down to investigate.

  I snuck past the sleeping night clerk, who was passed out in a pinstriped suit on the lobby couch. One of his long legs hung over the back of the sofa. One slim brown hand touched the floor. As I passed by, he grunted, then farted. I slapped my hand over my mouth to keep from bursting out laughing. I snickered and choked and nearly strangled to death as I scurried past him to the exit door.

  I managed to make it outside before I fell into a complete giggle fit. But my smile faded like a jug-eared boy’s dreams when I tried to put on my sandals. After five days in the same shoes, my kitten heels had matured into full grown tigers. They gnawed cruelly at my toes and the back of my heels. I slipped them on half way and hobbled like a drunk across the cobblestone street to the rocky beach. As soon as I hit the golden sand, I flung them off like they were full of hot coals.

  I picked my way over to my favorite boulder. I started to climb it when I heard a strange, intermittent, slapping noise coming from behind the rocks to my right. I scrambled over a huge white stone for a look. A man’s tan, sinewy arm rose up from behind a boulder, startling me. A second later, it came down hard, like a karate chop. Slap!

  I crept a little closer. The arm came up again. This time I could see the hand held a wad of slimy-looking stuff. I clattered over another set of rocks as the arm went down again. Slap! I could hear the man softly singing under his breath. I peeked around the last boulder concealing him from view. Slap!

  The man was deeply tanned and as lean as a racing greyhound. He wore nothing but a tattered pair of light-yellow cotton shorts faded from the sun. He stooped to pick up something. When he stood up again, his six-pack abs caught my full attention. When I finally drew my eyes from his stomach to his face, he was smiling at me. I cringed. In his right hand was a squirming mass of white-and-pink flesh right out of a bad sci-fi movie.

  “Bon giorno, Signora!” he said heartily. He waved with his free hand, then threw the glob of wriggling goo against a boulder. Slap!

  I watched, open mouthed, as a freshly dead octopus slid down the massive rock.

  The octopus fisherman held up his bucket to show me his catch. The pail was alive with writhing, greyish-white arms covered in light-pink and purple tentacles. It was impossible to say how many octopi were in the bucket. But then again, I guess it didn’t matter. I smiled back at the ripped hunk in short-shorts. Having nothing better to do, I decided to stay and gawk awhile.

  I took a seat on a boulder. This guy performed his task as elegantly and efficiently as a magician. Once each battered octopus was dead, the hunky fisherman quickly and efficiently removed its beak and innards in one movement, never missing a beat in the tune he sang. The gutted octopi went in one bucket, the inedible parts in another. The Adonis in skivvies was gorgeous enough to make the gross-out worth it. I pointed to the innards bucket and shrugged curiously.

  “Per domani,” he said.

  I looked up the words in my trusty phrasebook. For tomorrow. Ha! He was saving the leftover parts for bait to catch tomorrow’s octopi. What a brilliant, waste-less system! I imagined the fishermen before him had probably been doing this same thing for centuries. Man against the sea in a one-on-one, personal relationship. No commercial equipment. No greed. No excess. This man was taking only what he needed to get by for the day. And that was enough for him.

  The whole scene reminded me of something I’d witnessed with Clarice outside Rome last fall. The olives had been ripening then. The Italians had tied nets under the trees to catch the fruits. They didn’t shake the trees or pick the olives with machines like we did back home with the oranges. Instead, they just let them fall into the nets when they were good and ready. This harvesting method seemed more like a gift from nature than the taking of a crop – so totally different from commercial farms in the States.

  I was witnessing first-hand Italy’s live-and-let-live philosophy. It was reflected in everything – from the attitudes of the people to the rich flavors of the food. Oh, the food! My mouth watered as I recalled last night’s dinner of impossibly red tomatoes bursting with sweet, salty juice. Plump, tender shrimp fragrant with the delicate smell of the sea. Fresh figs alive with the delicious, subtle taste of the sun and soil. Mmmmm.

  My stomach growled so loud the yummy fisherman looked up at me in mock surprise. I smiled sheepishly and checked the time on my phone – 6:32 a.m. Oh no! I still had another hour before the hotel restaurant opened. Thank goodness for the distracting daydream in a loincloth.

  I studied the fisherman as he worked. His long, lean legs rippled with muscles every time he took a step. I nearly swooned at his cute butt when he bent over to wash his elegant, strapping arms in the sea.

  “Allora, Signora, mi chiamo Dominik,” said the hunky fisherman.

  He’d caught me off guard. He took my hand in his and kissed the back of it with his full, luscious lips. I stared at him, speechless.

  “Me Dominik,” he tried again. He pointed a thumb at his chest like he was Tarzan.

  “Me Val,” I stuttered, wishing I was Jane.

  “Ah. Point amente,” said Dominik. He pointed in the direction of a small strip of land jutting out in the sea. A small, kiosk-like restaurant was nearby. “See? Point amente.”

  “Oh. Point Amente? It’s pretty,” I nodded and smiled.

  Dominik smiled back and kissed my hand again. He pointed to his watch and shrugged.

  “Ocho, bella Signora. Arrivederchi!”

  Dominik grabbed his buckets of octopi and innards and waded back to the small boat he’d anchored nearby. I watched his tan, sinewy muscles gleam in the morning light as he pulled the starter and waved one more time before motoring away in the Ty D Bol sea, just like the Ty D Bol guy in the commercials.

  GIUSEPPE THE WAITER winked at me as I took a sip of cappuccino. Friedrich nodded at me from his table across the room. I smiled smugly and watched the other WOW volunteers line up at the automatic coffee machine. Hmmm. Maybe I really am an “international fancy person”!

  “So, you took a little trip yesterday,” Val II said snidely as she approached the table. Her injection-deadened face was hard to read, but it appeared to be frozen on disapproval. “That’s pretty irresponsible, if you ask me.”

  “Yeah, well no one’s asking,” said Tina, walking up behind her.

  The two began arguing in front of me as if I weren’t there.

  “How rude!” Val II said.

  “I’m the rude one? Listen, lipo-lady, we know you’re the one who caused Val to miss out on lunch yesterday. Stop being a witch. We’re here on vacation trying to have fun here!”

  “I’m only concerned for Val’s welfare. I just don’t think it’s safe for her to go driving off with that strange man. It’s not proper!”

  “And fake boobs are? Listen, Red. This ain’t the nineteen fifties anymore.”

  “I’m not that old!”

  “Maybe not. But you are old.”

  “You know what, screw you, you...tattooed circus girl!”

  “Yes, very classy of you,” Tina sneered.

  Val II left in a huff. Tina took a seat beside me with her paper cup full of crappy coffee. She spoke to me as if her ca
tfight with Val II had never happened.

  “Okay, so spill the beans, Val. Where’d you go with Friedrich yesterday? Did you have some fun?” She wagged her eyebrows lasciviously.

  “Yes. But first, tell me. What’s your beef with Ms. Botox?”

  “She treats everybody like dirt. She’s a witch.”

  “True.”

  “Isn’t that reason enough?”

  I couldn’t help but grin. “Yeah. I guess so.”

  “So, how was your trip with dashing Friedrich?”

  “To be honest, I had a blast! Friedrich and I went to this village called Alberobello. Tina, the countryside out here is drop-dead gorgeous. I mean, the whole country looks like it was made for romance! And Alberobello? Amazing! The town was full of trullis – these strange little houses.”

  “Truly, now,” Tina joked. “Was it worth the trip?”

  “Absolutely!”

  Maybe I’ll check out those trullis myself,” Berta said. “I’ve got a day off coming up.”

  She sat down beside me, took a sip of her coffee-machine brew and grimaced.

  “Yuck. Nothing good ever came out of a vending machine. So what did the trullis look like, Val?”

  “They kind of looked like white Hershey’s Kisses. They were round at the base. Pointed at the top. The roofs were made of this greyish-colored slate, like upside-down ice-cream cones.”

  “Sounds sweet,” cracked Berta. “Do all of your analogies involve dessert foods?”

  The skinny old woman studied me coyly, as if trying to discern whether I had a fetish for Little Debbie snack cakes. I sneered at her until she grinned.

  “Friedrich told me that back in the Middle Ages, the roofs on the trullis used to have a rope around their top capping stones. He said that back then, taxes were collected based on the number of rooms under a roof. When word came around that the tax collector was on his way, people pulled the ropes on the capstones and the roofs collapsed.”

  “That’s a novel way to reduce your taxes,” Peter said, interrupting my story. “But I don’t think I would try it back home. Sorry I’m late, gang. I engaged in a fifteen-minute nap augmentation process.”

  Berta eyed Peter as if he were from some strange, distant galaxy. I’d begun to wonder the same myself.

  “We should check it out, kid,” Berta said to Tina. She bit into a croissant. Her wrinkly face registered ecstasy.

  “I’ll check the bus schedule,” Tina offered. “Or maybe this Friedrich guy can give us a lift.”

  Tina smiled at me suggestively. I grinned.

  “Ha ha, Tina,” I said. “Uh oh! Here comes trouble.”

  Val II came marching back in the room with Frank in tow.

  “They’ve been talking about taking a trip to Alberto...something or other...on their own, Frank! I told them I think we should stick with authorized transportation!” Val II shot Tina and me another disapproving glare. “I told them we should make proper arrangements with Ms. Mozzarelli when she arrives.”

  “I think that’s an excellent idea, Ms. Finnegan,” Frank said. He glared as us like Val II’s evil, comb-over henchman.

  “We’ll discuss this later, ladies,” Frank said. “You. Val. Let’s go. We’re walking to school, so we need to get an early start.”

  “Okay. Just let me finish my cappuccino.”

  “We don’t have time.”

  “But....”

  Frank’s disapproving glare got darker. “Let’s go,” he repeated, and started walking toward the door.

  “Let him go,” Tina sneered. “Who needs him?”

  “Unfortunately, I do,” I said, getting up from my chair. “Without him, I’d never find my way there and back.”

  “I think you’d do just fine without him,” Berta said.

  I looked over at the old woman. She was dressed in a pantsuit the color of lemon curd.

  “Thank you, Berta. But I can get lost inside a closet.”

  “Can’t we all,” the old woman replied dryly. “Can’t we all.”

  WE’D BARELY ROUNDED the corner of hotel, but I could already swear that Frank had diabolical plans to take over the Scuola de Technico.

  “I have a lesson plan prepared,” he explained as we walked. “I think it’s time these kids learned some discipline.”

  “Why? What happened yesterday?” I asked.

  “It’s a zoo in there. The teacher doesn’t even try to make them behave.”

  “Really!” My mind raced. I wondered how bad it could possibly be.

  “You’ll see soon enough. We’re almost there. Follow me.”

  Frank climbed a flight of stairs and marched down a dimly lit hallway painted industrial green. He turned left and we arrived at Room 301.

  “Ladies first,” he said sarcastically.

  I opened the door and my eyes popped out of my skull like a pug jabbed in the butt with a poker. Spaced out in rows like the most exquisite selection of gourmet chocolates imaginable, was an assortment of drop-dead gorgeous Italian men in their early twenties. I could smell the testosterone.

  “Class, this is Signora Val,” said the teacher, jarring me from my stupor. I tried to focus on just one of the future romance novel covers, but the buffet was too enticing. One luscious face after another....

  A cacophony of ciaos, salutes and, to my great surprise, cat calls rang out. The over-enthusiastic welcome sent me shriveling like a hermit crab into my shell. I was flabbergasted! I raised a limp hand and waved lamely back at the pack of fledgling Fabios. The room suddenly grew stiflingly warm. I felt a trickle of sweat run down my back.

  “Basta, enough!” yelled the plump, tired-looking woman in a too-tight dress. That seemed to be the local fashion. “Class, you already know Mr. Frank.”

  A less enthusiastic mumble of greetings emanated from the group. Frank pursed his lips, obviously ticked off. He started to say something, then stopped and stared, his mouth hung open in mid-syllable. I followed his stare.

  Marching up to the front of the room was one of the gorgeous young men, a metal chair in his hands. The dark-haired Adonis flashed me a heart-melting smile and motioned with an elegant flourish for me to sit down. When I graciously accepted, the other young men actually broke out into applause.

  Oh my word! I feel like Sophia Loren! Italy is turning out to be heaven on Earth for frump-a-dumps like me! Maybe one of these boys has a cute, single dad....

  “Okay class. Today we continue our reading assignments,” barked the weary teacher. “Marco, you start.”

  A daydream in tight Italian jeans and a pink polo shirt stood up. He cradled his book like a baby and smiled at me shyly. He looked down at his worn-out textbook and began to read aloud.

  “I haf a beard dat sanks owsigh my windoo.”

  Frank and I definitely had our work cut out for us. I smiled at the sweet, handsome kid. I guess I can find some way to suffer through it....

  AFTER LISTENING TO Frank bellyache the whole way back from class, I arrived at the Hotel Bella Vista to some good news and some bad news.

  “Signora Val, your baggage has arrived,” Antonio said with a smile.

  “Yes!”

  I jumped up and down with excitement as he went to fetch it. When he wheeled it out, my hopes sunk a little bit. It was my brown checked carry-on bag. I was going to have to wait a little longer for fresh clothes. But at least I finally had makeup and a good hairbrush.

  “Gratzie mille.” I beamed at Antonio.

  “Mi dispiache,” he said apologetically. “It is only one a small baggage.”

  “That’s okay,” I said encouragingly. “My walking shoes are in there, Antonio. And comfortable shoes are as hard to find as good friends.”

  “Va bene,” Antonio said. His worried face melted into a smile. “This I know is true!”

  I started to leave, then I remembered I had a question for him. “Antonio, what is Point Amente?”

  “Point amente? I never hear of it.”

  Antonio knitted his elegant eyebr
ows together and tapped an index finger on his chin. “Point amente. Point amente. A point amente.” His face brightened. “Ah! Appointamente! Signora Val. Appointamente is what you in America...you call a...date.”

  My stomach flopped.

  “And ocho? What does that mean?”

  “It is the number eight, of course.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Antonio.”

  I wheeled my carry-on bag across the lobby toward the elevator, my mind a mishmash of conflicting thoughts. Just like with that kid in the classroom, I’d barely understood a word Dominik had said this morning. He’d kept repeating something about Point Amente. Could he have said appointamente? I hadn’t understood him, so I’d just done the polite Southern thing and smiled and nodded amicably.

  Nodded amicably! Oh no! Had I unwittingly agreed to go on a date with Dominik tonight? At eight? No! It couldn’t be! Maybe Dominik meant he had a date with someone else at eight. What if I showed up like a stupid, third-wheel American jerk? Or what if I didn’t go? Would that be rude? What if I went and he wasn’t there? What if I went and he was there! Did he want to...Oh, crap on a cracker!

  I’d been raised Southern Baptist. It had been hardwired into me as a child that sex without marriage made Jesus cry. As an adult, I’d come to think that maybe Jesus didn’t bother himself about such things. Still, a verse drummed into me at Sunday school always popped into my mind when I least wanted it to: To flirt is fine. But to touch? Not divine!

  Dang it! Why did my guilt programming have to run so deep? I’m forty-one years old, for crying out loud!

  I was here for romance and re-creation. If I was going to have a chance at either, I was going to have to override my old software. Considering how invisible to men I’d felt over the last few years, it had been easy to avoid bumping into the issue. But since I’d been in Italy, it kept hitting me in the face like a mean clown with a cream pie. Could it really be possible that a woman like me was still attractive? Desirable? Sexy?