An Italian Holiday

by Maeve Haran

  Monica watched him thoughtfully. She was pretty sure that a borsanerista was a black-market profiteer.

  Thanks to this colourful incident they arrived on the quay just in time to see the hydrofoil departing for Capri without them.

  ‘Bugger!’ declared Claire, her anxiety making her uncharacteristically vehement.

  Giovanni watched her with new admiration.

  ‘Calm down, there’ll be a boat soon,’ Sylvie reassured.

  This proved inaccurate. Spring might be considered well advanced in England but not so in Italy or by the ferry line. To them it was winter and that meant no boat for two hours.

  ‘That hotel over there looks nice.’ To their horror Sylvie was pointing at the Belvedere Grand. ‘We’re supposed to be researching hotels after all.’ She began to walk purposefully towards it.

  ‘No!’ announced Monica with such forcefulness that they all stared at her, even Giovanni.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s market day.’ Monica groped blindly for a reason.

  ‘Sì, sì,’ endorsed Giovanni. ‘Is market day.’

  They all listened expectantly.

  ‘Look at me!’ Monica indicated her usual ferrets-in-a-sack appearance.

  ‘Must I?’ Sylvie asked, cutting the insult with a smile.

  ‘Exactly. I must buy new clothes.’

  ‘In Lerini market? You’d do better waiting for Capri.’

  ‘That would be beyond my budget. Besides, we’ve got two hours to kill. Come on, Sylvie, rise to the challenge! If you can decorate a room, how is decorating me any different?’

  Sylvie refrained from arguing, merely giving Monica a pained look.

  ‘I’ll help,’ offered Claire.

  The thought of Claire giving sartorial advice to anyone galvanized Sylvie.

  ‘All right, then, you’re on,’ she agreed. ‘Come on, Giovanni, where’s this market?’

  For once Giovanni proved surprisingly coy. Clearly, Monica guessed, he didn’t want to elicit any more reactions like that of the old man in the pickup truck.

  Instead, he indicated the area towards the small beach.

  They wandered past rows of stalls, under cheerful green-and-white-striped umbrellas selling everything from shoes and kitchen utensils to fish and fabrics. Sylvie halted at a pair of fluffy mules on the shoe stall. ‘Actually, I rather like those. Very Italian housewife entertaining handsome gigolos while hubby’s at work.’

  ‘Sylvie,’ reminded Claire sternly. ‘Back to Monica.’

  With a sigh Sylvie progressed through the chattering crowds, past men holding espressos, and women pushing buggies and hoping the tiny occupants would stay asleep while they enjoyed the exuberant atmosphere of the weekly open-air bazaar.

  Sylvie led them past the fruit and veg stall, stopping amazed at a stall that sold entire men’s suits. And then a shift dress caught her eye, hanging from an awning next to the shoe stall. It was patterned in a bold combination of black, white and tan, with a dash of dusty pink in an attractive art deco-ish design.

  ‘That’s possible,’ she announced suddenly, pointing to the dress.

  ‘Sì, signora.’ The stallholder had it down in a flash. ‘Try on?’ she asked, this time in English. ‘Lady try on?’

  Sylvie pushed Monica into the tiny cubicle, which was sectioned off by a tablecloth from the leering interest of Lerini’s male population.

  Monica slipped on the dress and stayed hidden in the cubicle. This was so not her style.

  ‘Come on, Monica, be brave!’ instructed Sylvie. ‘I’m not wasting my time otherwise. You’ve got to wear the bloody thing in public anyway so there’s no point skulking in there!’

  They were all surprised at the sight of Monica in the art deco dress.

  ‘My God, you’ve got a figure!’ announced Sylvie.

  ‘It’s probably the dress,’ protested Monica.

  ‘Stop it now, it’s you, not the dress.’ She felt up Monica’s arms. ‘You haven’t even got bingo wings!’ she announced enviously.

  ‘I used to swim a lot,’ Monica countered, her tone almost apologetic, ‘before I lost my job at the university.’

  ‘Well, it certainly worked. I have to keep my arms covered. Now let’s have a look and see what else there is.’ Starting to enjoy herself, Sylvie hunted through the circular racks and pulled out two more dresses and a pair of tailored cotton trousers. ‘We’ll take these,’ she announced to the delighted stallholder.

  ‘Oughtn’t I to try them on?’

  ‘My dear Monica, I am famous for furnishing an entire room at a single glance. I can tell what will fit you. How much is that, signora?’

  When she heard the reply Sylvie almost had to sit down. ‘But that’s incredible!’

  ‘Is there a problem? Do you want me to put it back?’ Monica asked, reaching for the zip.

  ‘I think she’s staggered it’s so cheap,’ whispered Claire and they both began to laugh.

  ‘Sandals, scarves, jewellery,’ announced Sylvie decisively.

  Claire and Monica followed the phenomenon that was Sylvie through the rest of the market.

  They picked up two pairs of sandals – one brown, one gold – both flat and with toe posts. When Monica tried to protest that she didn’t like toe posts, Sylvie ignored her.

  ‘You have to suffer to be beautiful, as the French say.’

  ‘I think I’m a bit old for that,’ protested Monica mildly.

  ‘Then buy yourself some trainers.’ Sylvie swept on. She had spotted some large plastic necklaces which, although they looked cheap on the rack, somehow looked expensive when worn with the dress.

  ‘She really can do it, can’t she?’ Claire commented admiringly.

  ‘You’re not the one with the toe-post sandals,’ whispered Monica. ‘It’s not beauty I’m suffering for, it’s Sylvie’s marriage.’

  But Sylvie had stopped as if turned to marble just a few feet ahead of them.

  ‘It’s a miracle!’ she announced in a hushed and fervent tone.

  Monica and Claire studied her apprehensively. Had she really witnessed some religious manifestation as Bernadette had at Lourdes? Would she become St Sylvie of Lerini?

  They tried to follow the path of her gaze but could only see a glamorous middle-aged woman selling shoes from a trestle table.

  ‘How old do you think she is?’ Sylvie whispered.

  Monica and Claire shook their heads, wondering if they ought to get Sylvie to sit down.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Claire guessed. ‘Fifty? Maybe even sixty?’

  ‘Look again. At the hands. I would say she’s seventy.’

  ‘So what’s the miracle?’

  Sylvie turned to the others in amazement as if water had been turned into wine in front of them and they hadn’t even noticed.

  ‘Her hair, of course! It’s a complete masterpiece!’

  They both studied the stallholder’s shoulder-length hair. It was indeed very attractive, but hardly miraculous.

  ‘Look closer. It must be grey and yet it is the most natural brown I have ever seen, and see those strands of gold? No junior with pieces of foil has been near those – they are as realistic as if she were a golden-haired child! It’s amazing!’

  By this time the owner of the miraculous hair had begun to notice that she was the object of their awed attention.

  ‘Signora!’ Sylvie stepped forward. ‘May I congratulate you? Your hair is the most beautiful I have ever seen!’ The signora bowed, as if used to this kind of compliment to her crowning glory and considered it only her due.

  ‘Where can I find the artist who has created a thing of such consummate beauty?’

  The stallholder turned round and pointed to a slightly down-at-heel hairdresser. The kind that offered pensioners perms on a Tuesday for cut prices.

  ‘Monica,’ Sylvie announced, still surrounded by the kind of glow that would have made simple peasants believe in Bernadette’s visitation by the Blessed Virgin, ‘follow me. You are going to g
et your hair done.’

  ‘But . . .’ Monica protested nervously. ‘What about Capri?’

  ‘Capri can wait.’

  ‘Besides, I really can’t afford it. I usually cut my own.’

  ‘Exactly,’ agreed Sylvie. ‘I will pay.’

  Monica considered mutiny. Wasn’t this another example of her own wishes being overridden, as her mother had done so often? And then it struck her that her mother had never suggested anything that might be remotely to Monica’s advantage.

  She glanced again at the signora’s miraculous hairstyle and followed Sylvie into the humble hairdressing salon.

  Despite Monica’s fluent Italian it took Sylvie almost fifteen minutes with many gestures, finally fetching the stallholder herself, to demonstrate exactly what she wanted Monica’s hair to be like.

  ‘Ladies, please,’ the hairdresser announced imperiously. ‘Leave now! I cannot create with so many people in my salon!’

  Sylvie was greatly miffed when the signora shooed her out along with the rest. ‘There is very nice restaurant next door.’ The shop owner pointed deep into the catacombs. ‘Tell them Rosmarina send you.’

  ‘It’s probably where they took the Christians to fatten them up for slaughter in the good old days,’ murmured Claire.

  ‘Or it’s run by her nephew or second cousin.’

  The name of Rosmarina certainly seemed to do the trick. ‘How long you have?’ asked the smiling cook. ‘Wash and blow dry or cut and colore?’

  ‘I’m not sure what it’s called,’ Monica translated. ‘Hair like the lady who runs the shoe stall in the market.’

  ‘Ah, Silvia,’ she nodded. ‘Riflessi dorati. Golden highlights. This will take due ore. Two hours.’

  ‘Well, we’ve learned the Italian for highlights,’ Claire giggled. ‘Look, she’s brought us a drink.’

  ‘Is my own limoncello, but I make it not so strong and mix with soda. Is very nice.’

  They sipped it doubtfully but actually it was refreshing and delicious.

  ‘Here is menu.’ A small plate of amuse-bouches, tiny octopus dipped in tempura, had arrived. They were absolutely delectable.

  ‘Wow, this place is quite a find.’ Claire hoped it would take the full two hours to keep Sylvie away from any temptations of popping into the Belvedere Grand. At least this was hardly the kind of restaurant Tony and Kimberley would seek out for lunch.

  And more fool them, Claire and Sylvie discovered, as course after tempting course was produced from what seemed to be a hole in the wall. More of the burrata they were getting to recognize, followed by a saffron-scented mussel soup and then the best seafood risotto either of them had ever tasted. Claire was about to comment that Italians don’t really do puddings apart from the universal tiramisu and zabaglione when a plate of passion fruit sorbet arrived, decorated with chocolate strands, like the net that came with chocolate money at Christmas.

  They finished with tiny cups of eye-wateringly strong espresso and little almond biscuits.

  Sylvie looked at her watch. ‘Better go and look at how the miracle’s progressing.’

  The owner handed them a ridiculously small bill which they loaded with a hefty tip. ‘Thank you so much. It was wonderful!’

  But not as wonderful as the sight that awaited them at the hairdresser’s. The owner had used the ten minutes or so since she’d finished Monica’s hair to add some make-up.

  She whipped off the hairdresser’s gown to reveal Monica in her new shift dress and necklace, subtly made up complete with amazing hair. Somehow in the space of two hours she had managed to make Monica not only elegant and soignée, but also slightly Italian. The effect was startling.

  ‘My God, you’ve turned into the other Monica – Monica Bellucci! Any minute, they’ll be asking you to be a Bond girl.’

  ‘I do hope not.’ Monica grinned. ‘I volunteer once a week in the library so I’d have to turn them down.’

  ‘Please don’t change from that Monica.’ Claire embraced her. ‘I would be disappointed in you!’

  On the other hand, she couldn’t help enjoying the stunned expression with which Giovanni greeted Monica. It bordered on reverence, as if some holy transformation really had taken place in the hairdresser’s.

  ‘Watch out, he’ll kiss your hem any minute,’ whispered Claire.

  The ultimate accolade was that he drove them back to the villa at a careful thirty miles an hour, even forgetting to overtake a tourist bus on the inside.

  ‘Wow,’ congratulated Sylvie. ‘St Monica, patron saint of careful driving.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have many followers in this country,’ Monica pointed out as a motorbike streaked past them with total disregard for the thousand-foot ravine beneath.

  An even more glowing reaction awaited them at the villa. Beatrice and Immaculata clutched each other and Angela whistled softly as she got out of her seat on the terrace where she seemed to be entertaining a strange man wearing a Russian fur hat, despite the twenty-five-degree heat.

  When he stood up to greet them, they noted that the rest of his outlandish outfit consisted of a rather expensive-looking floor-length trench coat, tied at the waist, with large pockets, from one of which peeped a bright-eyed furry white head.

  ‘Monica, Claire, Sylvie, may I introduce Constantine O’Flaherty?’

  Sylvie had known about their celebrated and reclusive next-door-neighbour from her ex-assistant Alessandro, but neither Claire nor Monica knew they were living next door to one of the most celebrated and eccentric living painters.

  ‘And this is . . . ?’ Monica asked, indicating the dog as she shook the old man’s hand.

  ‘Hetti. It’s short for her full name, Spaghetti. She’s a Bolognese,’ he stated.

  Further questions seemed somehow not to be expected.

  ‘The naughty girl ran away and was discovered by your gardener.’ He pointed to Luigi, who crossed himself as soon as he found himself being indicated by Constantine. ‘Signor Luigi does not approve of those of the homosexual persuasion. I fear he thinks the condition may be contagious.’

  ‘He needn’t worry about Giovanni,’ Claire giggled.

  ‘Who is Giovanni?’ Constantine glanced around hopefully.

  ‘He is the under-gardener. Rampantly heterosexual.’

  ‘If he is under the gardener, perhaps there is hope for him yet, though looking at Luigi, I fear the worst.’

  ‘Do you live here permanently?’ Sylvie asked, trying to remember colour supplement articles she must have read about him.

  ‘Yes. Once I found my eagle’s nest,’ he pointed through the trees to his extraordinary house which seemed to be built right into the cliff face thousands of feet above the sea, ‘near civilization yet far away from it, I immediately purchased it. The outback without the drawbacks, you might say.’

  ‘And do you have a studio there?’

  ‘Indeed. I am very modern, like a robot making Renaults. I have created a production line of my work and now I only have to fill in the outlines to keep me going for the rest of my life.’

  When he made a statement like this it was hard to tell whether Constantine was serious or winding his audience up for asking blindingly banal questions.

  He smiled at Sylvie with what seemed like genuine humour. ‘I have a reputation to live up to for being disconcerting,’ he announced.

  ‘Congratulations,’ Monica replied, fast as a whip, ‘you’re doing very well.’

  ‘Hetti got lost in the gardens and Constantine came to look for her,’ explained Angela. ‘Fortunately, Beatrice had the idea of putting out some chicken livers which did the trick.’

  ‘I’m surprised you don’t have people to cook for your dog,’ Monica commented.

  ‘Oh, I do. I felt like a stroll. And to see the four English ladies I have heard so much about. You are the talk of Lanzarella, my dears.’

  ‘But we hardly ever go there,’ protested Claire.

  ‘Exactly. They wonder what you are all doing up here in your hill
top fastness. And, of course, the mysterious Stephen too.’

  ‘He isn’t here.’

  Constantine took a sip of his Franciacorta. ‘Precisely. He’s rarely here, which pricks the curiosity of the locals.’

  They all looked at each other. Instinctively, they felt they shouldn’t be telling their intriguing neighbour that Stephen was assessing the potential of Le Sirenuse as a hotel.

  ‘Of course everyone in the village knows of the interesting offer he has received.’

  ‘What offer is that?’ Angela asked with a sphinx-like smile. Beatrice certainly hadn’t known.

  ‘To create yet another luxury hostelry.’ He stroked Hetti’s head. ‘Just what Lanzarella needs.’

  ‘And quite annoying for you,’ suggested Monica. ‘If it were true, that is.’

  ‘Ah quite, and I hear you are all with us for quite different reasons, to nurse broken hearts and bruised egos. And to soak up our restorative sun.’

  ‘How do you know so much about us?’ Claire challenged.

  ‘Calm down, I promise I am really not interested. I find things out because I dislike not knowing, not because I wish to know them to gossip or make use of them. Can you appreciate the difference?’

  ‘Knowledge is power?’ asked Claire.

  ‘No, not at all.’

  ‘Knowledge is protection?’ enquired Monica.

  ‘Smart girl.’

  ‘So could I extend the welcome and visit you in return?’ Monica asked, knowing she was pushing her luck. ‘I’ve always thought art was overrated.’

  This was such a lie that they stared at her, but Constantine O’Flaherty laughed so loud the dog almost jumped out of his pocket. ‘It would be churlish of me to refuse.’

  ‘Has that held you back before?’

  ‘No.’ He laughed again. ‘I rather think I might enjoy your company. Monica, isn’t it? An invitation will arrive forthwith. Thank you all, and I’m sorry if my dog caused you any inconvenience.’

  As he ambled off down the path at the side of the house and disappeared into the scrubby holm oak wood, Claire commented, ‘I bet you he let the dog out deliberately.’

  ‘Of course he did.’ Monica grinned. ‘He’s quite outrageously dishonest and deceitful.’