Rosamanti

by Noelle Clark

  “Castello Barbarossa. Cinque minuti.” He cut the motor and opened the door. One young man who had been standing at the bus stop, climbed aboard and sat down. Taking advantage of the brief stop, Sarah stood and, taking her camera out of her bag, indicated to the driver that she wanted to take a photo.

  “Si, signora.”

  She walked to the rear of the bus and looked down at Marina Grande and the rugged coastline of the northern edge of the island. Her camera clicked as she took snaps. But the most amazing sight was higher up on the ridge behind her. She had caught a glimpse of Castella Barbarossa as they rounded the bend, just before stopping. She knew from her guide book, that this castle was built by the infamous pirate Barbarossa when he invaded Capri back in the 16th century. She took photos from several angles, then took a few minutes to examine the castle’s round Byzantine towers, rising high, silhouetted against the dark blue sky. The sharp toot of the bus’s horn and the roar of the engine as it kicked into life, made her jump. She quickly jumped back on board and found her seat.

  Craning her neck as they started back on the journey, she tried to absorb as much of the amazing view as she could. The road was much flatter now, and within about fifteen minutes, they entered an area filled with homes and hotels. The bus stopped again, the driver shouting, “Piazza Vittoria,” and everyone alighted. She was last off.

  Clutching her straw basket and putting her hat firmly on her head, she wandered through the charming laneways of the town center, exploring the piazza that opened out into small squares with surprising frequency. Cobblestone pavements, covered with square tables dressed in white tablecloths, sat outside cafés and restaurants, beckoning customers with their aromas and colorful décor. She strolled languidly past attractive shop windows dressed with handmade leather sandals, cute clothing shops, and hats. Local ceramics, bearing the traditional colors of blue and yellow, beckoned her. Inside, she idly wandered among the quaint and serviceable ceramics. Plates and tableware, painted with masses of yellow sunflowers on blue backgrounds, drew her attention. In one shop, she found a ceramic goat, not unlike Geraldina, but painted in exquisite yellow flowers intertwined with greenery, and views of the blue sea in the background.

  “Quanto costa?” she asked, indicating the goat statue.

  The shop assistant wrapped it safely in white tissue paper and placed it in a small carry bag. Pleased with her purchase, she moved from shop to shop, stopping to explore the unique wares. She saw stores that only sold limoncello. Entering one, the shop owner greeted her with a tiny tasting glass, asking her to try the lovely liquid. Having only had it once, Sarah happily agreed. Once more astounded by the kick, she smiled and looked around her as she sipped the smooth drink. Everything for sale in the shop was yellow. It looked sunny, warm and bright. Back outside in the narrow lane, fruit and vegetable carts overflowed with gorgeously fresh produce. Hanging from the roof of the cart, ropes of dried chilies—dangling like children’s sweets in shiny colors of red, yellow, orange, green and purple—looked like decorations rather than ingredients. Ropes of garlic bulbs, and festoons of onions, hung from hooks. Large bunches of beautiful yellow bananas, looking very inviting, reminded her of home, where every backyard had banana trees growing.

  Hours passed happily in this quaint, attractive, and friendly little town. She stopped at a little pavement trattoria for some bruschetta and a glass of wine. Later, she stopped at a café for coffee and some lemon cake—a dry madeira style cake dusted with icing sugar. She must ask Pietro how to make this. Thoughts of Pietro made her heart leap in her chest. It had been nearly forty-eight hours since she had spoken to him. She smiled to herself, shaking her head, and wondered where her resolve to embark on a solo, hermit, isolated, twelve month sojourn, had gone. Life certainly brings some surprises, she thought.

  She walked leisurely back to the bus stop in the piazza. On impulse, instead of going straight to Capri township, she boarded the bus down to Marina Grande. She thought that Pietro should be back from Naples by now. Maybe she could hitch a ride back to Rosamanti on the Vespa. With a smile so wide that she felt her eyes crinkling at the corners, she relaxed on the bus, and again let her eyes feast on the raw and rugged beauty of the island of Capri. The color blue dominated everything—blue sky, blue sea—making the perfect backdrop to the light grey limestone cliffs, the dark green of the stunted Mediterranean pines, and the tall cypress pines that grew up on Lo Capo. As the bus descended the steep ridge, it once again passed olive groves, the sage green and silver leaves complementing the bright, shiny green lemon trees, dotted with luminous yellow fruit. Paradise, she thought. It was just like the Garden of Eden.

  Soon the bus arrived at Marina Grande. Day-trippers lined up along the floating pontoon to buy tickets to the Blue Grotto. A long queue of people, waiting to board the funicular, hummed with conversation as they stood, fanning themselves with their hats. Patiently waiting to enter the little funicular station, they were at the mercy of the harsh sun and the heat reflecting from the pavement in the portside square. Alighting the bus, Sarah donned her hat and walked toward Zia Maria’s restaurant, over near where the fishing boats rested on coarse sand that looked like crushed shells. As she got near, Maria came out and, seeing Sarah, rushed over and hugged her, kissing both cheeks.

  “Ciao, bella! Great to see you!” Her exuberant welcome took Sarah by surprise, but she was beginning to get used to the warmth of everyday greetings in this country. So unlike the Australians, who were much more reserved.

  Sarah hugged her back. “Ciao, Zia Maria.”

  “You want some lunch? Maybe some wine—some coffee?”

  Shaking her head, Sarah smiled back. “Not this time. I was wondering if Pietro was still here.”

  “Allora. No, he is already gone. He went up to Rosamanti an hour ago.” She raised her eyebrows and cocked her head to one side. “I think perhaps that he went to see you?”

  Sarah tried hard to hide her disappointment.

  “It’s no problem. I was just out shopping and thought I’d pop in.” If Zia Maria believes that, she thought, she’d believe anything.

  “I’ll just finish my shopping then catch the funicular up to La Piazzetta. I don’t have much to carry today.” She beamed at the formidable Zia Maria, who seemed able to read you from the inside out, her unwavering gaze unnerving. After a moment, Maria nodded her head, seemingly satisfied.

  “Okay, but you come for lunch tomorrow, si? Domani. I wait for you.” Maria looked past Sarah and bellowed a welcome to two possible patrons. Competition for business was fierce on the island, so touting for diners was an art form. Luckily, thought Sarah, not too many people would be game to say no to Zia Maria.

  She walked back along the quay, idly looking into shops. Suddenly, all the joy of window shopping had left her. A strong urge to get home to Rosamanti drew her in the direction of the funicular. The queue looked even longer. Taxi drivers, chatting in the shade of a large tree, noticed her.

  “Signora! Signora! Taxi!”

  Her haste to see Pietro got the better of her.

  “Quanto?”

  “Cinque Euro.” He held up his hand, five fingers spread. A squabble broke out among the idle taxi drivers. Not wanting to become embroiled in an argument about which one got the fare, she nodded to the smiling driver.

  “Si. Cinque Euro.” Knowing it was much cheaper for locals, she shrugged her shoulders and allowed the driver to guide her to his open top, bright yellow taxi. A flimsy blue and white striped canvas roof protected her from the fierce sun.

  The drive up to Capri was just as hair-raising as it had been that afternoon on the back of Pietro’s Vespa. She found it much better for her nerves to not look out the front windscreen and tried to concentrate on the view which she doubted she would ever get tired of. The car sped through the single-lane road at frightening speed. The driver had one hand on his horn, beeping almost constantly, arguing with bus drivers and other vehicles over right of way. She wished she was wearing a seatbe
lt, but couldn’t find one. She wondered if he was a wannabe Formula 1 driver. Within what seemed like minutes, the driver pulled into the taxi bay near the bus station. With shaking hands, she gave him five Euro. His pathetic face told her she was mean for not tipping. Under her breath, she murmured, “Get over it. You nearly killed me.”

  She set off through the maze of little laneways, flanked by startlingly white stucco walls. Sometimes the walls met overhead, providing a cool, shady corridor through which to meander. As she emerged into a wider, cobblestoned lane, the sun once again beat down on her. Masses of purple and hot-pink bougainvillea, set against the stark white walls, lifted her mood. A row of bicycles stood close together, their backs against a wall. The sign outside the small shop caught her eye.

  Biciclette elettriche in vendita.

  She stared at it, frowning, as her mind worked through the machinations of translation.

  “Ciao, signora. You want to see the bikes?” A man—who looked to be well into old age—smiled at her, his shock of white hair shining in the bright sunlight as he stood in the doorstep.

  “Si. Thanks.”

  He pulled a bright red one out from the line of bikes and stood it up on its stand. He reached into his back pocket and he took out a wrench, then loosed the bolt to drop the seat height. Sarah inspected this curious looking bicycle. It was more like a moped, but had pedals and a chain to drive the back wheel.

  The old man took out a bunch of keys and inserted one into an ignition hole. Twisting the right hand grip, a motor hummed, sending the back wheel revolving around all on its own. She looked at his deeply wrinkled face, his big toothy grin widening even further.

  “Electric, signora. When you want to, you can pedal. On hills, you sit and relax.” He shrugged, his hands spread out. “Easy.”

  Sarah inspected the shiny little bike. She loved the little basket on the handlebars. It had a headlight and another carry tray behind the saddle.

  “Look.” He turned on the light and pressed a little button on the handlebars. “Very necessary to have horn in Italy, signora.”

  Sarah laughed at the high-pitched beep and nodded her head. “Si.”

  She had been thinking about getting a bicycle, but the hilly terrain would make it too hard—even for a mountain bike. This was the cutest, most appropriate bike. This way she’d get some exercise when she wanted to, whereas with a moped or Vespa, she’d get none.

  “Which hotel are you staying at, signora?”

  “No hotel. I’m in Signora Lombardi’s villa—Rosamanti.”

  His face changed—softened. Lifting one hand, he made a sign of the cross, touching his finger tips to his forehead, his chest, then crossing from one side to the other.

  “You take it now. Try it, and if you like it, you bring me the money. Si?”

  “But you don’t know me. You don’t even know my name.”

  She was astonished to see his eyes well with tears. “Signora Lombardi was my friend. When you get to my age, signora, you learn whom to trust.” He looked deeply into her eyes. “I trust you—and besides—I know now that you are the new girlfriend of Pietro. Si?” His grin returned as he winked at her.

  For a moment, Sarah couldn’t speak.

  “Signor. I would be honored to try out the little bicycle.” She placed a hand on his arm. “Thank you.”

  “Luigi.” He held out his gnarled and bony hand to shake. Grasping it, she let out an unsteady laugh.

  “I’m Sarah.”

  He handed her the key, showed her how to use the hand brakes at the same time as the foot brake, and helped her on. His hand clapped her shoulder.

  “Andare! Go!”

  When she took off, she wobbled wildly, but as the little bike picked up speed, she handled it much better. She rode carefully, but once out of the narrow laneways and heading up the hill toward Lo Capo, her hair flew in the breeze. She marveled at how quiet the little bike was, just a quiet hum, and when she wasn’t peddling, it was totally silent.

  Entering the lane to Rosamanti, she lost her nerve. “Oh my God! What if I can’t stop!” The villa loomed before her, and Pietro’s old, pale blue Vespa stood in its usual spot under the wisteria arch. She braked too hard, the back wheel locking. The bike slid in the gravel. With her heart pounding, she quickly put both feet down onto the ground as she came to a complete, yet violent, stop.

  She heard someone clapping. Looking up, she saw Pietro grinning at her.

  “Don’t just stand there! Help me off this bloody thing.” She was shaking all over.

  A strong arm wrapped around her.

  “OK, I’ve got you. I’m holding the bike. You swing your legs through there.” He nodded at the step through area. Shakily, she climbed off. Pietro easily lifted the shiny red bike up onto its rear stand. Then he turned to her and wrapped her in his arms, hugging her tightly.

  “Ah, you’re still shaking. I think you did well. How brave is my girl?”

  “I can’t believe I went from being in bliss, riding along like a pro, and then could hardly stop.” She was breathless from fright. “I forgot to stop gradually. Luigi told me to pull on the front and rear brakes together.”

  “Luigi?”

  “Yes, the old man at the bike shop. He said I could take it and try it first.” She shuddered. “And I very nearly crashed it on my maiden voyage.”

  He pulled his head back and looked into her face. “So, you have won over Luigi. High praise, bella.”

  “I didn’t ask him. He sort of insisted. Said he was a friend of Nonna’s.”

  “Yes.” His voice was tender. “I am touched that so many people were Nonna’s friend.” He glanced down at the ground. When he looked up, she saw his eyes were moist. “Forgive me, bella, but it is still so soon since I lost Nonna. I am still—in mourning.”

  Sarah put both her palms on his cheeks and kissed him on the lips. “I know.”

  He cleared his throat. “Well, let me look at your new wheels!” He ran a hand over the glittering red paintwork, played with the horn, and looked at the battery under the seat. “What a racy bike. Did you enjoy riding it?”

  Her laugh rang out across the little courtyard.

  “I loved it. Oh, except for having to stop.”

  His big booming chuckle made her laugh even more. He put an arm across her shoulders, and together they went inside to the cool of the kitchen. No sooner were they in the door, than Pietro took her in his arms and kissed her fervently.

  “I am so happy to see you again.” His eyes twinkled. “Did you miss me?”

  “Not at all. I barely realized you had gone.” Her eyebrows rose, and she lifted her chin. “I was too busy to miss you.” She flung her shoulder length hair, trying hard to appear cool.

  “Really?”

  “Most certainly.”

  “And today? You didn’t miss me today?”

  “Hey, I was flat out all day. I even took a bus to Anacapri.”

  “Oh, I know.”

  She turned to face him, the game was heating up.

  “You can’t possibly know, you were in Naples.”

  “Allora. That is so very true, bella. I was in Napoli.”

  So, round one to me then,” she said smugly, a triumphant smile breaking across her face.

  He let out a big sigh. “Si, you win.” He looked dejected. “So I won’t bother to tell you about how you got off the bus at Castella Barbarossa and took photos, and how you had to hurry to get back on before it took off. I won’t need to tell you that you ate lemon cake at Café Lisa—with a glass of limoncello. And I certainly will not even mention that you missed me so much that you went down to Marina Grande looking for me.”

  Her eyes widened and she drew in a big breath.

  “You rat! You cheated. Who told you, eh?” Attempting a rugby crash tackle, she went to grab him, only managing to trip over one of the cats, who let out a loud meow, causing Pietro to break into uncontrollable laughter.

  His merriment was contagious. He fell to the floo
r with a crash. Still holding her tight, he lay flat on his back on the slate tiles. A tangle of arms and legs, she ended up straddled across him awkwardly, jammed between the legs of the solid wooden table and the combustion stove. Together they laughed until they cried, still holding each other, their faces close. Eventually, the amusement settled, but Sarah felt the happiness increase.

  “Bella, I missed you.” His whisper was barely audible, his black eyes burning with fervor.

  Their lips met hungrily. Passion-fuelled kisses blazed like a fire between them. Pietro’s strong arms held her so tightly she thought she wouldn’t be able to breathe, but she didn’t want to stop. He dipped his tongue into her mouth, seeking hers. She touched hers to his, her head feeling dizzy at the sheer pleasure. He cupped her ass with firm hands. They slid upward to her waist, then underneath her T-shirt. Effortlessly, he undid her bra strap, and his hands slipped around and inside her bra, releasing her breasts. She let out a small yelp of pleasure as he rubbed her nipples with his thumbs. She swore she could see smoke coming from his dark eyes. Reaching down, she grabbed the hem of her T-shirt, pulling it quickly over her head. She slipped her bra off both arms and threw it. He fondled her breasts, caressed them.

  She kissed him enthusiastically, enjoying the feel of his hands on her breasts. She ran her hands through his thick hair, then kissed his neck. Grabbing the collar of his shirt with both hands, she tugged, popping the buttons—one by one—in her quest to get to his chest. Ripping it open, she revealed his muscular torso and ran her hands through the soft, silky, black hair covering his chest. She moaned as his mouth found her breasts, sucking her nipples, his hardness throbbing beneath her as she sat on his lap.