“Ooowww!” the man popped to the surface with such force, he rocked the kayak in the opposite direction, causing it to take on more water. “Are you trying to scalp me, too?” he screamed.
Iris was flooded with relief at the sound of his voice. Let him insult her and curse her and even sink her if he wanted. Anything, sweet Jesus, as long as he didn’t drown! The man then gripped the side of the kayak, steadying both of them. At least he had the strength to hang on, that was a good sign. As she stared down at him, trying to get a better look at the wound, the man cocked his head up at her, and their eyes locked. She leaned slightly to one side, so that her body would shield his face from the sun’s glare. He blinked once, slowly, as if his vision were blurred, and when he reopened his eyes, the orange glaze was gone. If it weren’t for the fact that the man must be in pain, she might have mistaken the glimmer in his warm brown eyes for a flicker of recognition, or a glint of amusement, or even - as absurd as that may be - a twinkle of admiration.
Though she knew she should immediately find a way to transport the man to safety, all she could do was stare at him staring at her, and wonder why he looked so familiar. Maybe it was the classic shape of the man’s head that gave her that impression; she could picture such a head on the statue of a Greek or Roman god. But marble didn’t split open that easily, she thought, panicking again at the sight of blood gushing from the long gash on the man’s forehead.
“Oh Lord, what have I done?” she cried, cupping a hand over her mouth, realizing that her oar had missed his eye by no more than an inch. She could have easily blinded him; no doubt that would be only one of the many accusations he would flail at her once they were back on land and he recovered from his shock.
“Does it hurt?” she asked, afraid of his answer. She wondered whether he was one of those macho types who actually enjoyed brandishing injuries but never admitted to pain, or one of those who blew any form of suffering way out of proportion whenever he saw the opportunity to squeeze some extra attention out of a woman.
“Not really,” the man said, still treading water with his legs and holding onto the kayak with his left hand, as he splashed seawater over the gash with his right. “It just stings like hell.” Of course it did; and he’d be sure to feel more pain later, when a nice bump and bruise settled in over the cut.
He probably couldn’t wait to scream and rant at her, but some male instinct was probably advising him to wait. After all, she was in the more powerful position, bobbing safely above him in her kayak and armed with a deadly oar, while he was in the more vulnerable position, injured and dogpaddling in deep water. The thought of what he might say to her later made her want to row away as fast as she could.
“Why don’t you hang on there?” she said, annoyed at the tremor in her hand when she pointed to the handle at the aft of the kayak. “And I’ll row you to shore.”
“No offense,” the man said. “But I’d rather swim.” His lips parted, revealing a gap between his two front teeth. The hint of a smile made her wonder whether she had been too quick to cast him in the role of the menacing male; he was far more believable as a little boy who loved splashing around in the water, and had simply wandered too far from shore. Again, she was struck with a feeling of familiarity, as if she had known him back when he was a child. He was probably around her age, and they might have known each other, had they grown up in the same place. But they hadn’t, that much she was sure of.
“But you’re in no shape to swim!” Iris said.
“I doubt my swimming could be any worse than your kayaking.”
“I’m not that bad!” Iris said. Of course she wasn’t; expert kayakers clobbered swimmers on the head all the time.
“No, I’m sure you’re not bad at all,” the man said, looking up at her. His irises were hazelnut, with flecks of dark chocolate. Oddly, she had felt more sure of herself before, when the eyes were glossed over by the sun.
“Seriously, I can pull you,” she said, wondering whether she actually could. “You just have to hang on.”
The man smiled again, shook his head. “Really. I’ll swim,” he said.
“I’ll follow you then, to make sure you’re all right.”
The man nodded, then set off without another word, the muscles in his back and shoulders rippling as his arms cut through the water with strong, even strokes. She wondered how much effort it cost him to swim like that in his condition, and whether he was just doing it to impress her. Part of her was irritated at the display, but another part wished she could ditch the kayak and jump into the water with him. She felt cumbersome in her kayak as she began paddling again, but soon overcame the resistance of the water, and found herself gliding - at a safe distance - behind the first victim of the new, improved Iris.
If she hadn’t been so upset by the accident and so worried about the anger and insults she still may have to endure once the man was safely ashore, she would have sat back and congratulated herself on the successful completion of her challenge. She would have delighted in the golden rays of the setting sun warming her wet back and bathing the tall, multicolored houses clustered along Camogli’s seafront in a glowing mélange of pinks and oranges and yellows. Instead, Iris kept her apprehensive gaze trained on the man as he stepped out of the water; he had swum well, regardless of what he wanted to prove, and seemed to be steady on his feet. Seeing him in such good shape was encouraging; she’d soon be able to rush home for a sorely needed glass of wine and a hot shower, then she could try and put the incident behind her. But first she had the duty to make sure the man didn’t need any assistance. After all, she did slice his forehead open with her paddle. She landed her kayak by the rental kiosk, grabbed her backpack, and made a dash across the pebbly beach toward him in her bathing suit, her sandals dangling from her hand.
“Hey!” she called, slightly short of breath, wincing from the discomfort of hopping barefooted over the stones.
The man was holding a towel to his head, blotting his cut. Water dripped from his hair, which curled into soft black locks around his square-jawed face. Spotting Iris as she approached, he raised his hands in front of his face. “Hold it right there!” he said.
“Don’t worry, I come in peace.” Iris opened her arms, dropping her backpack and sandals. “How’s your head?” The man was a few inches taller than her, forcing her to crane her neck and stand on tiptoes for a closer look. “It’s still bleeding,” she said. “You might need stitches. Can I take you to the hospital?” She had never driven a passenger on her Vespa, let alone an injured one. What if he started swooning and swaying behind her, and caused them both to fall?
“You’re quite the Florence Nightingale, aren’t you?” he said with a laugh, revealing that little space between his front teeth again as he slung his bloodied towel over his shoulder.
“No!” Iris blurted out. Was it that obvious? Had she changed so little despite all her months of trying break old habits? “I mean, what kind of person would just leave without making sure you’re OK?”
“I’ll be fine, don’t worry,” he said, dropping his towel and bending over to pick up a black T-shirt from a small pile of neatly stacked garments. His balance seemed quite good, but Iris was distracted from making further clinical assessments when he raised his arms over his head to put on his T-shirt. She had just enough time to admire his well-formed chest and taut abdomen, when his head popped through the opening. It was still bleeding. She unzipped her backpack and took out her towel.
“May I?” she asked, pressing the towel to the cut on his head.
“Ouch,” he said, wincing, then fell silent. After a moment, he waved her away. “Thanks.”
“It’s the least I could do,” she said.
“So, your accent tells me East Coast,” he said. “Did you kayak all the way across the Atlantic? You were traveling at a pretty fast clip.”
“No,” Iris smiled, relieved. Apparently, he was going to spare her the insults. “The kayak was only mine for an hour. I live here.”
She waved her hand in the general direction of the hill beyond which lay her hidden valley. She was curious to know why he spoke such good English, too. “And how about you?”
“I always have a hard time saying where I’m from. But I live in Italy, too. Most of the time, anyway. Sometimes Milan, when I have to, but preferably by the sea.”
Iris nodded. She understood completely; she disliked it when her job forced her to spend more than a day in any city. She was curious about his accent, but didn’t want to sound nosy. “I can tell you didn’t learn English in Milan, though.” By not phrasing it as a question, she would leave him free to drop the subject or volunteer whatever information he felt like sharing.
“My father was born in Chile, my mother in Australia, both children of Italian immigrants married to locals. They met in New York.”
“Amazing! What were the odds of that happening?” Iris said.
“Quite a long shot,” the man said, smiling. “About as likely as me colliding with an American at the helm of a kayak in the Mediterranean.”
“I’d say.” Iris laughed, slowly shaking her head. “By the way, I’m Iris.”
“I’m Martin,” the man said, holding out his hand.
“Nice to meet you,” Iris said, extending hers. “Nicer than before, I mean.” He nodded slowly, clasping her hand a few seconds longer than necessary.
“You know, Iris,” he said. “I can’t shake this feeling that we’ve met before.”
“You mean before the catastrophe at sea?”
“Yes, way before that.”
She felt the same way, too. So much so, that she felt a pang of loss when he finally released her hand. Iris could already imagine herself telling Lily about this strange encounter; she could already hear Lily scolding her for being intrigued by such a stupid line. (“Geez, Iris! ‘Haven’t we met before?’ How original, really!”) But the fact was, this man, this Martin, did not seem a stranger at all. Except for the fact that he quite obviously was.
“Well, I think we would have remembered each other,” Iris said, before her imagination could start weaving fabric from material that wasn’t there.
“Sure, and I don’t suppose I can trust my memory right now, anyway,” he said. “Maybe I just need another whack on the head.” He looked at her with disarming directness, but there was nothing at all in his gaze that would make her categorize him as the type of man who undressed women with his eyes. She had become all too expert at reading that expression in the past. Here she saw subtlety in the directness; curiosity, intelligence. Still Iris blushed, suddenly feeling too naked in her bikini.
“So, you’re sure you’ll be OK?” she asked, knotting her towel around her waist, somehow not minding that it was stained with his blood. She wondered whether she was insured for accidents like this, but couldn’t imagine what kind of policy she would need to have. She cringed to think what might have happened if she had whacked a lawsuit-happy American tourist instead. Still, she felt she should give him her telephone number, so he could call her in case he suffered complications. She worried how she could offer the information, without him taking it the wrong way.
“I’m sure,” he said. “How about you?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, out there on the water, you sounded rather, let me see, how should I phrase this ...?” He paused, raising the thick, arched brows that gave his face a permanent look of surprise. “Intense, I think is the word I’m looking for. Who were you screaming at?”
“Oh, that,” Iris said, the heat in her cheeks flaring. “I was just talking to myself.” She looked down at her bare feet plastered with pebbles, wondering why they refused to walk her away.
“I hope you’re a good listener.” He smiled again.
“Yeah, I’m learning.” The compelling need to do or say something else anchored her in place. But what? She looked up at him and said, “Anyway, it’s Capotosti.”
“What is?”
“My name. Just in case, I don’t know, if that injury turns out to be serious. Iris Capotosti. I’m in the phone book.” There, it was done; if he wanted to claim any damages, he could find her. Now that she had appeased her conscience, at least in part, she really couldn’t justify standing there any longer. She raised her hand in an awkward wave, smiled politely, and said, “Ciao, then.”
“Ciao, Iris Capotosti,” he said, as she turned and dragged her heavy feet away. She glanced over her shoulder, just once, and saw he still stood facing her, with his back to the sea, his solid shape silhouetted by the setting sun.
“How could I be so dense!” Iris repeated aloud, slapping her forehead with the heel of her hand. Always encouraged by her presence in the kitchen, the cats observed her from their post on the threshold, tails wrapped around their paws, as she set a pot of water on the stove. A gentle breeze billowed the filmy white curtain hanging across the open doorway, one minute hiding the cats from view, the next exposing them.
It wasn’t until she had emptied out her backpack the previous evening after returning from her kayaking adventure that Iris made the connection. The book had landed face down on the table, with the author’s photograph on the back cover staring straight up at her. The same dark, curly hair, the same arched eyebrows, the same look of intelligent curiosity and amusement. “Martin Casagrande!” she had gasped. “That’s who you are!” All that evening, she had repeated the name over and over again, to the cats, to herself; silently, aloud, in a whisper. The man she had clobbered over the head with her paddle was a writer! Iris had never read any of his novels before, but had just recently started Navigazione a vista, a book recommended to her by Beatrix.
Spurred by curiosity now that she had met, and nearly killed, the author, Iris had read into the wee hours of the night, not stopping until she reached the back cover. Closing the book, she had studied his photograph again. The eyes seemed a shade darker and deeper than she recalled, but were illuminated by the same mixture of directness and curiosity she had noticed out on the water. Looking into those eyes, she decided that this was no typical male author, this was an uncommonly sensitive man who had a deep understanding of others, and a remarkable ability to interpret the thoughts and feelings of women. Iris felt as though he had dipped his pen into her soul, and scribbled her sentiments across the pages in the form of words. If only she had read the book before meeting him, she would have not been so wary; she would not have heaped upon his battered head the sins of the men who had hurt her.
She was trying to conjure up the image of his smile, trying to decide whether she would define it more as friendly, or amused, when she was summoned back to the present by the cymbal clash of the steel lid vibrating over the pot of boiling water. She drizzled a bit more olive oil into the mortar, working it into the bright green blend of basil and garlic and pine nuts and cheese. She dropped a few handfuls of trofie into the pot, uncorked a bottle of Rossese di Dolceacqua, fed the cats, drained the pasta, and dressed it with a generous dollop of pesto. She carried her dinner out to the garden, and sat at the table she had fashioned from the old wooden door she had replaced, and set on a pair of sawhorses left behind by the Albanian handyman she had hired by the hour to plaster some cracks and help her paint. She lit herself a candle, and looked around the garden contentedly as she savored her food and sipped her wine, wishing she could share the moment with Lily. Iris had talked to her recently about the possibility of visiting, and for the first time, instead of changing the subject, Lily had laughed, and said Iris had better be on the lookout, because she had already a suitcase.
As Iris ate, she reflected on how she had risked allowing the unfortunate incident at the end of her kayaking adventure to compromise the entire experience. She thought back on the rest of the journey, leading up to that moment when she had been paddling bravely back to Camogli, and realized that the hour she had spent alone in the kayak was comprised of many moments, each with its own significance, each offering its own revelations. She made an effort to isolate her feelings o
f guilt for injuring an unsuspecting swimmer, and grasp the importance of what she had done. She had been perfectly capable of piloting the kayak, once she detached herself from her previous perceptions of Iris, and released her grip on the fear of things she could not see. She knew she must have more faith in her abilities, and truly embrace the concept that her only real limitations were those she set herself. Only by letting go of what was behind her, would she be able to face what lay ahead; only by distancing herself from the safety of familiar shores would she be able to embark on new adventures.
Yet try as she may, Iris could not isolate her sense of accomplishment from images of the blood trickling down Martin Casagrande’s face, which had immediately triggered in her feelings of guilt, even though once he recovered from his shock, the man had not been in the least concerned with placing the blame on her. Perhaps the character given to her at birth and forged in the kiln of her childhood could not be changed. She might have to accept that she would suffer from bouts of fear and guilt and insecurity throughout her life. But she had no doubt that Lily’s three simple words of advice, the same ones she had yelled out to herself at sea, should be her most trusted guide: Just be Iris. And perhaps the key to interpreting the sensations and revelations that had come to her out there on the water, was to stop trying to separate the paddle-whacking incident from the rest of the experience; to accept it as one of its organic elements.
Iris sealed the thought with a sip of wine, then rose to bring her empty plate inside. The cats, having licked their bowls clean, paused their postprandial ablutions in mid-action to observe her as she pushed aside the curtain and went through the doorway, then came out again a moment later with the old ukulele she had brought to Italy after Auntie Rosa’s death. She couldn’t see herself ever playing in front of strangers again, as in the old luau days, but enjoyed her after-dinner habit of playing for the cats, who seemed to appreciate, or at least tolerate, Hawaiian music. She walked back down the stairs to the garden, inhaling the night air heavy with the scents of jasmine and honeysuckle and pittosporum. She sometimes wished the plants would bloom at different times of the year so the inebriating scents would be spread over a longer span, but also knew their simultaneous explosion was what made spring so magical.
The Complete Series Page 145