Peril at the Pellicano Hotel

by Adriana Licio

  Stefano, the receptionist, went to help and offered to take the tray as the woman removed her coat. Then Annika came forward.

  “Giò, you should have called me. I would have come out to the car park to help.”

  “No point in the two of us getting drenched. One’s enough.” Giò exchanged her coat for the tray. “Have they all arrived?”

  “Yes, they’re all here,” and Annika pointed to the bar. “The late comers are still in their rooms, refreshing. Or should I say, warming up a little? Whatever. In any case, I asked them to join us for a short meeting at 7pm, just before dinner. But now, come along, I can’t wait to introduce you to them.”

  Annika led Giò into the bar, where the three men were waiting.

  “This is Giò, an internationally acclaimed travel writer who’s been helping me to organise this retreat in Maratea.”

  Giò’s thin face turned pinkish. “Well, in fact, I don’t actually call myself a travel writer as I only write travel guides. I’d love to write real travel books.”

  Guido looked at the tray she was holding. “What’s this? Have you prepared a surprise for us?”

  Giò glanced around. Alberto looked like a perfect gentleman, probably a bit younger than he seemed, but definitely not her type. Simone was clearly a shy guy looking to hide in the background. And then there was Guido with his cheeky, teasing grin. He was not good-looking – not in a conventional way, at least – but…

  No, she wasn’t looking for a man. At all. It had only been six months since her partner of 10 years had ruined everything shortly before their wedding, so she was not looking for more trouble. But, just in case, she decided to take the question at face value and ignore any implicit deeper meaning.

  “These are bocconotti, a special cake made with sour cherries that is Maratea’s speciality. I thought I’d bring some for you as a welcome gift.”

  “Did you bake them yourself?”

  “In fact, I did,” Giò lied. Unfortunately, Annika, who knew all about her friend’s culinary talents – or lack thereof – let the cat out of the bag.

  “Giò’s granny is the best chef in town. She baked them for us.”

  Giò blushed. “Well, she helped me…”

  Guido guffawed, unconvinced. Annika stretched her lips in an apologetic grin.

  “Well, that was nice of you, Giò, I’m sure we will all appreciate them. Shall we have a taste now?”

  “No, Granny says they’re best after dinner,” Giò replied instinctively, turning red an instant after the words left her mouth.

  Everyone burst out laughing.

  “So, great chef, take a seat here.” Guido invited Giò to sit next to him. “Are you drinking? There’s a nice Sambuca here. I made it with my own fair hands before coming over…”

  “I don’t like Sambuca,” Giò replied. “A glass of red will do me.”

  “Red? You’re a passionate but refined type, then?”

  “They’re coming,” said Simone, pointing to the long corridor as the other four guests joined them.

  “Since we have the bar all to ourselves,” said Annika, “I’m tempted to hold our first meeting here instead of in the meeting room. After all, it will mostly be an informal chat to update each other on the progress we have made since our last meeting.”

  The guests all nodded in approval. The bar facing the rain-beaten terrace was warm and cosy, and they could sit on the sofas around a little table with their drinks. It all felt like being on holiday with close friends.

  “First of all, I want to introduce you to Giò Brando. She’s joining our group for this, our second meeting, taking the place of Margherita Durante.”

  “That hideous woman!” Erminia growled, shaking her head in disapproval, the loose skin on her neck wobbling. She patted Francesco on the back as if to protect him from an evil spirit.

  “Mother!” he begged, trying to preserve some dignity. Experience had taught him it was useless to challenge her over-developed maternal instinct, but he still made an attempt every now and again.

  “Margherita was what I call a bad mistake,” Guido agreed, nodding.

  “Well, it wasn’t Annika’s fault. How could she have known?” Simone’s voice trailed off, his freckled cheeks reddening once more, his light-blue eyes sinking in the floor.

  “None of us has ever blamed it on her,” snapped Vittoria. “But Margherita Durante was certainly the worst thing that could have happened to our group.”

  “Who was she?” Giò asked. She already knew she was taking the place of someone who had left the group, but she hadn’t known that something had gone terribly wrong with her predecessor.

  “Evil in person,” Vittoria said drily, no hint of humour in her words. And the others all silently nodded in agreement – all except for Guido, who seemed to be somewhat indifferent to the subject.

  “Well, we’re not here to speak of her.” Annika’s voice was upbeat. She always tended to look on the bright side. “I told her she had to leave the group, and we’ve found a positive replacement in Giò. She is a heck of a talented writer.”

  “And an exquisite chef, too,” Guido added mockingly.

  “Oh, please!” Giò pretended to slap him on the arm.

  Annika carried on, ignoring their little altercation. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to suggest we take it in turns to tell the others whether our writing resolutions have changed since last time, what we have achieved so far and what we are hoping to get from this meeting.”

  The room went silent.

  “Do you want me to start?” asked Annika.

  “Yes please, you’re such a natural icebreaker,” Valentina said, gently laying her head with its mass of black curls on her crossed arms. She moved as gracefully as a kitten. Annika told them how she had kept up with her resolution to spend less time on social networks and had cut down to one blog post per week, thus getting more time to write her book on ancient traditions in Western Sweden.

  “And I hope to use this week and my stay in Maratea to finish the first draft,” she concluded. “Knowing that I was to be accountable to you today has kept me focused all these months.”

  Everyone clapped their hands enthusiastically. Erminia and her son then told the group about their book on the 16th century paintings found in churches and small towns that were unknown to the tourist masses. A couple of times, Francesco tried to contribute, but the flood of words from his mother drowned him out.

  “I think Francesco should say something of his own. Please, Erminia, let him speak,” Annika said softly.

  They all looked at him expectantly.

  “Well, in fact,” he blabbered, “in fact, ahem, I think Mother said it all.”

  “Maybe you want to tell us how you organise your work. What happens after the visits? Do you take notes and use them in your books? How do you share the work between the two of you?”

  Francesco turned bright red. “Well, we don’t really split our work. We visit places together, and then she writes and I read…”

  “And at other times he writes and I read. It really depends on which one of us a particular piece of art has spoken to the most. We don’t plan things, as in ‘I’m going to write chapters 1 to 10, then he’s going to write chapters 11 to 20’. Rather, we keep exchanging pieces and thoughts, and it would be hard at the end of the process to say who’s done what.”

  Francesco nodded in relief as his mother smiled at him.

  “That’s beautiful, provided you manage to keep the right equilibrium and both of you feel their creative side has not been curtailed, but is free to come out in the final product,” Annika commented. Both mother and son assured her that was exactly how the creative process worked for them.

  “Well, that’s not always so easy when you work together,” Vittoria said. “For example, in our recent book on the Balkan countries, Valentina alerted me to the fact I was the one stirring and shaping the project.”

  “Which was not what you intended, of course,” Valentina ad
ded.

  “No, certainly. But if two people want to give a book a sense of unity, they unavoidably end up with one supplying the greater input, direction, animus, while the other follows on.”

  “And how’s this awareness going to shape your future projects?” Annika asked.

  As Simone looked at Annika, Giò spotted the admiration in his eyes. Annika could be so soft and gentle, but at the same time assertive. Hadn’t she helped Giò to find the critical issues in her own writing?

  Vittoria laughed. “We decided it was time to do some solo work beside the common project.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “We’re going to try some fiction – sweet romances and horror. Each to her own project.”

  “Can’t wait to read Valentina’s sweet romances,” Erminia said, smiling softly at the younger woman. She liked Valentina far better than her curt sister.

  “Oh no,” Valentina corrected her, “I’ll be the one writing horror stories.”

  Clapping and cheers followed her words.

  “There’s a roaring fire behind that quiet exterior,” Giò heard Guido whispering to Alberto with a meaningful wink.

  “I know,” the other replied wryly, caressing his thin moustache.

  Then came Guido’s turn to introduce his work. He started off by cracking a couple of jokes to make them all laugh.

  “I’m not good – yet – with words, so I hope you won’t mind that I brought some photos along. That’s the best way I could think of to introduce you to my project.”

  He bent down to retrieve a black carrying case from the floor beside him, extracted about a dozen A3 shots and placed them on the table. Without a hint of false modesty, he spoke.

  “As you know, apart from Giò who’s just joined us, I’m quite good at taking photographs. Almost as good as you are at baking, Giò.”

  Giò opened her mouth to protest, but no sound came out. All the others chuckled – the story of her pretending to be a great chef had reached those in the group who hadn’t been present when she’d arrived.

  “I’m sorry, Giò.” He looked at her from behind his curtain of curly red hair. “I promise, no more jokes about your bocconotti.”

  “Now go ahead, Guido,” Vittoria prompted. “What are those pictures about? They’re splendid.”

  “These are some of my Iran shots. The country, believe me, is beautiful beyond expectation. I got thousands of photos, and videos, but now I need to compile them – well a selection of them – into a book about Iran. But mostly, I need to write the text. It’s not really a story, but neither do I want something too didactic.”

  “Is that the tough part for you?” Alberto asked.

  “Yes, to the point that I’ve considered hiring someone to write it. But then again, I’ve spent such a long time in the country, I’m the only one who can write the text to accompany these pictures. For my presentation today, I’ve picked a few pictures for each chapter – one or two for each topic I want to cover.”

  One by one, he took each photograph and explained what he had found in the country that had made him think. An entertaining man, good for a laugh and a joke, Guido was serious about his work. A fire was burning behind his hazel eyes. Small head movements highlighted some of his words. He was standing up and his hands, arms, whole body moved around, at times gently, at times more energetically. Used to international audiences, where words could not always be understood, he had learned to use his body language to express his inner feelings.

  “This is Iran on a sunny winter’s day.” He was pointing to a picture of the Aladaglar rainbow mountains featuring incredible streaks of colour, from red to green, copper to purple, embraced by a soft light. Then it was the amazing frescoes and decorations of the Vank Cathedral, the artisans on them designing carpets, painting colourful plates or engraving the metal of teapots and silver cutlery. The hectic bazaar with lights coming through holes in the ceiling; the stunning red of the Allahverdi Khan Bridge, its image reflected on the waters below; mosques and palaces that seemed more like embroidered patterns than real buildings, so rich were the details of their decorations.

  Giò was enraptured by his flow of words. She had never visited Iran, but she was enjoying Guido’s stories about its hospitable people, ready to share the little they had and curious to meet foreigners and hear their views on their country. Only when he said, “And with this one I’m done,” and put all the pictures back into his folder, only when she heard the others enthusiastically clapping and congratulating him, only then did Giò face the rather uncomfortable realisation that she’d better keep her feelings in check from now on. This Guido fellow was a bit too intriguing.

  “And what do you expect from this retreat?” Annika asked, sounding as if she had enjoyed his presentation as much as Giò had.

  “I’m planning to write the whole book.”

  “Wow!”

  “Well, I won’t have much time later, so I’d better use my time here to do the best I can. And you see, it’s not a real book. I don’t need tons of text as I would for a novel. And I would love some feedback from you all during our evening meetings.”

  “Guido is referring to our habit,” Annika explained to Giò, “of presenting a piece of our writing at the end of the day and discussing it. It’s not a ‘critical review’; we just express our feelings as everyday readers would, and suggest improvements only if we really feel we have some constructive feedback to give.”

  Giò was nodding vigorously in agreement. “I’ve been in a few writers’ groups where you were meant to spot faults in someone else’s work, regardless of whether you felt your criticism was constructive. We all ended up rewriting passages that were fine as they were, leading to ugly pieces of work much worse than the originals.”

  The people around her nodded too, as if to say, “I’ve been there.”

  “That’s why I decided I’d show my work only to you guys,” Guido said. “I trust you. Well, most of you…” His gaze rested on Erminia and he gave a teasing grimace. They all laughed.

  “Awful boy, I’ve always admired your work. In fact, I’ve told Francesco he should start by gaining inspiration from pictures and photos, as you do.”

  “I was just kidding.” Guido winked at her and went to hug her as if she was his mummy as well as Francesco’s.

  “And now you, Alberto,” Annika continued as the laughter died down.

  “Most difficult to follow Guido,” he said with his gentle smile. “I think we should save him for last in future.”

  “That’s a good idea,” said Annika with a smile. “But your project is very interesting too.”

  “Well, since our first meeting, I’ve been continuing with the idea that emerged there. I’ve focused on it, made a field trip every other weekend, and I can confirm I’m writing a guide on wines produced in Piedmont, but I’m only considering family-run businesses where the quality of the product isn’t compromised by the market. Niche producers of the best quality. I’d love it to be a guide not only for experts, but for those who want to explore the region beyond its wineries. So I will include a few itineraries to allow readers to discover small villages and local traditions.”

  After Alberto had finished, Annika sent an encouraging look towards Simone. As usual, he turned red and lowered his eyes to the floor, but he spoke nonetheless.

  “Well, I’m still writing my trilogy. Last time we met, I had my first book ready to go. I published it, but then I got stuck on the second book, and frankly I haven’t done much since. But now I have an outline and plenty of ideas, and I am determined to go ahead.”

  “You had some doubts because you were writing in a completely new genre, weren’t you?”

  “Yes, this is my first trilogy in YA fantasy.”

  “And you launched your first book?” Once more, Annika tried to encourage him.

  “Yes, I did.”

  Annika shook her head. There’s no way I can get this guy to speak.

  “You had so many doubts about
that first book. I remember you had to let Alberto read it, and he encouraged you to go on.”

  “I’m very grateful to him,” Simone said in earnest. “All the credit belongs to Alberto.”

  “You’re impossible!” Annika burst out. “What Simone is finding it so difficult to tell you is that his first book was a huge success. Readers loved it and the book ended up in the Italian bestsellers list. Now, they’re all asking for a second book.”

  “Wow!” Giò cried. “That must feel awesome, Simone.”

  “In fact, I’m not too sure I can write a second book as good.” He shook his head, and Giò could tell he wasn’t putting on an act.

  “Simone is the archetype of the insecure artist.” Annika smiled at him. “He doesn’t realise how inspiring his success is for the rest of us.”

  “I’m OK, I’m just happy we’re meeting again and hope I can get some help with book two. Believe me, I don’t know who wrote that first book, and if it was me, what happened to me while I was writing it?”

  Questions and answers followed, then it was the turn of Giò, who felt a little intimidated as all eyes looked at her.

  “Well, nothing much for me, really. I’ve just finished writing an ordinary travel guide to Scotland, and you know how it is… since it’s a guide, all my personal bits will be left out. Which is a pity, as I believe it’s there, in your own impressions, encounters with people you’ve never met before, misadventures, unlikely modes of transport to places in the middle of nowhere… well, I believe that’s where the real essence of the place lies.”

  “And Giò has showed me some of the leftovers,” said Annika. “Like a man on Rannoch Moor who’d become so friendly with a deer, the animal would come to him whenever he called it while beating a pot with an iron spoon. Or how she got lost on the moor and how black it can get after sunset if you happen to linger outdoors…”

  “Well, Annika suggested I write a memoir of My Scotland. I’m not sure where I should start, but before I’m commissioned for another tourist guide, I’d love to work on my own project. For once!”