Peril at the Pellicano Hotel

by Adriana Licio

  The group clapped their hands, stamped their feet, Guido whistled, and even Francesco hoorayed loudly – looking to Erminia for approval first.

  “Do you think this hotel is only here for you?” an angry voice shouted from the corridor.

  Startled, they all turned. A sturdy woman in her late sixties stood in the doorway, her square face lined with deep wrinkles around her eyes and lips and crossing her cheeks.

  “I do apologise,” Annika cried in dismay. “We thought we were the only guests in the hotel.”

  “Well, as it happens, you aren’t.”

  “As I said, I apologise. On the other hand, it’s not yet 8pm and this is a bar, so I wouldn’t expect total silence…”

  “I know already how this is going to end up, with all of you getting drunk and shouting and vomiting throughout the night.”

  “My boy would never do such a thing,” Erminia growled.

  “Do you mean that pudding-head beside you? Well wasn’t he whistling loudly just now? As soon as his mummy goes to sleep, he’ll be turning to the most dishonourable activities. I know his kind: well-behaved Mama’s boy in the morning and drugged-up hooligan in the evening.”

  Before Erminia could let fly at the woman, Annika intervened again.

  “You’re totally mistaken. We’re a group of authors, and we’ve come here for a writing retreat. We won’t be up late into the night for the simple reason we’ve got lots of work to do during the day. Besides…”

  Annika was cut short by the woman’s incredulous question.

  “Authors? You? And what’s your publishing house?”

  “We’re all indie authors.”

  “Indie what?”

  “Independent authors.”

  “You mean self-published rubbish. You’re the ones dumping all sorts of junk on the market – things a publishing house would never bother with; a rejected and frustrated lot stealing money from unsuspecting readers.”

  “How dare you!” Vittoria cried.

  “As someone with a career of 40+ years in real writing, yes I do dare to say what I think of you useless scribblers. But be warned: at the first hint of noise, I won’t hesitate to call the police.”

  “There are no police in Maratea,” Giò said, grinning.

  “There are always police, even in a forgotten little backwater such as this.”

  “No police, just carabinieri.”

  “Then I won’t hesitate to call the carabinieri, or the fire brigade, or whoever is in charge of the damned place as soon as I see you crawling drunkenly across the floor.” With that, she turned her back on them and walked through the corridor, supporting herself with a stick. They heard her addressing the receptionist.

  “How can you tolerate the noise those people are making, not respecting the peace of the other guests? I’m going to write an awful review on TripAdvisor.”

  “But Mrs Galli, it’s only 8pm, and they are in the bar. We took care to place you as far from the bar as possible – you certainly wouldn’t have been disturbed in your room.”

  “But they’re staying in the same wing as I am, and I won’t tolerate any noise.”

  “Curfew starts at 11pm, but I’m sure they will be quiet and peaceful long before then.”

  “With those dishonest faces? I expect it will be a long night. I wish you had told me when I booked that I would be sharing a roof with a bunch of drunks.”

  “I don’t think…”

  “I don’t care what you think. All I hope is that you will finally serve my dinner. It’s a disgrace that the restaurant doesn’t open till 8pm.”

  “I feel for you, Giovanni,” whispered Stefano as she hobbled off towards the restaurant, thinking of the waiter who would soon be attending to her.

  3

  Alamut

  Having been pushed along the alleys of Maratea by strong gusts of wind, unable to keep her umbrella open, Agnese Brando, Gio’s older sister, was very happy to reach her shop. Opening the heavy wooden shutters was difficult as the wind was constantly pushing them closed again, and she had to hold her bag as well as the useless umbrella. Her rather plump figure wasn’t much help, either, when she had to get down on her knees to keep hold of everything, but somehow she finally managed to get in.

  She massaged her frozen hands and decided she would not bother to put the rattan sofa outside, as was her habit on sunny days. It would be at risk of flying away, along with the outdoor decorations.

  I don’t expect many customers will be coming in today anyway. Should I do some bookkeeping?

  This was not her favourite task, but it had to be done, and the quiet shop would allow her to get it finished. She sighed, made sure all the lights were on, switched on the radio for company, wiped the counters with a cloth and cleaning spray, swept the floors, and then met her gaze in the mirror.

  You can’t put it off any longer, can you?

  She glanced around. For once, everything looked tidy and in its proper place – no new stock; no jewellery to arrange…

  Come on, Agnese, let’s make this as pleasant as possible, she thought. Filling the kettle with hot water, she then took her time choosing a candle. She lit it – Fig Tree by Dyptique, so cosy – and inhaled the refreshing perfume, conjuring up visions of greenery and early summer.

  Fetching lemon and ginger for her tea, she was ready. She took a huge pile of invoices and started to enter details and numbers on the computer. Barely 10 minutes had passed before the door opened and a drenched figure staggered into the shop. As she removed her hood, Agnese recognised the slightly overweight figure and short pixie haircut with side bangs, the eyeliner and blue eyeshadow enhancing expressive brown eyes. Angelica had been a customer of hers for a long time.

  “Thank goodness you’re open!” the woman said, searching for an umbrella stand. “I’m sorry I’ve made such a mess.” She pointed at the streaks of water on the floor.

  “Hello, Angelica, and don’t you worry. I always say that if the floor stays clean for too long, it’s not a good sign for my shop.”

  The woman flashed her a big smile and her embarrassment faded away. “That’s a nice way to put it.”

  “You’re drenched, such a pity we should be having this kind of weather in April.” Agnese thought about her sister. Poor Giò was feeling awful as guests were coming from all over Italy for a writers’ retreat and had been expecting sunny days, walks on the beach, coffee breaks by the swimming pool. “So how are you? I haven’t seen you for a while.”

  “Isn’t it strange how it’s possible not to bump into each other for so long in a small place like Maratea?”

  Agnese nodded. “I guess it’s something to do with our daily routines. For me, it’s home-shop-home, and having two kids, I seem to find little time for anything else.”

  “Routine, you’re right. That’s exactly what’s killing me.”

  Angelica’s tone was so distraught that Agnese didn’t think this was general chit-chat. Having learned to stay silent at times like this, she tilted her head to reassure the woman in front of her that all her attention was on her and she’d be happy to listen.

  “Don’t you think life in Maratea is very dull?” Angelica’s generous cheeks puffed out as she heaved a melancholy sigh. “There’s no excitement, no new things to discover, just one dreary day after another.”

  “It certainly is a small town…”

  “It’s not only that. I can speak to you openly because you’ve never been like them, but I do feel a lot of people here are too jealous or petty. There’s never anything good going on, anything to look forward to. Does it make sense to live one’s life wishing the days away?”

  “I confess,” Agnese smiled, “that days seem to fly by for me. It seems only a short time ago I was cuddling Luca as a tiny baby in my arms, and now he’s taller than me.”

  “Oh, I know, it’s different when you have kids. I didn’t mind it so much when Lidia and Nicola were with me, but now they’ve left for university, these last two years have made
me wonder if I’ve totally messed up my life…”

  “Is something wrong between you and Rolando?”

  The woman sighed heavily again. “You noticed that too?”

  Agnese hadn’t noticed anything at all. She hadn’t seen Rolando for ages, either, but when a wife is as deeply dissatisfied as Angelica, the first question to ask is generally how her married life is going. Again, Agnese opted for silence.

  “Mind you, I feel rather guilty. Rolando’s a good man, and I do feel affection for him, but to him it’s no problem if our life goes on as it is for another 25 years. He’s such an… how should I put it? Such an unambitious, contented man. He works his office hours, collects DVD and cinema magazines. He takes me to the cinema most Saturdays and for lunch on Sunday at his favourite restaurant. A week in Sardinia in the summer, and another one in the Alps in winter. And that’s exactly what my life will look like for the next 30 years.”

  And with that, she burst into quiet sobbing.

  “Oh, you poor love.” Agnese reached out and gently stroked her back.

  “He doesn’t realise how important it is to give meaning to one’s life, to do things. When we got married, he insisted we’d live in Maratea as he had been offered a job here. And I’ve spent the best years of my life in this dreadful place.”

  “It’s not that dreadful!” Agnese wouldn’t want to live anywhere else.

  “How can you say that? We could be living in Rome – there’s so much going on there. People dress up, go to theatres, cinemas, film festivals. There’s always something new, one must feel more connected to real life living there.”

  Agnese wondered what Angelica meant by real life. But maybe it was better to start with the smaller things.

  “I’m sure you can persuade Rolando to spend a weekend in Rome every now and then. Nando and I do that; at times, it’s nice to visit cities and see what’s going on in the wider world. I understand that. Here in Maratea, we’re a bit protected from the great waves of change.”

  “Not protected, we’re suffocated. And the people? They’re so banal. They never ask the big questions about life, never strive to do their best. They’re just mediocre and satisfied.”

  “I think people are the same wherever you go,” Agnese spoke as if to herself. “I don’t think places affect people – inwardly, I mean. And most people living in cities wouldn’t have time to fit the big questions into their frantic daily lives. Possibly less so than people here.”

  “Oh no, Agnese, you’re wrong. There’s a different level of sensitivity in the city – so many exhibitions, places where people can meet. And I’m fed up with my colleagues at the post office, they’re happy to just gossip about each other. That’s all they care about.”

  “Have you shared how you feel with Rolando?”

  “I tried, but he doesn’t understand. He thinks it’s just a whim. He’s not aware of my needs, nor does he care.”

  Agnese looked outside. The rain was still rattling furiously against the glass door. It was unlikely another customer would turn up as long as it continued.

  “There’s only one way I know of to help you.”

  “And what’s that?” Angelica said after blowing her nose loudly into a handkerchief Agnese had handed her.

  “I’ll give you a perfume session to discover the right fragrance for you now. That will help you see what you’re meant to do.”

  “That’s lovely.” Angelica smiled all of a sudden, as happy as a kid in a sweet shop. “I knew you were the only person in this stupid town I could talk to.”

  Agnese reached for the ‘Back Soon’ sign on the door, switched on a lamp in an alcove that contained an ebony counter and invited Angelica to sit in front of her. She then opened a drawer next to her legs and, one by one, carefully selected eight different candles.

  “Please smell each one of these and choose your favourite. Don’t overthink it, just concentrate on which one resonates the most with how you feel today.”

  “This is so exciting, Agnese. Are you like a Tarot card reader, but with perfumes?”

  Agnese shook her head with a soft smile. “No Tarot, and no chatting, please. Just concentrate on each perfume.”

  Angelica smelled every single candle. With a shake of the head, she pushed away a few she didn’t like, then concentrated on the three that were left.

  “This one.” She finally pointed to a powdery amber-scented candle with touches of burnt labdanum. “It’s so comforting and conjures up the beauty of an Oriental night, telling stories around a campfire.”

  Agnese nodded, took all the candles away, and placed on the desk eight bottles, each one containing a different perfume accord. She dipped a thin paper strip, or touche, in each one and asked Angelica to smell them carefully and make her choice. By this time, the woman was so absorbed with what was going on that she didn’t even try to speak. With one hand cupping her pretty, chubby face, she smelled each paper strip, her perfectly made-up eyes closed to concentrate on the scent, then she made her choice without any hesitation.

  “Definitely this one.”

  “A mix of flowers: osmanthus, rose and jasmine.”

  “That must be a secret garden,” Angelica said, her long lashes batting over her dark eyes in excitement.

  This woman does not lack imagination, Agnese thought. Selecting eight new bottles, she had Angelica make her third choice. This time, she chose the cosy, resinous essence of benzoin.

  “You’re definitely in love with the Orient,” Agnese said.

  “Indeed, I wish I could live the One Thousand and One Nights,” Angelica joked.

  “We’ll see what the essences think of your choices,” said Agnese, searching through a pile of cardboard tables for the one representing the Oriental family. On one side of the card, a number of perfumes were listed, but she turned it face down so that she and Angelica could no longer read the names.

  “What now?” Angelica cried, clasping her hands.

  “You’ve made your choices, now we have to see what Chance suggests for you.” Agnese handed her a red and gold spinning top. “It’s up to you,” she encouraged her.

  “Oh my, how exciting.” Angelica’s fingers gave the wooden top an energetic twist. It spun across the table in a frenzied rush, moving to the right, then to the left, then it flickered as if undecided, and finally it stopped. Agnese pinned the position and turned the table face up.

  “Alamut! That’s just too perfect for you.”

  “Alamut? What kind of word is that?”

  “It’s not a word, nor a name; it’s a whole universe,” Agnese said as she crossed over to one of her cabinets on the other side of the shop. She came back with a hexagonal red bottle.

  “How pretty!”

  “Close your eyes and hold out your wrist.”

  Agnese sprayed Angelica’s wrist with two gentle jets, then sprayed more of the perfume in the air, creating a little cloud of essence just above the woman’s head. As the essence reached her nostrils, Angelica recognised it.

  “That’s the One Thousand and One Nights!” And she opened her eyes, almost wondering if Agnese’s shop had turned into a sultanate.

  “This is a beautiful creation by Lorenzo Villoresi, called Alamut after a place he visited in Iran. Everything he smelled there – in magic gardens, harsh mountains and night camps – is captured in this perfume. You may want to use it any time you feel a little low.”

  “You’re a magician! Thanks so much, Agnese.”

  Angelica paid, declined Agnese’s offer of a bag and put the precious bottle of perfume directly into her own bag, which had dried a little from the rain. Encasing Agnese in her plump arms, she hugged her in gratitude, then left the shop.

  Agnese sniffed the cloud of perfume Angelica had left behind.

  Not too sure what difference a perfume can make, other than cheering her up, but it definitely smelled good on her.

  4

  The Party-Pooper

  “Let’s go in with our hands over our mouths
and not speak a word, just keep looking at her,” Guido suggested to the group on the threshold of the restaurant. But Mrs Galli didn’t even raise her eyes from the book she was reading. The waiter, Giovanni, signalled for them to follow him to the other side of the room, as far away as possible from the older woman, and sit next to a table where two other guests were seated.

  “I hope they will be nicer than her, or we’d be better off having dinner in our rooms,” Vittoria said.

  “Dr Siringa,” Giò said, recognising one of the two men sitting at the table.

  “Hello, Giò, how are you doing?” The man stood up. “Are you one of the few brave enough to come out in this awful weather?”

  “In actual fact, I’m staying here for the next week, taking part in a writers’ retreat.”

  “How lovely! May I introduce you to a colleague of mine? Dr Lorenzo Gimondi is the MD – medical doctor – in Capitello.”

  Giò and the doctor shook hands, and he gave her a half-smile.

  “How are patients in your neck of the woods?” Giò asked courteously. Capitello was a village a few kilometres away from Maratea.

  “Better than they would have me believe,” the man muttered, the sarcasm glittering in his eyes. Just then, the waiter came over with two dishes of spaghetti and seafood.

  “I’d better leave you to enjoy your dinner. It’s been a pleasure,” Giò said, nodding towards the piping hot dishes.

  When she returned to her companions, they were standing, looking out at the sea below the large arched windows. Outside lamps illuminated the dark mass of water, rolling violently below them.

  “I didn’t realise the restaurant would be just above the sea,” Simone said.

  “In fact, it isn’t,” Giò explained. “Normally you’d see a path amongst the rocks, leading to the Anginarra Beach on the other side of the hotel. But the stormy sea has devoured it all; the beaches have disappeared under the waves. It’s impressive.”

  They stood silently, listening to the howling wind and the waves crashing against the rocks and walls.