by Jen Carter
I leaned into Stella, looking at the scrapbook page she had opened to. On the left, Mom had pasted two postcards. The top one pictured a stunning view of Vernazza from somewhere high above the village. The second one was turned over and covered with Mom’s handwriting.
“We love this place,” I read aloud. “It’s beautiful, just the way I’ve always imagined an Italian village would look. Little apartments nestled into the coastline, no cars, great wine.”
At that, Holly lifted her cup again and interjected, “I agree, thanks to our new best friend, Nico.”
I continued reading. “Our first day here, we explored the nooks and crannies of this quaint town and then relaxed on the pier. The water is colder than I expected, but that didn’t stop Marco from jumping off the rocks into the sea.”
On the right, Mom had placed two pictures of Dad standing shirtless atop a massive black rock. His 1980s-style bathing suit was shorter and tighter than more-modern suits, and the pink shade didn’t make it look particularly manly. His wavy black hair had been slicked back by water, and he flexed his muscles as though in triumph—a different pose in each photo.
“Imagine Dad jumping off rocks into the Ligurian Sea,” I said. “I bet Mom was biting her nails the whole time.”
“I would, too,” Stella said. “He was so clumsy. She was probably just hoping he wouldn’t fall off the rocks while climbing them—and that was before he even jumped into the water.”
She flipped the page to a collage of pictures, all featuring different views of the sea and hillsides filled with grapevines. Mom and Dad were in a couple of the pictures, but most were just landscapes.
“Our second day, we hiked the trail between all five villages,” Holly read. “Next time, I’m bringing more water and better shoes!”
“Does anyone want to do the hike tomorrow?” I asked.
“No,” Stella and Holly said together.
“Then what are we going to do?” I asked. “We only have today and tomorrow here. Don’t you want to see more of Cinque Terre?”
“Sure,” Stella said. “But I’d rather take the train between villages.”
“We can split up,” Holly said. “You can hike, and we can ride the train so we don’t end up sweaty and tired.”
Maybe the cat sleeping next to the bench would want to come with me.
Stella flipped to the back of the scrapbook where she had pinned the once-hidden paper with CP numbers on it. “Has anyone given more thought to this?” She pointed to the first long number.
I shook my head. I had meant to do some research on CP before we came, but I kept putting it off. And honestly, I didn’t know how to phrase the search terms. If Google didn’t recognize the CP number to begin with, what kind of question could I ask to help Google figure it out? I had no idea.
“Now that we’re here, maybe we could ask someone,” Holly said. “But before that, who wants some focaccia to go with our honeymoon wine?”
***
We spent the next two hours eating, drinking, and exploring. In between some of the colorful buildings were steep, narrow staircases leading to all kinds of secret treasures. Well, by secret treasures, I meant visual secret treasures. From high up, there were breathtaking views of the Santa Margherita di Antiochia Church, the Doria Castle tower where villagers watched for pirates hundreds of years ago, and the terraced hillsides where grapes and olives grew. Stella acted as our tour guide, giving us the name and history of each treasure, and I couldn’t be happier. Churches and pirates and grapevines, oh my. What could be better?
When the time came, we meandered back down to Nico’s wine shop. A teeny, tiny bit of me felt a surge of happiness when I saw him behind the bar rather than Andrea, whoever she might have been, since it gave us a chance to thank him again. Not because he looked like an Italian soccer player and had a wonderfully easy-going demeanor. He had saved me from what would have certainly turned into hours of bickering between Stella and Holly as we tried to find another place to stay, so he was my hero.
But really, those eyes and that smile didn’t hurt.
And, actually, him being there gave us the opportunity to ask an intelligent English speaker about the CP number.
Nico didn’t know what it meant, but it had been worth a shot.
Vincenzo was back at the bar, so we also had the opportunity to ask an unintelligent English speaker about the CP number. His only response was a grunt. But again, worth a shot.
After retrieving our luggage from behind the bar, we wandered outside and waited for Nico’s neighbor. She was there within a minute, exactly on time.
“Ah, my girls,” the tall, thin woman with long black hair said as she approached us with a smile and opened arms. “You have braids, you have a funny ponytail, and you have big earrings. You must be the Americans who need a place to stay, yes?”
“Yes, please,” Holly said. “You’re Nico’s neighbor?”
“I am Paola, yes. And this is perfect timing. My last group left just this morning.” She leaned past us and looked into the wine shop. “Ciao, Nico,” she said, waving to our new best friend. When she straightened up, she said to us, “Come, I will show you the apartment.” With that, she turned and began moving upstream toward the train station. “You will have one bedroom and a living room. There is a couch that turns into a bed. And there is a small kitchen.”
“Perfect!” Holly said. “Jill, you get the pull-out. You steal covers and kick in your sleep.”
I was more than fine with that. I liked having my own bed.
We followed Paola up one of the nearly-hidden stairways between buildings. Up, up, up we climbed the steep, uneven steps, snaking right and left and right and left. I had no idea how we would remember the way to the apartment later. I was so concerned with not tripping over the steep steps that I barely had any attention to spare. Hopefully Stella was paying attention. She might not have wanted to hike with me tomorrow, but she was a gazelle—light on her feet and more graceful than any human should be. She should have had plenty of attention to spare. Holly, on the other hand, probably wouldn’t remember where the place was, but that was because she was so out of shape that she couldn’t keep up in the first place. Her short legs and overall ambivalence didn’t help either.
Finally, what seemed like ten minutes later, Paola stopped outside a green door and pulled a key ring from her pocket.
“Here we are,” she sang, smiling at the keys and shuffling through them.
“Where does Nico live?” I asked.
Paola glanced up and pointed to an orange door across the pathway. “There. Alone. Well, not alone at first.” Her head bobbed from side to side as she considered her own words, eyes still on her key ring. “But alone now. Oh, I talk too much. Ah! Here is the right one.” She turned the long bronze key in the lock and pushed the door open. Walking inside the apartment, she asked, “Is it good?”
We followed her in and turned around and around, taking in the room.
Was it good?
Uh, yeah.
Lots of windows to let the light in, a comfortable-looking gray couch in the living room, marble counters in the little kitchen, and an entirely separate back bedroom—it was more than good.
“This is great,” Stella said. “Thank you so much. What do we owe you?” She and Paola wandered toward the little kitchen to talk money as Holly and I dropped our backpacks and looked around the bedroom and living area more closely. I was sort of sad to think we only had two nights there. I could have moved in forever.
After making my rounds through the apartment, I collapsed on the couch and listened to Stella talking to Paola about logistics. Well, sort of listening. I closed my eyes and half-listened while half-dreaming about living there forever.
But then my eyes snapped wide open when I heard Stella say, “Oh, before you go, can I ask you a question? We’re trying to figure out what this number might mean.”
I sat up and looked toward the kitchen where Stella was showing Paola the honeymoo
n scrapbook. Stella was so smart. I didn’t think about asking Paola if she’d know what the number meant. Nico was American and Vincenzo was an idiot—but Paola sounded like a full-fledged Italian who carried on conversations like a non-idiotic person. She certainly might understand what things like CP meant.
Paola leaned over the scrapbook and studied the paper clipped to the back cover. “Ah yes,” she said. “It’s the post. A post box. The old way to call a post box.” She looked from the scrapbook to Stella. “For, you know, letters. Mail.”
Stella smiled at Paola. “Thank you so much. And can you tell us where the post office is here?”
“Go up past the train station and just keep walking. There is only one road. You will see the post office in one or two minutes of walking.”
Stella continued smiling. “You’ve been a lifesaver.”
“Please let me know if you need anything.” Paola crossed the apartment toward the door, waving to me on the way. I waved back.
As Paola closed the door behind her, Holly emerged from the back bedroom. “Did I hear that right?” she said. “Mom had the number of a post office box written down in her scrapbook? Why would Mom have a post office box in Vernazza?”
I thought about the other CP numbers on the paper Mom had hidden in the scrapbook cover. “And why would she have one in Florence?” I added. “Or in Rome?”
“I doubt she still has this box,” Stella said. “Mom and Dad were here nearly thirty years ago. Why would anyone have a post office box that long—and in a foreign country?”
Neither Holly nor I responded. Stella was right. It sounded absurd.
“And,” Stella continued, “if she still had that box, how could we possibly get into it? We don’t have the key. How could we identify ourselves as the heirs to a post office box?”
Holly plopped down on the couch next to me. “I guess our second Italian adventure is already upon us. Let’s unpack and then find the post office.”
SEVEN
Ten minutes later, we picked our way down the stone staircases, careful not to lose balance on the uneven steps. I wanted to stop and take pictures of the beautiful potted plants accenting doorways and sweet little cats curled up in nooks and crannies, but Stella was on a mission back down to the main street, and if I didn’t keep up, I’d surely get lost.
Once Stella leapt off the last step onto Via Roma, she made a sharp turn toward the train station. I was right behind her, but a pair of hazel eyes across the way stopped me in my tracks.
Nico was standing in front of a gelateria, chatting with a couple enjoying cones piled high with chocolate gelato. I made a mental note to suggest stopping by the gelateria on our way back from the post office. I could use a sweet treat.
“Hey, honeymooners,” he called to us. “How did Paola’s place work out for you?”
Stella heard Nico and turned to backtrack. Holly was still trailing down the stairs. That left me to answer. I dodged tourists while crossing the walkway toward him. “It’s great,” I said. “Thanks for putting us in contact with her.”
“Glad it worked out. Going exploring now?”
Stella appeared at my side. “Yes,” she answered. “We’re going to find the post office.”
Nico’s eyebrows furrowed, but he smiled. “Not the first place tourists typically explore in Vernazza, but you’ll get to see a part of town most people don’t. I’m headed that way myself. I’m going to the bank.” He held up the cloth envelope with a zipper top that had been tucked under his arm. “I’ll walk with you.” He said goodbye to the couple eating gelato just as Holly caught up, and the four of us walked up the road toward the train station. Stella took the lead.
“So, are you mailing some postcards back home already?” Nico asked.
“Not exactly,” Holly said, a step behind me and Nico. “Do you want the long version or the short version?”
“We have about five minutes before reaching the post office,” Nico said. “You decide.”
“All right,” Holly continued. “Steel yourself for some intensity.”
“My mind is ready to be blown,” he said.
“So here it is,” Holly said. “Our parents died five years ago in a boating accident. We don’t know what happened, but they’re gone, and it’s terrible. Life shattering. But we found a scrapbook of their honeymoon in Italy, and we decided instead of mourning the five-year anniversary of their deaths, we’d come here and celebrate their lives.”
I was focused on the road ahead of me, watching for pedestrians and making sure I didn’t run into them. But in my peripheral vision, I saw Nico’s head turn toward me at the mention of Mom and Dad’s death.
Heat crept up the back of my neck. I looked down at my feet.
“Anyway,” Holly continued, “in the scrapbook we found some numbers that started with CP. We showed them to you, remember? You weren’t sure what they meant, but your neighbor Paola said they were the old way to write post office box numbers. So now we’re heading to the post office to find out if there’s a record of our parents having a post office box there. Hey, you know what? Maybe you can help. This is a small town. Do you know the people who run the post office?”
I could still feel Nico’s eyes on me.
“I do,” he said slowly.
“Oh Holly, good idea,” Stella said. She looked over her shoulder toward Nico. “Holly can speak Italian pretty well and could probably explain this to the post office staff, but we don’t know if the box even still exists. The whole story sounds crazy, but maybe if you explain it to them—vouch for us, you know—it’ll seem less crazy.”
The heat creeping up my neck started moving faster. My sisters were so dumb.
“Why would he want to do that?” I said. I didn’t mean to talk about Nico as though he weren’t there, but there really wasn’t any other way to point out the errors in my sisters’ thinking. “He can’t vouch for us not being crazy because we clearly seem crazy. We showed up at his shop before noon ready to drink wine, Holly jumped at the chance to bunk with a stranger, and now we’re chasing down a thirty-year-old post office box. None of that is normal behavior.”
Nico laughed. “Believe it or not, you three are some of the more-normal tourists I’ve come across lately. Let’s try the post office and see what happens.”
The heat seemed to recede down my neck, just a bit. That is, until Holly said, “Yeah, Jill. Don’t be so pessimistic. We’re totally normal tourists with dead parents who have post office boxes in a foreign country. Come on.”
She was so annoying.
We walked in silence for a moment before Nico said, “I’m sorry to hear about your parents.”
Another moment of silence passed.
“Thanks,” I said.
As we passed under the train tracks, Nico pointed to the left and lengthened his step to take the lead. “There’s where we’re going.” My sisters and I followed him up the curving road toward a building I never would have expected behind the train station. I sort of figured that the train station was the town’s starting point, but there were plenty of buildings behind it.
We walked inside the post office.
“Ciao, Nico,” said the man standing behind the counter. Like Nico, he reminded me of an Italian soccer player—though unlike Nico, his hair was thick and needed to be cut.
“Ciao, Pietro.” The room was entirely empty, and Nico approached the counter speaking in rapid Italian. I didn’t understand anything he said, and I knew Stella didn’t either. Holly boasted that she spoke perfect Italian, and I had no reason to doubt her. She and Aldo chatted in Italian all the time. But Aldo tended to speak pretty slowly. I didn’t know if she could keep up with Nico’s pace.
At one point, Nico turned to Stella and asked her to put the scrapbook on the counter. She did, and Pietro leaned over it, examining the back cover where the paper with CP numbers were pinned. When Pietro looked up, he too began talking in rapid Italian. After a lengthy speech, he grabbed a piece of scratch paper and pen
from under the counter and jotted down the number from the scrapbook. Then he walked through a doorway at the back of the room.
Nico turned to us. “He said that they don’t have a lot of post office boxes. He’s going to look in their records for this one.”
I nodded. Holly and Stella were probably doing the same.
When Pietro returned, he glanced at me and my sisters before rattling off his findings to Nico, who nodded and shrugged over and over. I looked back and forth between Nico and Holly, hoping that one of them would change their facial expressions to indicate good or bad news. If Holly understood Pietro, surely I’d be able to read it on her face. But all she did was shake her head, and I couldn’t tell if that meant bad news, disagreement, or confusion.
“Okay, here’s the deal,” Nico said. He kept his eyes on Pietro. “This post office box was paid in advance for twenty-five years. A couple years ago, when those twenty-five years were up, the manager of the post office didn’t bother to empty the box. No one needed it, so he just left it. Apparently, there’s something in there. But Pietro doesn’t think he can let you into the box because it’s not in your name.”
“Lia D’Angelo,” Stella said, more to Pietro than to anyone else. “It’s Lia and Marco D’Angelo’s. We’re their daughters, and they’re gone.”
Pietro looked at Stella and then at Nico. He shrugged, pity lining the skin around his eyes. “Sorry,” he said with another shrug.
I pulled my phone from my shorts’ pocket and tapped the screen. “What if we can prove it to him?” I said. “If we can show him what happened to our parents and prove that we’re their kids, will he let us get into that box?” Before anyone could answer, I handed the phone to Nico. It displayed a website I was all too familiar with. “Can you show him this and translate? It’s our parents’ obituaries from the newspaper.” As Nico leaned over the counter to show the phone to Pietro, I looked at my sisters. “Do either of you have your passports with you? We can show him who we are and let him match the names to the survived by section in the obituary.”