I followed him up twenty winding stairs of uneven, worn marble and through the immense living and dining rooms before reaching my assigned suite. Still unsmiling, Lorenzo showed me around the antique-filled sitting room and bedroom, their adorned ceilings and walls similar to those in Giorgio Molina’s apartment. This ceramic-tiled bathroom also boasted a claw foot tub, big enough for two, not that I had anyone in mind, certainly not my host even though he towered over me by a good six inches.
Lorenzo opened the shuttered windows, presenting the view of a garden below brimming with flowers and buzzing insects. A background of soft music filtered through the rooms, filling my head with a welcomed serenity after Margo’s iPod selections.
“I do hope the medley is not too distracting,” he said. “It is a combination of classical, jazz, and opera.”
“Perfetto,” I replied, circling my thumb and forefinger in the Italian way.
In fact, the entire ambiance of this villa spelled perfection. I wanted to fly solo, transform myself into another time, and slip into a flowing gown of peach chiffon. And like the entitled socialite I should’ve been, float through the rooms with a glass of sparkling Spumante in one hand, a cigarette in the other. Unfortunately, my suitcase contained an assortment of practical knitwear and I’d never learned to inhale without my eyes watering.
Lorenzo left but before I could bounce on the thick mattress, Tiny Woman showed up, bearing a stack of white bath towels. Not the fluffy terry cloth we Americans prefer but more like kitchen linens, only bigger and more absorbent than they appeared. Through a series of hand and facial gestures plus a smattering of Italian she identified herself as Lorenzo’s aunt and insisted I call her Zia Octavia, as if we were distant kin meeting for the first time. Zia backed out of the room, at last leaving me to revel in my surroundings. Exhausted, I plopped on the bed, sank into a mound of down pillows, and allowed myself an afternoon siesta.
When I woke up, an exotic scent of spice drew me to the open window. Leaning over the sill, I noticed a dark-haired woman down in the garden. A light breeze pushed her white gauze dress into her slender frame as she tended the roses, snipping and pruning with palm-size shears. She looked up and with nothing more than an enthusiastic wave, invited me to join her.
“Uno momento,” I called out, patting down my hair.
After checking out all of me in the cheval mirror, I hurried down the stairs and from there wandered through the entire garden in search of my potential new friend. The woman was nowhere to be found. Just like that, gone. Disappointed, I settled for a wooden bench and the fat cats—one staring me down, the other again showing its backside. What the hell, I lifted my face to the Ligurian sun and closed my eyes. New friend or old cats, could a lazy afternoon in Italy really get any better than this? And tomorrow would be even better.
Time passed in slow motion, reminding me of Giorgio’s mime routine. At that very moment he was probably on the steps of The Uffizi, Margo nearby, basking in his glory. Enough with a romance doomed from the start, enough with my obsession over her latest obsession, my stomach was sending out a hunger alert, one I transmitted to the kitchen. I waited another fifteen minutes before retracing my garden route and once inside the villa I again tackled the winding stairs, which proved an easier climb the second time around. My hunger instincts had been correct: Zia Octavia was waiting in the dining room.
Chapter 5
Margo and Mama’s Boy
I couldn’t believe I’d lowered myself to this: collecting money from tourists wanting their photo taken with Giorgio miming an Egyptian mummy. His fans were one hundred per cent women, mostly Americans, Brits, or Germans between the ages of fifteen and seventy, only too happy when he lifted his arms and slid them down their now quivering bodies. At least he had the decency not to pinch the ass of anyone who looked younger than twenty-one, an unpredictable estimate at best. All for the sake of art, I told myself, my own body quivering at the memory of our previous night. The passion we shared, the never-ending phone calls from his mama—what are you doing, Giorgio … are you getting enough to eat … your shirts, will they hold out until I return … do you miss me … do you still love me … if only I didn’t have this celebration. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera—it was enough to make me toss the biscotti I only thought about eating.
“Your mama must love you very much,” I told Giorgio as we lay side by side, our bodies wet with perspiration from a non-stop bout that almost brought both of us to tears.
“She cannot help herself,” Giorgio said.
“Perhaps if you didn’t encourage her ….”
He lifted his body, muscles taut as he leaned on one elbow. “It is difficult for me to explain. I owe Mama my life.”
“Uh … well, uh, don’t we all.” I thought about my own mother, thankful she couldn’t have seen me at that moment.
Giorgio’s phone rang again. “Si, Mama, si. Tomorrow I will perform my greatest role, one I have not as yet attempted, that of the tight rope walker … you know I will be thinking of you and only you.”
Hmm, how about me and only me? While Giorgio busied himself with pouring a single glass of Chianti, I turned off his phone without his knowing it. After we shared half of the wine, I dripped the rest over his chest and licked my way down the fine ribbon of his hair, ending where he waited with a welcome that surpassed any I’d seen before. I took him to the point of near ecstasy but refused to go any further unless he promised to perform as a mummy the next day.
“But what about Mama, I promised her the … tight rope,” he barely managed to squeak.
“Who’s to tell her otherwise?”
Not Mama’s Boy, that’s for sure. Giorgio gave in to me, just as I knew he would. If only his mama could’ve seen him at that moment.
***
Later that evening after engaging in another round of lovemaking in which I played the demanding mistress and he my dutiful slave, Giorgio announced he was starving, this time for real food.
“Me too,” I said, smacking my lips as delicately as possible. “Where shall we go?”
He lifted his shoulders, opened his hands. “Why go out when everything we need can be found here.”
“How romantic, you’re going to cook for me.”
“Mi dispiace, mi amore,” he said by way of an apology. “When it comes to preparing a meal Mama considers la cucina her domain. Although I help myself to the refrigerator when she is not home, I am not allowed near the stove. Except to make espresso, I must have my espresso. You, on the other hand ….”
“But, darling, if your mama is that territorial, she will know a stranger has been messing with her pots and pans, her precious kitchen utensils.”
He rubbed his chin for a moment. “I hadn’t thought about that. I suppose we could go out. Perhaps a bit of antipasto ….”
“I had something more substantial in mind … my treat, of course.”
He kissed me then, like a school boy happy to have received an A for effort. “Cara mia, are you sure? It is not as though I, Giorgio Molina, am a pauper, you know.”
Chapter 6
Dinner for Two
“Mangia,” Zia Octavia told me. One hand shoveled imaginary food into her mouth and the other motioned to a covered terrace outside the dining room.
I took a seat at the table, took in the lush greenery potted in terracotta and the ivy geraniums cascading over an iron railing. To my surprise, the apron-clad Lorenzo had assumed another duty—that of serving a light supper, with me as the only guest which, considering the single place setting, should’ve occurred to me before that moment.
“Two couples were scheduled to arrive yesterday,” he said, placing a bowl of tortellini in brodo in front of me. “But they have postponed their visit.”
“Which makes me the only guest,” I said.
“Si, this is not a problem for me. Nor should it be for you.”
After he left, I lowered my eyelids and sipped with a decorum befitting the occasion. Using one of my di
ning-alone techniques, I transformed myself into another dimension and became the focus of a documentary film on Mediterranean dining.
Ellen Savino, gourmand extraordinaire, has traveled the world in search of exotic food befitting the rich and famous; however, she still prefers the Italian approach to enjoying simple meals prepared with the finest of ingredients.
My host continued his service, efficient almost to a fault. Two glasses of savory wine encouraged me to polish off a wedge of cheese and veggie frittata, insalata mista with the correct ratio of olive oil to vinegar, and pears as red as the poaching wine responsible for creating their color. By the end of my Limoncello cordial, I’d grown bored with playing this game of mental solitaire so when Lorenzo brought an espresso tray, I invited him to share the carafe of coffee with me. When he returned with a second miniature cup, his ears had developed a slight ting of red and he’d ditched the striped apron. He sat down, offering me a close-up of his crooked nose which compromised a not-so-bad profile. Round spectacles magnified steel-gray eyes that skimmed over mine before focusing on the wall of decorative tiles behind me.
“My compliments to your aunt,” I said to break an otherwise awkward moment. “She is a fantastic cook.”
Lorenzo’s smile did little to cover his embarrassment but his eyes did find mine again. “Both Zia and I must take exception. The kitchen is my domain; Zia takes care of the garden.”
“Of course, I should’ve realized.” I bent my head, swirled two cubes of sugar into the thick coffee. “The woman I saw tending the flowers, she’s your wife?”
Lorenzo bristled at the comment. “I am a widower. And no one but Zia tends the flowers.”
It was my turn to be embarrassed, better yet confused. Either way, I thought it best to change the subject. “Some advice, please, I plan to visit Cinque Terre tomorrow morning. How do I get from here to La Spezia’s harbor for the motorboat excursion?”
He paused, contemplating what should’ve been a straightforward answer. “If you are ready to leave by nine forty-five, I will drop you off at the harbor. I have business in the city center and later in Cinque Terre, actually Monterosso where the motorboat excursions end before beginning their return trip.”
“I wouldn’t want to impose on you, Lorenzo.” Nor did I want my words misconstrued as sounding coy. My concern merely reflected the amount of time required to spend with someone who did not appeal one iota to me.
“Be assured, if this were an inconvenience, I would not have offered,” he said, his concern reflecting mine. “Monterosso is the largest village in Le Cinque Terre, the five lands—”
“And has a delightful swimming beach, or so I’ve read.”
“This is true but during the boat excursion you must first visit the other seaport villages.”
“Yes, that’s my plan.”
“In the evening we can return by car from Monterosso, that is, unless you have other plans. Or if you prefer to take the train back to La Spezia and from the station a cab back to my villa.”
Please, visions of Disney World danced in my head, the part about getting from here to there being half the fun, only because someone else had resolved the myriad of potential problems along the way. And so I agreed with a cautious thank you.
“The coffee is superb,” I said after my third cup. “It is decaf, right? That’s what I requested in my e-mail.”
Lorenzo rolled his eyes behind those wire-rims. He shook his head. “Impossibile, signorina. We Italians love our coffee in its purist form. To desecrate the delicate beans would be an abomination I would not dare consider.”
Great, just what I needed: the promise of an all-nighter without good reason and no skin off Lorenzo’s back. He gathered up the espresso service and headed for the kitchen, unaware of me blowing a silent raspberry to that rigid back.
Alone again, I wandered around the dining room perimeter, starting with an intriguing tapestry, a threadbare account of hunters and wild boars from an earlier century. I moved on to the Gentili family coat of arms, an impressive display but beyond my comprehension, and ended at a library table stacked with regional books, all written in Italian and with colorful photos capable of whetting my appetite for tomorrow’s adventure.
Lorenzo soon returned with a map, spread it out over the table, and gave me a mini discourse on the villages of Le Cinque Terre: Riomaggiore, Manarola, Corniglia, Vernazza, and Monterosso. “Each village is unique,” he said. “A one day boat tour really doesn’t do justice to them, especially since Corniglia is not accessible from the water. You should consider at least one more day of hiking, that is, if you brought the appropriate footwear.”
I nodded. This had been my original plan with Margo although I didn’t tell Lorenzo. Nor did I tell him Margo and I would’ve reserved accommodations in Cinque Terre had a room been available when she finally made up her mind to stay there. His hand brushed against my hand, prompting me to edge mine away. He smelled European, a combination of Gucci cologne and lemons. Too bad he lacked the earthiness of that Autogrille workman—or the boldness of that GQ Roman on Via Venuta who pinched my butt instead of Margo’s. Margo fumed; I gloated. Even now the mere memory of it, better yet of Margo, makes me giggle.
The evening as Lorenzo’s only guest ended with a pleasant, “Buona sera.” After returning to my room I considered calling Giorgio’s apartment but then realized Margo had taken custody of our phone, the one we’d agreed to share at the outset of our trip. A cost-saver I’d suggested because if anybody would be getting phone calls, it would’ve been Margo and not me. What had I been thinking? Better leave well enough alone, as in Margo cooped up with her Mama’s Boy, with nothing to do but make love Italian style and to sip wine and suck up long strings of yummy pasta.
Chapter 7
Sleep Tight
Around ten o’clock I crawled into bed, only then realizing I’d be sleeping on top of a feather bed covering the mattress, a first for me and one I anticipated like a princess ignorant of the proverbial pea awaiting her discomfort. Those next four hours consisted of me punching pillows and flipping them over, tossing off the covers only to snuggle back into them. I finally pinpointed my unrelenting anxiety to the devil in Lorenzo’s Italian-style coffee instead of my oxymoron version, the simpering decaf.
Somewhere in the night cats were engaged in a vast conspiracy, their screeching worse than babies demanding their next meal. I grabbed a pair of shoes—the sandals that squeeze every one of my sensitive toes—and stomped to the window. But before I could launch the first of my feline attacks, a sudden breeze slapped against my face, so strong it closed both eyes. I opened them wide and on looking down, did a double take. There in the moonlit garden was my elusive woman, this time dressed in a flimsy nightgown and kneeling as she enticed the calico and Persian with a bowl of milk. Along the ledge of a gray stone wall more cats had gathered, a row of hungry spectators meowing as they waited their turn at the milk. The woman lifted her head and again waved for me to join her.
I leaned over the window sill. “First, tell me your name,” I called out, my voice cutting through the darkness of night.
She opened her palms and lifted her shoulders, as if to say she did not understand.
“Nome—par favore,” I all but shouted. To which the woman walked away, more like disappeared into the mist. No more games, especially after midnight. I stepped back, retreated to my bed, and burrowed under the covers where my imagination conjured up a newspaper article buried on page three of the La Spezia Giornale:
An insignificant American tourist has died from an overdose of arsenic-laced cream at the villa of the prominent Lorenzo Gentili, coincidentally on the tenth anniversary of his beloved wife’s mysterious disappearance. After completing a thorough investigation, the local carabinieri have confirmed Ellen Savino’s death to be a suicide, for lack of a better explanation. Arrangements for disposing of the remains are incomplete, pending notification of a sister believed to be cavorting in Firenze with an Egyptian mummy in nee
d of a close shave.
Chapter 8
Cinque Terre via the Sea
Seven hours later and still groggy from a god-awful restless night, I still wasn’t convinced that caffeine-induced hysteria had produced the elusive cat woman. To hell with the late hour and creepy felines, I should’ve gone downstairs a second time and made friends with her. Too late now, the sort of story of a life filled with one too many could’ves, should’ves, would’ves. After a solitary breakfast of more caffeine tempered with hot latte and soft tomino cheese patted onto day-old bread heels, I followed Lorenzo down the path leading to the parking area, a walk which made me aware of his sloping shoulders and broad hipline, a far worse negative than the unfortunate nose cursing an otherwise ordinary face.
I found the calico cat perched on the hood of my rental but didn’t see the Persian. “Here kitty, kitty, kitty,” I called out.
Zero response. The creature was either dead or didn’t capice my English. Next time, if ever there’d be another trip to Italy, I vowed to learn a few more key Italian phrases instead of relying on Margo who listened to language tapes on her drive to and from work.
“You like the cats?” Lorenzo asked.
“Not really, just curious.”
He opened the passenger door and I climbed into his Mercedes van. With Lorenzo secured behind the wheel, we circled down the winding road, which afforded me a better view of the houses I’d hardly noticed the day before. None could match the understated pride of Lorenzo’s villa and confirmed I’d made the right choice.
After a few quiet moments I threw out a casual comment, for no other reason than to test his reaction. “About the cats, they were very busy during the night, lapping up milk the mysterious lady in your garden provided.”
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