He spoke without glancing in my direction. “Sometimes the moon plays tricks on my guests, especially those Americani who resist changes to their routine.”
Did he think this Americana a pushover? “I know what I saw, Lorenzo.”
“What you believe you saw, signorina.”
Lorenzo set his condescending jaw into silent mode, hands gripping the steering wheel as he maneuvered the fifteen hairpin curves I didn’t have time to count when I’d been the one driving. He didn’t speak again until we reached the main road. He repeated the particulars of my boat tour and where we should meet that evening: nine o’clock, Church of San Giovanni Battista in the heart of Monterosso. When he dropped me off at the harbor, his last words were a reminder about the glaring rays of the afternoon sun, which at ten-twenty on this morning were hiding behind a mass of hazy clouds.
I bought my ticket and boarded a crowded vessel scheduled for stops at four of the five coastal villages, weather permitting. The motorboat departed at ten-thirty and moved with ease through the calm bay. After reaching the Ligurian Sea, the boat started bouncing over rough waters, forcing me to spread my feet into a sea legs stance and to wrap my hands around a deck rail lined with the more resilient passengers. I did manage to release one hand long enough to snap a few photos of rolling waves battering the coast before a powerful swell drenched my hair and made me consider going below with those passengers having the common sense I lacked. Don’t be such a wuss, I mumbled to myself and resolved to stay top deck.
Our boat approached Riomaggiore’s harbor with determination and after several failed attempts the captain finally executed a successful docking. Waves rocked the vessel as busy crewmen lashed its gangplank to the mooring, and anxious passengers pressed forward, waiting for permission to disembark. I sidestepped one of two metal eyes securing the deck ropes before shifting my weight to accommodate the boat’s erratic rhythm. As soon as I reached my comfort level, the boat surprised me and all of the passengers with a raise of its bow to accommodate the incoming water. The sturdy woman who’d been swaying in front of me slammed her rear end into my stomach and we both hit the deck. She yelled a string of what could only be described as obscenities in an unfamiliar language, her dead weight crushing me into the protruding metal eye. It inflicted pain on my hip and butt so excruciating I wanted to scream but didn’t have enough oxygen for a single peep. The passengers surrounding us reacted with dumbfounded expressions until one man came forward and extended his hand to Dead Weight. After pulling her up, he did the same for me.
“It’s an absolute disgrace,” said the man whose accent told me he was an okay American guy. He helped me to a seat along the bow, all the while talking about my near disaster. “Not a single rail or safety precaution on the entire boat. Back home you’d have good cause for a lawsuit. Too bad those issues don’t apply here.”
I nodded although my immediate concern centered on sucking in some much-needed air before attempting to speak.
Dead Weight took one look at me, pressed her hands against chubby cheeks, and sputtered an apology I couldn’t begin to understand yet managed a second nod to show my acceptance. She held onto her hat with one hand, tugged on her handbag with the other. Somehow during the commotion my handbag had gotten tangled up with hers and after much unwinding she undid the two of them, patted hers protectively, and passed mine to me.
“Scuzi, signorina, you all right?” asked one of the crewmen who handed me a bottle of water.
“I’m not sure,” I choked out, having found my wind. I rubbed my throbbing thigh, and was relieved not to discover a broken femur.
“Perhaps you should get off at a later stop.” The crewman edged away from me, his boat duties more important than any injuries I might’ve suffered.
“Si, grazie,” I said.
The crewman was right. Blinking away tears, I repositioned myself to watch able-bodied passengers step onto the swaying dock, and from there onto the rocky terrain of Riomaggiore where they began climbing the stone walkway leading to this ancient village, a terraced showplace of structures painted pastel shades of red, yellow, ecru, terracotta, and green.
Dammit, I belonged out there with those tourists taking each step with the assurance of owning it. If only Margo had stuck to our original plan, I wouldn’t be suffering such agony now. Who knows, we might’ve taken a later tour, or endured this one shoulder to shoulder, laughing as our brave boat battled the treacherous Ligurian waters.
Memo to self:
1) Bitch-slap Margo as soon as we meet at Malpensa Airport.
2) Arrange for separate seating on our flight home.
3) Tell Mom the gorgeous daughter behaved like a selfish, common slut, thus causing great bodily damage to the daughter stuck with a beautiful mind.
4) Keep silk scarf purchased in Florence for myself instead of giving it to Margo for her birthday.
5) Quit blaming Margo for everything that goes wrong in my life. Sorry, Sis.
6) Pray for less envy and more self-discipline.
Chapter 9
Discord in Paradise
“But you promised, Giorgio.” It was late forenoon, too early for hunger pains, too late for another round of sex, and we were sitting on his balcony.
“Si, but my words came during a moment of weakness,” he said. “Do not hold me accountable for wanting nothing more than to please you.”
“Huh? Do you even know what you just said? It makes no sense.”
“Please, I am Italiano. Tomorrow I will reinvent myself as the Egyptian mummy, for you and only you. But this day belongs to Mama, it cannot be helped. I promised her before I promised you.”
So much for promises and the order in which they had been made and who came first, obviously not me, but what could I expect in exchange for a few days of sex with no strings attached. We’d been drinking endless cups of espresso laced with the grappa he took pride in having made, both of us watching the scene below like smug gods immortalized in Roman mythology. Such bliss, I didn’t want it to end. Giorgio, however, had other ideas.
He leaned over, sandwiched my face between his expressive hands, and kissed me in a way that said, prepare for round four. Or maybe five, after last night’s incredible ecstasy I could still wet my pants just thinking about it.
“Permesso to impose on you, cara mia,” Giorgio said, as if I could ever refuse him.
“Anything, anyway,” I managed to blurt out.
“I usually have a little pasta before every performance. The carbohydrates, they help calm the nerves.”
“Mine too. I’d love to go out for an early lunch.”
“No, no, I require a quiet ambiance in which to eat and properly digest. Could you … would you mind making lunch for me, I mean for the two of us. Everything you need can be found in the kitchen. Mama keeps the pantry well stocked. Olive oil, spaghetti, tomatoes, she uses nothing but the very best.”
“But you said ….”
“Not to worry about Mama. I will take care of her; you take care of me. Please?”
I sighed, wishing I’d paid more attention to my mother when she cooked. What the hell, I pushed myself into his mama’s kitchen, one that could easily have been featured in Gourmet Magazine, Italian Style. Giorgio stopped short of following me into the pantry.
“Any particular way you like your pasta?” I called out.
“There is more than one way?” he asked.
No, I suppose not. Although not having a jar of Prego would definitely complicate the process. Somehow I managed to assemble what I considered a decent bowl of spaghetti smothered with a can of San Marzano tomatoes I’d squished between my fingers before heating.
Giorgio didn’t look all that happy, or hungry, when he sat down at the table. I piled pasta onto his plate and even kissed his cheek. But when I stuck my tongue in his ear, he jerked away. Okay, okay, I got it.
“You’re not eating?” he asked.
“Maybe later,” I replied with a smile.
He s
wirled the pasta onto his fork until not one strand was left hanging. Turning the fork from side to side, he inspected the mound with a critical eye before shoving it into his mouth. After a brief chew, he swallowed with a hard gulp followed by another. With a roll of his eyes, he pushed the plate aside.
“There’s a problem?” I asked through gritted teeth.
He tapped his front teeth with two fingers. “The pasta, it has been cooked too long. And the sauce—”
“Don’t tell me, I already know. Not like your mama’s.” As if I gave a super colossal shit.
“Not to worry, cara mia. This evening I will explain the difference.”
“Perhaps we could try that charming trattoria down the street.” My treat, I almost said but changed my mind. So far, the only time we’d eaten out was when I footed the bill.
While I cleaned up, as in threw out the mess I’d created, Giorgio retreated to his bedroom and the large wardrobe housing his various costumes. When I next saw him in what I referred to as the living room and he called the lounge area, he’d transformed himself with white make-up, rouged lips and cheeks, and exaggerated eye-liner. He paraded before me, this one-man circus act, his body molded into a skin-tight red leotard, silently preening and blowing kisses, one of which I caught in my hand and sent back to him. He held the imaginary kiss in the palm of one hand for a moment before releasing it, as if setting a butterfly free. Or perhaps himself free of me.
Standing before the cheval mirror, he smoothed out the black tights covering his strong, sinewy legs before turning to view the full length of his body profile. Only then did he speak, to ask if his ass had passed inspection.
“Acceptable, yes; perfect, no,” I said. My feel-good bitchiness sent Giorgio’s face into a state of panic I couldn’t help but relish. “As for your frontal equipment, may I be so bold as to suggest you put a sock in it.”
“A sock, what do you mean, a sock?”
“Never mind, I’m sure some of the touristi won’t even notice.”
“The touristi will be more interested in the quality of my actions,” Giorgio said, “my ability to tell a story from the heart without relying on the use of words and music and other distracting sounds.”
“Yes, how clever, the touristi will understand how well you disguise those shortcomings God has seen fit to deliver upon you.”
He turned to face the mirror again, stared into it with eyebrows crunched and lips pouting. “Perhaps I should skip this afternoon’s performance.”
I leaned back on the headboard, gave him my most convincing come-hither look. “And do what instead?”
“Call Mama—she’ll know what I should do.” He glanced around the room. “My phone, have you seen it?”
“Not since you last talked to your mama. Would you like to use mine?”
“No, the call coming from an unfamiliar number such as yours might confuse her.” After thirty more seconds of pondering a variety of posed reflections, he said, “A-hah, I have the solution, one I should’ve thought of before now. You call me and when my phone rings, I will know where to locate it.”
“Brilliant. I should have thought of that.” Of course, I already had and while he’d been in the bedroom transforming himself, I threw the damn phone out the window, watched it land in the bed of a passing truck, never to be heard again. Bye-bye, Mama.
Nevertheless, to pacify Giorgio I tapped his number onto my phone, listened to the ringing until his recorded voice told me to leave a message. I shrugged in mock disappointment. “Sorry, darling, the phone is bound to turn up when and where you least expect it.”
Giorgio fumed. He paced the polished floorboards, all the while muttering words in Italian I didn’t understand, a blessing if ever there was.
Unable to take any more of his agonizing, I finally said, “Look, darling, I do believe your manhood has returned, and with such intensity we shouldn’t let such a masterpiece go to waste.”
He stopped in front of the mirror again, obviously pleased with his proud package.
“Cara mia, you are my angel, the best thing that ever happened to me, except for my mama who cannot help herself. But now we must hurry to the Ufizzi—and don’t forget the collection basket. My tightrope debut will outshine anything I have attempted in the past.”
“How about giving me a preview?” I asked.
He kissed his fingertips and pressed them to my lips. “It would not be fair to my audience. Spontaneity, it is what I thrive on, the pride of my existence.”
“Perhaps an umbrella for balance,” I said, taking a small one from a leather holder in the hallway.
“Cara mia, please, have faith in my ability. And the imaginary pole I will carry in these hands that will not fail me.”
Chapter 10
Change of Venue
The choppy waters of the Ligurian continued to savage my injuries and prevented our boat from docking at Manarola. With teeth clenched I turned my camera to this charming village and captured one more row of pastel houses plus an extended mound of black rock rising from the sea like the almighty Zeus. From Manarola our boat moved on to battle another siege of hazardous waters before passing by Corniglia where rows of colorful buildings perched high above the rocky coast to hover over vineyards and olive groves sloping down to the Ligurian. A distant view of Vernazza presented me with more photo ops as the boat slowly bypassed its fishing port. Other than the first stop at Riomaggiore, not one passenger had set foot on land, so I could hardly mourn the loss of close-ups I wouldn’t have been able to see anyway.
The voice of an American interrupted my thoughts with a profound observation. “Just you wait until tomorrow.”
I looked up to see the guy who, minutes before, had freed me from the crush of Dead Weight. Keeping one hand firmly gripped on the back of my passenger seat, he leaned forward, and said, “Expect countless aches and pains tomorrow unless you check into the nearest hotel today and soak in a hot bath as soon as possible.” He offered me his free hand and with that his name. “Jonathan Ballister, Des Moines.”
The Iowan had an irregular face, one side not quite parallel with the other, a slight defect most people wouldn’t notice but for me, one more nail in the coffin of what Mom considered my irrational quest for perfection. His ruddy complexion reminded me of those I’d seen in Missouri’s Ozarks but without the lines and deep creases that provided interest. He pumped my hand until I spoke the magic words that made him stop.
“Ellen from St. Louis.”
“That’s it?”
“For now, yes.”
“Well, Ellen from St. Louis, if you need any—”
“I’m fine, really. And thanks again—gosh, did I forget to thank you the first time, my apologies.”
He took a business card from his pocket, scribbled something on the back, and handed it to me. “Just in case, here’s where I’m staying in Monterosso.”
I shoved the card in my pocket and dismissed him by turning my face into a spray of salt water. Big mistake, but one deserved. I didn’t have to touch my hair to feel it frizzing up, nature’s protest against the smooth bob I preferred. When I turned back to Jonathan from Des Moines, he’d made himself scarce, which suited me fine.
By the time we reached village number five, the sea had calmed down and Monterosso’s wide concrete dock welcomed us with its sturdy presence. I hobbled off the boat, lagging behind the other passengers as they walked along the base of a low cliff and from there on to promises of an exciting day. Seafood, local wine shops, artisans, and boutiques—Monterosso offered an entire array of commercial splendor. Unfortunately, the early bird tourists who’d arrived by land or a previous boat had already taken over every souvenir shop and gelato stand.
As for me, shopping did not present an immediate option, especially with pain now shooting from my hip to my ankle and every nook in between. I pushed myself no farther than the patio of an inviting trattoria and ordered cappuccino before limping off to the restroom. Behind the closed doors of blessed anon
ymity, I took a mirror from my handbag and evaluated the damage in all its naked glory.
The clinical pathology report reveals an unattached, angry female presenting with a swollen right buttock and thigh, no external abrasions but small ruptures to the blood vessels indicate discoloring to her alabaster derma faster than the overturned palate of a temperamental artist unable to do justice to the deep blue of the Ligurian Sea. This whimpering patient maintains a pathetic demeanor while begging for her mother … somebody … anybody … even her sister Margo … correction: especially her sister Margo.
I splashed my face with cold water, waited for a rejuvenation which didn’t transpire so I returned to the table. At least the waiter had delivered my cappuccino. After a painful sit down, I closed my eyes and sipped, relishing a moment too precious only to have it interrupted by the stilted English of a now familiar voice
“Scuzi, signorina, I did not expect to see you in Monterosso so early in the day.”
One eyelid cranked open to reveal Lorenzo Gentili leaning over me. I raised the other lid, motioned to the vacant chair, and he sat down. Within minutes the waiter appeared with a cup of espresso which Lorenzo must’ve already ordered.
“You’re not feeling well?” he asked.
I babbled out the details of my horrific morning, watched his face soften with each word. He offered the services of a village doctor which I refused.
“Perhaps the ospedale in La Spezia,” he said.
“No hospital.”
“Then I will drive you back to my villa.”
“Certainly not, I’ll be fine; I just need to elevate my leg for a while.”
“Please, allow me to extend my hospitality to Monterosso. I have an apartment nearby. You can relax there while I complete my business.”
“Uh-h, I hate to bring this up but—”
“I keep no cats in my apartment, however, be assured there will be some wandering around outside.”
“Did I say anything about cats?”
“You did not have to, signorina.”
Italy to Die For Page 4