Italy to Die For

by Loretta Giacoletto

Under the circumstances his offer seemed more than reasonable so I said yes. Determined to pay my own way, in this case for my coffee and his, I slipped one hand in my handbag and dug around for my wallet. When I didn’t find it right away, desperation set in. I flung my bag onto the table, opened it wide, and search every area.

  “There is a problem?” Lorenzo asked.

  “Only if I can’t find my wallet … that woman on the boat … she must’ve … oh, no.”

  Oh, yes. My wallet was gone, along with the euros inside it. At least the passport and credit cards I kept in a zippered pocket hadn’t been disturbed. The woman, I could barely recall what she looked like, except for those chubby cheeks. Her hair, her hair, I couldn’t recall its color. Maybe she wore a hat.

  “La Stazione di Carabinieri is but a short distance from here,” Lorenzo said. “You really should report this.”

  “Can’t it wait until … never mind, I’ll do it now.”

  Clinging to Lorenzo’s arm, I let him drag me to the police station where he helped me file a report with an officer wearing a crisp blue shirt and dark pants. He was polite but non-committal, as I would’ve been in his shoes, since the three of us knew my money was gone forever, also a few photos of Margo and me. Hmm, Margo, I hadn’t thought about her for several hours. Losing a fistful of euros had changed my perspective, at least for the moment. Thank god for credit cards. We stopped at the nearest bank where I bought more euros, all the while cursing the woman I was sure had stolen my money. How could I have been so careless, me, Ellen Savino, who never lost sight of the necessities of life much less the necessary incidentals.

  From the bank and still clinging to Lorenzo, I limped up the cobblestone street, passing shopkeepers going head-to-head with the tourists, one of which should’ve been me since I consider myself quite the bargain hunter. When I stopped to admire a pyramidal display of lemons the size of California oranges, the vendor insisted I rest on his stool while he stood with Lorenzo and discussed whatever Italian men are prone to discuss: the local economy, local and national politics, even the murder of a female whose body had been discovered on the beach the previous week. Although I didn’t understand everything being said, I did get the impression Lorenzo’s opinion carried some weight. Ten minutes later we moved on with Lorenzo now carrying two bags of lemons and assorted byproducts, their fragrances so intoxicating I welcomed the strange headiness overtaking my lagging brain as we walked upward through the marketplace and beyond.

  “One can never have too many of the limoni,” he said.

  Sure but for what, I wanted to ask but needed the oxygen to preserve my remaining energy. Just a little longer I told myself when we entered a residential area of more pastel-colored buildings, apartments, narrow and stucco-covered, with green shutters flanking most windows and underneath those windows, magenta and pink flowers spilling over their boxes. When we reached a curve in the street that brought me to the verge of collapsing, I heard Lorenzo announce we had arrived. Almost but not quite, that is. I followed Lorenzo up three steep flights of stairs before we entered his apartment. The obligatory walk-around revealed antiques more rustic but every bit as charming as those in his La Spezia villa, plus a small balcony overlooking the street I’d struggled to climb only moments before. My view to the distant bluer-than-blue sea bowled me over now that the sun had made its appearance.

  “Words can’t do justice to this,” I said. “How many apartments are in the building?”

  “At the present mine is the only one occupied. I plan to have the other two renovated.”

  “You must be very busy. Are you sure I’m not imposing on you?”

  Lorenzo’s ears turned red again, rather un-macho for a full-fledged Italian or so I’d been told. According to Margo, some quirk in the DNA of Italian men made them incapable of blushing. He handed me two door keys and explained one was for the outer door, the other for his apartment.

  “Please, signorina, consider my house as your house. You will find bread, cheese, fruit, and wine in the kitchen. I will take care of my business and should return around six.”

  “Me too, I intend to go sightseeing this afternoon.”

  His smile indicated he didn’t believe me, but what did he know. “In that case I suggest you take a taxi to the Church of San Giovanni Battista … very near to where we had coffee earlier today. From there it will be an easy stroll around the immediate area. Later, around seven or so, we can meet on the boardwalk.”

  “The boardwalk?” I asked, picturing an Atlantic City I hadn’t seen.

  “Si, the concrete walkway above the seawall beach, you passed through it earlier today after getting off the boat.”

  No wonder I didn’t remember it.

  “From there decide on a place to eat and enjoy the incredible sunset,” Lorenzo said. “You will not be disappointed.”

  Lorenzo’s words seemed more commanding than inviting but I didn’t care enough to object. As soon as he left, I eased my aching bones onto the nearest bed and released myself to sleep—and from there to endless dreams about spiteful gypsies, obnoxious cats, and deranged wives. The Evil Eye was chasing me through the pages of a Gothic novel when I heard a distant voice urging me back to the real world. I bolted upright, let out a scream, and flopped back onto the bed.

  That’s when I saw Lorenzo standing in the doorway, a worried look on his face. “It is six o’clock, signorina. Did you go out earlier?”

  Earlier, what earlier, I brushed the cobwebs from my brain before speaking. “Oh, crap, I must’ve slept the hours away. How dreadful—an entire day in Monterosso wasted.”

  “Ah-h, but the hour of sunset will make up for any pleasure you may have lost through a much needed rest. I know a marvelous place where we can dine, one not too far and a comfortable walk downhill. After dinner, we can take a taxi back here before driving to my villa.”

  “Sure, just give me a minute to freshen up.” I rolled to my side, only to stop from the stiffening pain that prevented me from moving any further.

  “Or, we could have dinner here,” he said. “And watch the same sunset from the convenience of my balcony.”

  I gestured a ‘whatever’ with eyes closed and let several minutes pass before willing my body into an upright position. After finding the floor with my feet, I stood and shuffled toward the bathroom where a mist of steam was creeping from under the door, an invitation too tempting to resist. I pushed the door open. Lorenzo had his back to me and was leaning over the tub, a knife clutched in one hand. I almost let out a scream but exchanged it instead for a gasp. Only then did I realize he was using the knife to slice lemons into the hot water.

  He straightened up, closed the knife, and slipped it into his trouser pocket. He edged passed me, our bodies inches away from touching.

  “I took the liberty of ordering our dinner to be delivered,” he said. “This is the season for anchovies.”

  “Anchovies—I don’t know.”

  “These are like none you may have tasted from a can. They are quite sensational when accompanied by the sharp contrast of capers and lemons plus a drizzle of olive oil.”

  “You really should’ve been a chef, Lorenzo.”

  “I think not, signorina. Cooking for others is not a prerequisite for appreciating ingredients of the finest quality.”

  At that moment I saw Lorenzo in a much different light, one far more approachable than the stuffy host he first presented himself as being. And when I finally found my voice, it was to say, “Please, call me Ellen.”

  Chapter 11

  Testa Dura

  If only Giorgio had listened to me instead of his mama’s cellular whining from Vicenza. Testa dura, my mother would’ve called him. Hard head, a term she often used to describe me and my sis, more often me because El had a more malleable nature, one I refused to adapt, thank god. But we were in Italy now, having gone our separate ways, and what could I, a mere Americana, have known about the artistic temperament of an Italiano whose ego far surpassed the tal
ent he took such pride in honing to perfection, at least in his estimation, which I was starting to doubt.

  Although Giorgio didn’t live far from the Piazza della Signoria, he insisted on our taking a taxi to a side street near the pedestrian area of The Uffizi, just as he’d done on our return the day before. After I paid the driver, we walked the rest of the way, each step bringing Giorgio closer to that of his mime personae. Me, wearing a backless sundress guaranteed to draw my own admirers. A crowd had already gathered at the Ufizzi in anticipation of his afternoon performance, a welcoming plus. First thing Giorgio did was to make a big production out of handing me his cape. Next came the staging. He drew an imaginary line down a thirty-foot row of cobblestones. This became his tightrope and on either side of the tightrope, he walked off two more imaginary lines which he gestured for his audience to stand behind. I set his basket on the Gallery steps and stationed myself at the far end of one line, a perfect angle for viewing.

  Slowly, ever so slowly, Giorgio began easing his way across the tightrope, hands gripping the imaginary pole he used to support his every move, all the while mesmerizing the tourists into unspoken admiration. About half way across the line, Giorgio stopped and allowed the pole no one could see to slip from his hands. Arms overhead, he lifted one leg to a forty-five degree angle, held it motionless while the audience oohed and aahed. But whatever message he’d willed his brain to deliver, the stationary leg had failed to receive. Back and forth he wobbled and wavered, unable to convince his grounded leg to do what it had done so often in the past. Eventually, and to everyone’s horror, Firenze’s star performer came crashing down. He could’ve saved the day, made this awkward display appear to be part of the act, to which his audience would’ve responded with a collective sigh of relief followed by a round of applause. But did he? No. His fall came as such a surprise it couldn’t be considered graceful or comical but more on the order of pathetic.

  How could the best mime in all of Firenze have fallen off an imaginary tightrope, I just didn’t get it. A few seconds passed before reality smacked me in the face like the proverbial halibut. I hurried forward, wrapped the mortified Giorgio in his cape, and escorted him away from an audience mix of snickers and disappointed murmurs.

  ***

  Back in his apartment, Giorgio didn’t bother to undress before finding the refuge of his bed, the whole scenario a bit over the top for me. He curled into a ball, and stared into not a damn thing. Had he stuck his thumb into his mouth, I swear I’d’ve left on the spot. Instead, I lay down beside him, spoon fashion until the steady Zs of his deep breathing passed on to me. Hours later when we both awoke, I brought his little soldier back to life with promises of more to come if he’d indulge my modern sensibility by removing that ridiculous costume. He finally gave into my demand but only because I teased and petted him into a frenzied submission. Wearing nothing more than my lace panties with the open crotch, I climbed aboard, determined to make both of us forget the mortifying afternoon that never should’ve, make that would’ve, happened, if only … ah-h … a little music, please.

  We were tighter than two drunken sailors and every bit as naughty when I heard the start of a wail that soon evolved into a scream, piercing every wall and crevice in Giorgio’s bedroom.

  “Giorgio!” a woman cried out, her voice already having passed the stage of hysteria.

  I turned to see what can only be described as The Mama Italiana from Hell. Well-fed, well-groomed, definitely not well-mannered, regurgitating a string of Italian words, most of which I didn’t understand except for one: the very nasty puttanesca. The nerve of that b-i-t-c-h: calling me a whore, what about her insatiable son I’d been doing my utmost to satisfy. Before I had the chance to roll off of Giorgio, he sat up and dumped me. Without so much as a mi scusi, onto the polished floorboards that felt every bit as unyielding as they were meant to look.

  If that wasn’t enough, Mama Italiana showed me her forefinger and pinky, what I took as the Italian version of our American bird, only worse since Giorgio shouted, “No, Mama, no!”

  When Mama Italiano stomped her foot, he responded with his own string of Italian words that sounded way too apologetic for a grown man and prompted her to fling a handful of euros in my direction. Forefinger pointed toward the door, she ordered me to leave. The ultimate humiliation and for sure one I never want repeated—never, ever, never.

  El sweet El, where are you. I need you—now!

  Chapter 12

  Lemons and Anchovies

  Lorenzo knew what he was talking about when it came to the lemons and anchovies: a superb combination and even more so when eaten in the comfort of an oversized terrycloth robe he’d been gracious enough to lend me. Add to that his private balcony enclosed with iron railing, its view of the sun’s red and orange hues setting on the Ligurian Sea. I followed his lead, wiping my plate with small pieces of bread to absorb the salty remnants of olive oil and lemon juice—what a delicious yet simple treat. He offered coffee. I refused, remembering my hyperactive bout from the previous night.

  Had that weird scene occurred less than twenty-four hours before? Where had the time gone? Where had the mysterious woman gone? Would she return to feed her entourage of cats? So many questions remained unanswered, probably due to over-thinking what didn’t concern me. Nor should it have. After stifling an overdue yawn, I knew enough to end on a high note.

  “This has been a terrific evening,” I said. “But we really should go back to the villa.”

  “Or, you are welcome to spend the night here.”

  Oh, yes, I wanted to hug him for asking. No, not really. “If it’s not too much trouble ….”

  “I would not have offered if it were.”

  “You’ll call your zia so she won’t worry?”

  “I’ve already spoken to her. She knows not to expect us. Now if you’ll excuse me, I will say buona notte.”

  “Good night, Lorenzo. And thanks for everything.”

  I lingered a while longer on the balcony, taking in the lively music and an avenue of bright lights that would eventually lead to what Lorenzo called the boardwalk and beyond there, white sand glistening in defiance of the approaching night. After yawning again, this time with an open-wide my dentist would’ve appreciated, I went inside to where I’d napped earlier. There on the bed lay an embroidered nightgown, exquisite in its simplicity and a perfect fit. As to its origin, that was a question which would have to wait for another discussion with Lorenzo. My last thoughts were of his dead wife and of the mysterious woman in his garden, neither of which should have concerned me in the least.

  ***

  After sleeping in a peaceful vacuum of nothingness, I awoke the next morning to the smell of freshly-ground coffee beans. I rolled out of bed with joints aching and stiff, but loosened up after undertaking some stretches I’d learned in a yoga class, one that had eventually led to a case of heartburn that never really left me.

  Good thing Mom had trained me to never leave home without an extra pair of panties tucked in my handbag. I stepped into mine ever so gently while checking out my rear view in the mirror. Yesterday’s bruises were tender to the touch and had pooled even further under my skin. Covering them with yesterday’s clothes did nothing to make me forget they still existed. Having spent more time than usual on my make-up and hair, I declared myself suitable for breakfast and whatever else would come my way.

  The scent of hazelnuts lured me into the dining area where Lorenzo had laid out breakfast, a carbon copy of the spread in La Spezia—crusty rolls and butter, assorted jams and cheeses, hot milk and coffee. He pulled out a chair and I sat down at the small round table covered with two cloths, peach over green draped to the floor.

  “You slept well?” he asked, having again assumed the formal role of host.

  “My best night since coming to Italy.”

  “And if I may be so bold: what about the painful injury?”

  “Healing nicely, thanks to the hot water and lemons.”

 
One corner of his mouth curled into a slight smile as he poured my coffee. I added the hot milk, more than I ever drink at home but a necessity here, considering the ultra-strong brew the Italians favor.

  “Please have breakfast with me,” I said. “I shouldn’t hate eating alone but ….”

  Lorenzo sat down, crossed his long legs to the side of the table, and poured another coffee, adding twice the milk I had taken.

  “I have some unexpected free time,” he said. Again, a tinge of red circled the rim of his ears. “We could spend the next two days seeing Cinque Terre together, at a much slower pace to accommodate your injury.”

  Before I could answer, Lorenzo’s phone rang. He excused himself and went out on the balcony to take the call.

  What better way to see the villages, I thought, my very own guide, who knew everything there was to know about Cinque Terre—from a full-blown authentic Italian but not a mama’s boy. Several minutes passed before he returned, with ears redder than before which I didn’t think possible.

  “That was Zia Octavia. She does not speak to strangers who telephone the villa after her bedtime.” He handed me his phone. “It seems your sister called last night around midnight. She wants you to contact her as soon as possible.”

  What now. Margo probably needed one of Mom’s Italian/American recipes, as if any of our short-cut versions could compete with the most basic of those in Italy. I went into the bedroom and tapped in the cell number we shared.

  Margo answered on the first ring, her voice bordering on panic. “Where the hell have you been?”

  “Cinque Terre, just as we’d planned in case you’ve forgotten. Is there a problem?”

  With that, Margo started to sob, her voice choking with the next words. “You must come back, right away as in today. It’s Giorgio, he’s … oh, El, he’s—”

  “My god, he’s dead?”

  “Worse than dead, we had a terrible fight, over how long to cook pasta, for god’s sake. Al dente, Giorgio kept saying, pointing to his teeth as if I were some kind of idiot. All I could think was … dental hygienist. He threw me out, literally, tossed my luggage down the stairs. The entire episode was too mortifying for words. I’m back in the lobby of our former pensione, trying to decide what to do.”