Italy to Die For

by Loretta Giacoletto

  “Don’t hurry back on my account. I’ll be fine, really. As soon as Margo gets here, we’ll keep each other occupied.”

  “Only until I return, I hope.”

  “Only until she finds someone more attentive,” I said.

  “Then we must help her find that certain someone.”

  “Trust me. Margo doesn’t need any help.”

  While we’d been discussing the merits of Margo, Lorenzo kept checking his watch. After the fourth glance I told him to go, that I would straighten up, a minimal task at best.

  “But you are my guest.”

  “More than your guest, unless I’m mistaken.”

  “You are much more than a guest,” he said, “And more than a friend.”

  His smile confirmed the direction our relationship was heading. “In America friends help each other out,” I said.

  “The same is true in Italy.”

  “Then go. Take care of business so we can play afterwards.”

  “We will play during the day before making love all night long. That is, if you will allow me the pleasure.”

  I answered with a deep kiss and exchange of saliva, neither of which convinced him to stay. He went to his bedroom, and returned minutes later wearing a tan sports jacket and navy blue trousers, a white shirt and striped tie. A definite improvement from anything I’d seen thus far, except for the body I now knew under those clothes. Lorenzo had assumed his formal role again, that of a man who made it clear that his business was none of mine and of a reserved host intent on pleasing his American guest, a paying guest until today—the subject of money hadn’t come up again. Although I did ask him to bring my luggage on his return, just in case things didn’t work out between us. That part I didn’t tell him.

  Before he left, we exchanged the typical Italian goodbye kiss and nothing more, a disappointment considering the six or seven hours we’d spent together, the access I’d given him, not only to my body but to my heart and my soul.

  After the door closed behind Lorenzo, I went out to the balcony, leaned over the railing and waited until I saw him for an exchange of polite waves. He turned to the right, away from old Monterosso and toward the car park, and beyond there to where one road would lead to another and eventually back to La Spezia.

  Putting the apartment back in order became a simple task of washing, drying, and arranging a few dishes in an open hutch that serious collectors would’ve traded the family china to acquire. Having finished by nine o’clock gave me two hours of free time before Margo. No point in wasting what promised to be a good morning. I stuffed a paperback into my handbag, locked the door, and hurried down the stairs.

  As with every day, this was a new day, one making way for the new me. I walked with a purpose, the injured hip and thigh refreshed from a night I’d never forget. Several shopkeepers smiled, as if I were an acquaintance. Could they tell I’d crossed over to the other side? Was there a look about me, something in my eyes they hadn’t noticed the day before. To my surprise the proprietor of a souvenir shop stopped me.

  “Lorenzo is not with you today,” he said in passable English. “This is not good.”

  I forced a smile to accompany what had to be considered a lie. “We are friends and nothing more.”

  “Ah-h, for the romance to endure it must first begin with a friendship.”

  “No, no. You don’t understand.”

  “I think it is you who do not understand, signorina.”

  ***

  I arrived at the Church of San Giovanni Battista around ten o’clock, an hour earlier than the time I’d agreed to meet Margo. Time to check my guidebook; I needed to educate myself, to jot down a few notes in the margins … just as I’d done in Florence and before Florence, Rome … and all stops in-between. Hmm, the green and white marble facade of this thirteenth century church distinguished it from the other buildings located in the old section. Yes, a few more notes. Inside the church was more green and white marble, its design woven into the supporting columns and arches that complemented similar windows and contrasted against the white walls and ceiling. While several tourists strolled around; others knelt in prayer, a form of worship I no longer did with the dedication that once filled my life. After a painful genuflection I slipped into a narrow pew, bent both knees to the unforgiving kneeler, and crossed myself.

  My lips moved but no sound came from them. “Oh Lord, bless the soul of that murdered gypsy. Let the perpetrator be found before he kills again. Or she, although I can’t imagine one female killing another but anything is possible, I guess.” My painful knees reminded my thigh to rebel, so much so that I sat back into the pew and ended my prayer with, “As for Margo, give me strength to replace my shameful envy with the patience I sorely lack. Oh, and thanks for letting me have my first taste of love and please don’t let me make a fool of myself over this … this holiday romance. Unless it gets seriously serious, in which case please clear my head of any stupidity standing between the old me and the new me. Amen.”

  I sat for another half hour, reveling in the quiet and comfortable with my decision to leave the convent after two years.

  “You didn’t have enough discipline,” Mom had told me with a click of her tongue. “You were and still are too wrapped up with yourself instead of Our Lord.”

  “Thanks for the mini psychological appraisal,” was all I could say.

  But did she leave it alone, no.

  “Who knows you better than me, your mother? Make the most of your best traits—common sense and more brains than your sister will ever have.”

  “But she’s prettier.”

  I didn’t see it coming, the sharp sting of her hand across my face. “Stop whining. Such nonsense doesn’t become a failed nun.”

  “You mean postulate. I didn’t take my final vows.”

  Even now, ten years later, I rubbed my cheek, the humiliation still with me but not a single tear shed. Shifting in my pew, I looked around to see the church emptied of tourists. Enough with the mental flagellation, the new me got up, moved into the aisle and genuflected. Whatever physical pain I’d been feeling had taken a much-needed break. I walked toward the exit and from there into the welcoming sun of my new day.

  Another thirty minutes of window shopping and feigned interest in souvenirs passed before I returned to the church, this time positioning my rear end on an outside bench, the perfect spot for catching sight of Margo on her upward trek from the boat dock. Two men wandered by, both gypsies I figured because one was the smarmy gypsy from yesterday. I met his gaze with mine and refused to back down.

  “Whatever you’d like to say, don’t bother,” I told him. “Or else I’ll scream and then you’ll really be sorry.”

  Other than the hissing sound he made with his tongue darting in and out, followed by a flash of gold tooth when he curled his lip and sneered, the gypsy did nothing else that would’ve given me an excuse to carry out my scream threat. When he hissed a second time, I returned the insult with the horn gesture, bringing a merciful end to an exchange of one-upmanship. The other gypsy mumbled something under his breath and they both moved on, I guess with more important concerns than me, an uppity Americana.

  After the gypsies came an elderly man, about ninety years old and dressed in an elegant summer suit similar to those I’d seen on Via Venuta in Rome. He tipped his panama hat to me and grinned with what appeared to be the teeth God had given him.

  “Buongiorno, signorina,” the gentleman said. He asked how I was. “Come vanno le cose?”

  “Bene, et tu?” Fine, I told him and asked the same of him.

  “Molto bene, grazie. E Lei Americana?”

  “Si. And my Italiano is very poor.”

  He sat beside me and continued to speak in Italian, very slowly to make sure I understood each word. One phrase I didn’t get until he repeated it for a third time; and only then did I realize he’d been propositioning me.

  I laughed, and shook my head. “I don’t even know your name.”

 
; “Io sono Bernardo Cozzani,” he said with a lift of his tanned brow.

  I played the tease, responding as Margo would have. “No, no, no. I am too old for you, Signore Cozzani.”

  “Bernardo,” he said and asked if I would have cappuccino with him.

  Pointing to my watch, I shook my head again. “I am meeting someone.”

  Bernardo held up one forefinger, the nail buffed to a fine sheen. “Uno,” he said with the smile I now found irresistible. “Venti minuti.”

  Twenty minutes, why not. Knowing Margo, I figured she’d be late anyway.

  I stood alongside my new friend, slid my arm through his, and we walked across the way to the same trattoria I’d crashed on my arrival at Monterosso. The owner quickly seated us and brought a cappuccino for me and for Bernardo, two drinks—a grappa and an espresso.

  “Bella, bella, Elena,” he said, lifting the grappa to me.

  “You know my name?”

  Instead of answering my question, Bernardo turned his attention to a prominent official approaching our table, one I’d met the day before. Commissioner Novaro nodded to me and began a conversation with Bernardo, naturally in Italian too fast for my brain to absorb. All except for two key words I’d recently come to recognize: femmina morta. Or dead female, either version reminded me to care about the least among us.

  When both men paused at the same time, it took all the courage I could muster to blurt out, “Scusi, Commissario, is this about the gypsy found dead on the beach?”

  To my relief he replied in English. “You know about the deceased, signorina?”

  “Doesn’t everyone? Her story was in the newspaper.” Okay, so I couldn’t read Italian any better than I spoke it.

  “Si, a most unfortunate incident,” the commissioner said, “but as a tourist you need not be concerned.”

  “For my safety, no; but what about the woman, she died under mysterious circumstances?”

  “My men … , as we speak?”

  “Why do I get the feeling there’s more?’

  If looks could kill … clearly my persistence was annoying the commissioner. Bernardo came to the rescue with a few soft-spoken words and a bottle of wine that appeared like magic. Along with the waiter who filled three glasses.

  We didn’t bother with clicking before sipping. After our second sip and a glance toward Bernardo, the commissioner released a new wrinkle I had not expected.

  “Another woman found dead, signorina. The body was discovered early this morning in the train tunnel.”

  I nearly choked on the wine trickling down my throat. “First the beach now the tunnel, what’s going on with these gypsies?”

  “Do not be too presumptive,” he said with the indignation I probably deserved. “For all we know, the victim could’ve been a tourist although she has yet to be identified. We expect to solve both crimes within a matter of days.”

  “How did she die?”

  “I’d rather not say.” He poured more wine for himself and Bernardo. None for me, thank you.

  “Do you have any suspects?” I asked.

  “None I wish to discuss.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  “Careful, signorina, I have told you far more than any tourist should expect.”

  “My apologies, Commissioner, just one more question, please. About Lorenzo Gentili, he left early this morning and I was wondering if that had anything to do with the investigation.”

  “Lorenzo è un uomo occupato,” Bernardo said, referring to what a busy man Lorenzo was.

  “You know Lorenzo?” I asked. Then it hit me: why Bernardo knew my name before I’d given it to him.

  He shrugged in the manner of all Italians when they don’t want to answer a question.

  “Perhaps I should explain,” the commissioner said. “Signore Cozzani is the zio of Lorenzo.”

  His uncle, please. Lorenzo had sent this nonagenarian, this geriatric gigolo to look out for me, Ellen Savino, who’d been looking out for herself since parting company with the Ursulines. Not knowing whether to be amused or insulted, I stood up instead. “Scusi, I must find my sister.”

  “Be assured, your sister is in no danger,” the commissioner said.

  “But I will feel better when I meet up with her.” Nodding to both men, I added, “Grazie and arrivedeci, signori.”

  ***

  I hurried back to the church and squeezed onto one end of the now crowded bench. Another woman murdered, this time perhaps a tourist, so there may not have been much relevance to the first victim being a gypsy. Did this woman bleed out too? Not on the beach but in the train tunnel? An area I’d walked with Lorenzo and Jonathan less than twenty-four hours before.

  I pulled out my paperback and flipped to the marker. Four pages later having had no idea what I had read, I shoved the book back into my handbag and came across an emery board, which I used to smooth out the rough edges of my nails. No way could mine have competed with those of Bernardo Cozzani, how humiliating. Not the manicure, the whole set-up. Me being propositioned by a man old enough to be my grandfather, please.

  Still no Margo, where the hell was she? Margo should’ve stayed in La Spezia, better yet in Florence. No, she should’ve gone back to St. Louis where gypsies rarely ventured … although women did get murdered on occasion. If anything happened to her, I never would’ve forgiven myself for being me, as in catty to a fault. Sure, she may’ve had it coming at times. Okay, some of the time but not all the time.

  Memo to self:

  Be nicer to Margo, some of the time but not all of the time.

  Thirty or so tourists came strolling up the hill so I called out to a man who glanced in my direction. “Did you just get off the motorboat?”

  “You bet we did,” he replied in American English. “The villages are absolutely amazing.”

  I almost asked if he’d noticed a very attractive woman on board but didn’t want to appear desperate. Better to act like the civilized tourist Lorenzo had been entertaining. The one he’d made love to, one time.

  Chapter 17

  Another Boat to Cinque Terre

  Me, Margo Savino self-absorbed … get real, who was El kidding. The very thought made me feel like tossing my cookies, which I rarely did unless I’d eaten more than my fair share. Yes, I could’ve stayed in Firenze, made up with Giorgio, or not, depending on the Mama from Hell, but I couldn’t stop thinking about El and this fast friendship with a guy she barely knew. Not that I hadn’t found myself reeling from similar situations in the past but this was sweet, naïve El, my kid sis who lacked the experience, the know-how that came as second nature to me.

  After she’d recovered from her initial shock of my being at that precious villa in La Spezia, we agreed to meet the following day in Monterosso. Shortly after our call ended, the little old lady answered her phone, nodded a few times, and hung up. I only caught half of what she said to me but soon found myself sitting down to a bedtime snack of hot chocolate, a yummy mascarpone cheese and spinach panini, plus a wedge of hazelnut cake that I wound up carrying to my room—El’s too. She’d left most of her things behind, including the keys to our rental. Thank god for small favors. I even did one for El, stuffing the best of her dated wardrobe into one of my suitcases.

  A bathtub as big as this one was too tempting for me to resist. I soaked in hot, bubbly water, so soothing I could’ve fallen asleep and slipped into the next world had it not been for El needing me. Even though she wouldn’t know that until we met up again. Sleep did not come easy; never does when I’m trying to find my comfort zone in a bed new to me. This was not about being alone or missing Giorgio … well, perhaps his lean body, his strong arms yet boyish charm. The vision of his mama making that obscene gesture, of poking her face into mine stirred up the promise of an impending nightmare. Enough, why punish myself over an incident that could never be rectified even if I wanted it to, which I didn’t.

  Having parted company with the bed, I padded over to the window and checked out the moonlit ga
rden below. Good grief, never before had I seen so many cats in one place, all milling around bowls of … milk, I guess, given the price of cream although who knows what lurks in the mind of Italians and what value they place on nocturnal creatures that meow and purr and screw while the rest of the world sleeps. The villa’s little old lady must’ve taken care of these felines before putting herself to bed. Or could their supplier have been the younger woman below, dressed in a dream of romantic gauze. Walking away from the garden, she stopped without turning around, as if aware of me looking at her. Buona notte, I whispered, as much for myself as for the mysterious Cat Woman who disappeared into the night.

  The next morning I slipped into the white backless sundress I’d bought at a vintage shop in Rome while El was kneeling in a nearby church. Seize the moment, had always been my motto, especially when it involved a once-in-lifetime find such as this, one guaranteed to make heads turn.

  Famished, I walked into the villa’s dining room and sat down for another breakfast-as-usual in the Italian way, which should’ve been quite sufficient had I not been obsessing over visions of a big fat cinnamon roll or maybe a sausage and egg biscuit, something sinfully American, a dangerous precursor to Phase I Homesickness. That would change for the better as soon as I caught up with El and set her straight, that is, if she’d let me.

  But first things first: as in two espressos and a wedge of yummy cheese. After resisting a satisfying lick of my fingers, I went to my bathroom and took a satisfying pee instead, after which Little Old Lady helped me drag luggage to the Fiat parked too far from the villa but closer to the road. Did I complain? No, what would’ve been the point of playing the Brutta Americana. Instead we exchanged a grazie for a prego, a smile instead of a hug. She shook her head and kept telling me to wait, but what for? Time was a-wasting and I had none to waste.

  I climbed into the passenger side, prepared for El to take her place behind the wheel. Damn, perhaps I needed El as much as El needed me. Bury the thought, what a mind-boggling fiasco that would’ve been. I stepped out, spread a road map over the Fiat’s hood, and was trying to make sense of the route when a car pulled up and stopped alongside mine. The driver made a quick exit, and speaking in Italian I could understand, explained he’d been hired to drive me to the harbor, or anywhere else of my choosing. Halleluiah and double halleluiah. I tried thanking Little Old Lady but all I got in return was another smile.