When Lorenzo glanced at his watch for the third time I told him to go, that El and I were quite capable of taking care of ourselves. He certainly took care of El during the night, never have I seen her cheeks so flushed as they were this morning. His less-than-stellar looks were started to grow on me; perhaps it was the polished manners that seldom made their way across The Pond. Or maybe his air of mystery I didn’t quite trust but couldn’t explain why. Before leaving, he planted the Italian kiss on both of us, lingering over El until she blushed and I felt a twinge of envy.
Then there were two, El and me, along with a half bottle of wine and two marvelous cups of espresso sans the grappa. Oh, yeah, I had learned my lesson well, considering my near brush with death the night before. Lorenzo had been gone about five minutes when an elderly gent showed up, dressed to the nines and a likely candidate for the geriatric version of sexiest man alive.
“Permesso?” he asked.
I caught El’s eye, and raised my brow as if to say, “You know him?”
She did, and introduced the man as Lorenzo’s uncle. Bernardo Cozzani sat between El and me, the same chair his nephew had occupied, and ordered another bottle of wine.
“Are you here to guard us?” El asked.
He smiled with a shrug, which I took as a non capice. I repeated her question in my broken Italian though decent enough for Signore Cozzani to understand.
“Si,” he said with a smile that told me he must’ve been quite the guy fifty years ago.
“Careful,” El whispered. “He might bite.”
“One can only hope,” I said. “At least he has his own teeth.”
My comment prompted a hardy laugh from the signore. Evidently, he understood more English than he first let on, and insisted I call him Bernardo. No problem for me, in fact a rather intriguing possibility since I’d never found myself on the younger end of a May-December fling. And couldn’t help but think Twilight vampire with warm blood running through Bernardo’s aging veins. Our waitress brought the wine Bernardo had ordered, along with four glasses. She filled three of them half way and when the signore gestured to the fourth, she filled it as well.
“Hmm,” I said to El. “Does this mean we’re getting more company?” Those words had barely escaped my mouth when a second man showed up at our table. A tourist perhaps, judging from his casual wear but judging from his dark hair and swarthy complexion, he didn’t appear typical American, nor Brit or German. Most definitely not my type; or El’s, mid-forties and more than a tad too ragged to take anywhere special would’ve been my best assessment.
Again, speaking in Italian, Bernardo Cozzani introduced the man as Fonso and asked permission for him to join us.
“Si, si,” I said, speaking for El as well as myself. Come on, I wanted to tell her, get with the program. She hadn’t take her eyes off of this Fonso until I jabbed my big toe into the arch of her foot, breaking whatever spell he’d cast on her.
Bernardo lifted his glass, the rest of us followed, ending with the universal click. I took my first sip. The wine a full-bodied red, much more substantial than the delicate bianco Lorenzo had ordered for our lunch. Fonso downed his in three gulps and in the earthy manner reminiscent of my peasant ancestors, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Although there was still wine in the bottle, the signore called for another, in spite of protests from El and me.
“We really should be on our way,” I explained in a combination of English and Italian. I started to get up, as did El until Fonso stopped us with a show of both palms.
“Please, here me out.” His near-perfect English carried a heavy accent, though not Italian or the regional dialects I’d heard throughout our trip. Except in Rome, no way could I have forgotten the Spanish Steps incident. El’s incident since she’d been the bait and switch victim.
“You’re a gypsy,” she blurted out. “I knew it, I knew it.”
He leaned forward, spoke in a low voice. “Please, signorina, this is true although my people and I prefer the term Roma. Either way, it would not be in your best interest to call attention to my ethnicity. Nor should you or your sister be afraid. I present myself as a friend, one who is willing to offer protection in exchange for your cooperation.”
“What?” she said in a voice matching his. “You want us to harass the tourists, pick a pocket or two, whatever it takes to keep our throats from getting slit?”
I got my face into his, our noses separated by a few inches. “Were you the cowardly bastard who attacked me last night?”
At this point Bernardo got up, and said, “Scuzi, il gabinetto.”
Good grief, of all times to answer nature’s call. Bernardo, proud and taller than any ninety-year-old I’d ever known. Okay, maybe I’d never known any before that day. Certainly, not one who carried himself with such dignity and grace.
“Don’t leave us with this man,” El said to Bernardo’s back as he walked away. “Lorenzo will never find us.”
“Please,” Fonso said. “Lorenzo Gentili is my friend and I am his. It is at his request that I am here with you.”
El squeezed her eyes shut. She covered her ears with her hands. Poor thing, one more crack added to the fragile disposition she’d adopted that day. I scanned what little I could see of the trattoria, in particular the route to the restroom but Bernardo had disappeared. Toilette, my ass, the old goat had deserted us, just as Lorenzo had done earlier. And to think my sister had fallen for him. I turned to El, pulled one hand away from her ear and spoke into it loud and clear. “Snap out of it, El. What do you think? Should we scream or yell for the carabinieri?”
While she was thinking too long, Fonso jumped in with another comment or two.
“Do as you must, signorini. But my being here can in no way be construed as a crime or as harassment. As you may recall, I was invited to join your table.”
“By Bernardo Cozzani who has now deserted us,” El said with the haughty expression I hadn’t seen since our time in Florence. Thank god, she’d come back to life, boring as it was, or had been, until the last few days.
“Signore Cozzani did not desert you,” Fonso said. “At his age a man must nap every afternoon in order to stay up all night.”
“Which makes no sense,” I said. “Unless … oh, yeah, now I get it.”
”Work with me, please,” Fonso said. “It will be to the benefit of all of us.”
“What do you think?” I asked El.
She scrunched up her face, close enough to qualify as a yes.
“It’s good, then,” Fonso said. “The three of us, we are now connected to each other.”
“Just as long as we don’t have to swap blood,” I said.
Ignoring my comment, Fonso added wine to my glass, El’s too until she gestured for him to stop. The whole ritual of clicking glasses did not come up, which suited me just fine. Fonso was well into draining another glass before El and I had taken our second sip. He wiped his mouth again, called the waitress over, and ordered a platter of bread, fruit, and cheese.
“Forgive me,” he said, patting his belly bump. “Better yet, my hunger that cannot be ignored at a time such as this. I have not eaten yet today and only do so with great sadness. Our people are in mourning for two of our own, those women who were taken from us before their time, who died in a place other than their own beds. We are … were from the same tribe, and share blood going back to the grandparents of our parents.”
“One of the dead women stole my wallet,” El said.
“An inconvenience at best,” Fonso said.
“More than an inconvenience,” El said, “but less than a capital offense. I am not so callous as to think blatant thievery warranted her death.”
“Good, on that we agree.”
“What I don’t understand is: how she would have known I’d be on that boat.”
“A mere coincidence,” he said, “an opportunity too good to pass up or so I have been told.”
“Thanks. I’ll explain that to my aches and pains when the
y get out of control, as they have every day since the so-called accident. But did it end there, no. Two other gypsies harassed me the other day, one for the second time.”
“A bit of playful revenge as a result of the Autogrille incident, again so I’ve been told,” Fonso said, “although I have no firsthand knowledge of this.”
“And yet you knew about it.”
“The individuals involved I know although not well.”
“I don’t know them at all and yet they hate me.”
“Perhaps they object to a certain gesture.”
“You mean this?” El started to configure the forefinger and pinky gesture but Fonso placed his hand over hers.
“No need to demonstrate,” he said.
“What about this one?” I made the same gesture but held it up, palm near my chest.
“No, no, no … not the corna,” Fonso whispered. He leaned over with every intention of moving my hand but I lowered it on my own.
“Never do that unless you mean it,” he said, again in a whisper. “In Italy the corna is very, very bad.”
“How bad?” I asked.
“Worse than an insult, more like a curse. Si, a curse, very bad … a curse should not be put upon without good reason.”
“Which explains why The Mama from Hell put one on me,” I said.
“What, you didn’t tell me,” El said.
“You didn’t seem interested. Besides, at the time Giorgio’s mama giving me two fingers didn’t seem nearly as bad as her throwing euros at me. So now I’m cursed, which explains the alley incident—a gypsy hit man out to get me.”
“Please signorini, both of you. Do not let imagination overrule the common sense God has given you.”
“Easy enough for you,” Ellen said. “They’re your relatives.”
“Those renegades, please, do not cast this aspersion on me or my family. Not one ounce of common blood flows through our veins, which means I take no responsibility for the actions of these non-relatives. Nor they for mine.”
“They, who are they,” I said. “We want names.”
“The man, Tas. His woman, Lila; that is all I can tell you. Take the advice of a Roma who knows more than you ever will: forget the unfortunate incident.”
“One that better not be repeated,” I said.
“Again, I cannot be responsible for the actions of those outside my own tribe.”
By this time the platter of goodies had arrived, along with three small plates. Fonso helped himself and with a wave of his hand invited us to do the same. I couldn’t resist cheese so pungent and creamy; the figs sweet enough but not cloying. El reached for the bread but changed her mind when she noticed I hadn’t taken any.
“Then what about my money,” she said. “It was still in my wallet, both in the woman’s possession when she died.”
“This we do not understand,” Fonso said. “But we are considering a possible connection between the murders and the assault on the beautiful Signorina Margo.”
Well, at least he got that part right, which prompted me to ask, “Are you saying it’s possible the perpetrator was not one of your people?”
“In spite of what outsiders believe us to be and of those centuries-old legends that haunt us to this day, we Roma, for the most part, are not murderers. Unless there is a compelling reason that cannot be ignored—retribution, infidelity, cheating, thievery within the tribe—the usual reasons men have been killing each other since the beginning of time. Now the killing of women …” he cocked his head, “that, dear ladies, is most despicable. Crimes of passion, jealous lovers—possibly, although I only know of three or four such instances in the past ten years, no different from the non-gypsy world, would you not say?”
I couldn’t argue with him there, although I only knew murderers through the evening news or newspapers or so-called entertainment, never up close and personal. Not to be outdone, I threw him another loop, one I couldn’t resist. “So, how does Lorenzo Gentili fit into this?”
Fonso lathered soft cheese on a piece of bread. After sticking a fig on top, he bit down and with clenched teeth tore half the bread away from his mouth. In between chews he managed to say, “Lorenzo and I go back a long way. He is a man of integrity. An ambassador for all of Cinque Terre is my understanding, although my people and I are only passing through.”
“You’re evading the question,” I said. “You need to level with my sister and me, or this conversation ends as of now. What is the connection between you and Lorenzo?”
He opened his palms. “A relative by way of marriage, any more will have to come from him and not me.”
El shook her head. She took another sip of wine, followed by two more before speaking. “I’m still confused.”
“Me too,” I said. “Just what can you do for us and what can we do for you?”
“More than you could possibly imagine. For the duration of your stay, allow me and my men to follow the two of you. Ideally, from time to time you should go your separate ways, especially during the evening hours.”
“To give the killer a better opportunity to kill one of us, you have got to be kidding.”
“In spite of what Commissario Dante Novaro may have told you, we—my people and I—believe the murderer will come after one or both of you again.” Fonso took a swallow of wine, once more wiped his mouth, and added, “Just as he did with our women.”
“Your women,” El said. “I take it the victims had names.”
“Si, forgive me for not identifying them sooner. These were women in the highest esteem, women who knew how to eat and drink and make love, although this I did not experience firsthand from either of them. Nadya was first to die. An earlier attempt on her life failed; the circumstances of which to the everlasting regret of our family we did not pursue.”
“Please don’t tell me those circumstances occurred in a dark alley,” I said.
“Better you should not dwell on the negative,” Fonso said. “Tania was the second victim. To our knowledge there was but one attempt on Tania and unfortunately so unexpected it caught us off guard. Never again, there must never be a third. Nor should it extend to one such as yourself who clearly despises our people.”
“I beg to differ, more like fear.”
“Either way, these unfortunate incidents tend to create an irreversible domino effect. Now, about our proposal ….”
His proposal, please, I wanted to barf but instead maintained a composure that would’ve pleased Mom. “This is positively ludicrous,” I told El. “And most definitely not our problem. Let’s go home, I mean to St. Louis, not that apartment where you … never mind.”
Did she listen to me? No. Instead, she egged on the gypsy with one inane question after the other until one of those questions told me she might be reverting to her normal self. “About these men following us,” El went on, “how will we know the good guys from the bad?”
I drained my glass and not waiting for Fonso, poured more for myself.
“You must put your trust in me,” he said. “On my honor as a Roma I will not fail either of you. Nor will those who have already pledged their allegiance to this mission.”
“Just thinking about this gives me the willies,” El said. “Still, to be part of—”
“Speak for yourself, El. I’m not on board.” Yet, I almost added but still wasn’t sold on the stupid idea. “For the life of me, or perhaps I should say death, I’m just not … uh, conceptualizing this whole thing.”
Fonso spoke while using a bread heel to clean up bits and dribbles from the platter. “Must I remind you again: my tribal brothers and I come from the loins of the purist of Roma, the undiluted blood of our ancestors flows through the veins of the most restless among us. Repeated attempts to understand our motives will only confuse you to the point of paranoia.”
“I’m not confused,” El said.
“Me either.” I grabbed her hand as a sign of solidarity and to keep it from trembling any more than it already was. “We have to see w
ho my protectors are. Otherwise, it’s a definite no-go.”
Fonso sighed, the first sign of giving in. “Very well, but to waste another day could result in another death, perhaps yours, Signorina Margo.” He turned to El. “Or yours, Signorina Elena.”
“I say we go home, El.”
“That will not be necessary,” Fonso said. “Come to San Giovanni Battista this afternoon at five o’clock. You will find my men kneeling in prayer, every other pew on the right side. Circle around the church from left to right but only glance in their direction once or twice. They already know who you are. Do not, under any circumstances, engage them in any communication whatsoever, written, verbal, or through eye contact. Campira, signorini?”
Okay, okay, we got it. And Fonso got the hell out of there.
***
El and I spent the rest of our afternoon strolling around the shops and buying souvenirs we didn’t need and more than enough for the folks back home. At one of the better shops a clerk recognized El and to my surprise asked if she had changed her mind about the earrings.
“Earrings, which pair?” I asked. “Show me.”
The clerk opened the case, brought out these amber stones, and handed them to me.
I went to the mirror, brushed my hair back, and held one earring to the right of my face while El stood behind me. “They’re absolutely gorgeous, El, you really should treat yourself.”
“I know I’m worth it,” she said. “And more, but they’re still too expensive.”
“Not for me.” I handed the earrings back to the clerk along with my credit card. El’s silence spoke volumes. I could feel her seething. Little did she know that I’d be giving the earrings to her later, my way of saying thanks for putting up with the occasional rant. Sometimes I tend to get a little bitchy, okay major bitchy. But, hey, what are big sisters for, if not to remind little sisters who came first.
Italy to Die For Page 14