“I gotta hand it to you. I don’t think I would have the patience.”
“It’s our survival, Nick. I don’t have to tell you our world has changed.”
“That’s for sure. You know, while we were eating, I noticed how you spoke about Rachele. It’s like you’re singing a melody from Irving Berlin, the Gershwin brothers and Cole Porter all rolled into one. I envy you, buddy.”
“I’ve got something for you Nick.” Nathan handed him a postcard.
“Great, I’ll give this to my Pop. Loves collecting Italian stamps.”
“Cretino, read who it’s from.”
Nick read all the way until he hit the signature, ‘Caterina.’ He placed the postcard on the table and pushed it over to Nathan. “I think one hunt for a missing person is enough, wouldn’t you say, Nate?”
“What are you talkin’ about? We know where she is now. She’s on the island of Panarea.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Come on, Nick.” He picked up the card, pointed to the picture and placed it nearer to Nick. “It’s part of the Sicilian islands, the Isole Eolie. You know the Aeolian Islands.”
“Okay, I get it. The islands from Homer’s Odyssey. So what?”
“Stop pulling my leg. You’d never find your old girlfriend in Rome, but now Rachele comes up with this postcard from Caterina.” Nathan slapped his hand on it. “There’s no return address but it’s marked Panarea.” He turned it over and touched the cancellation stamp. “Caterina left Roma for a small island.”
“Good for her.”
“What do I have to do, spell everything out for you, Nick?”
“Our relationship died with the war.” Nick’s eyes darkened. “Besides, why would she be interested in seeing me anyway?”
“For old times’ sake. Isn’t that good enough?”
“That’s a helluva trip to go down memory lane. I’ll have to pass on it.”
“You know, I thought I didn’t have the courage to tell Rachele how I feel about her, but when I look at you now, I think you’re the one with no coglione.”
“I’m the Italian here, not you.”
“No, you’re wrong. A branch of my family is as Italian as yours, or have you forgotten?”
“Okay, you’re a regular paisan. I’m not going anywhere. Besides, what’s it to you?”
“I got to know Caterina better when you went off to get my cousin out of Venice. She’s worth a journey.” He grabbed Nick’s wrist. “Look, I’m indebted to you for what you did for Carlo.” Nathan released his grip.
“You would have done the same for my cuginu.”
“I got the gal all wrong. Caterina is one hell of a dame. Smart, good looking. When I was teaching her how to paint, her technique was poor at first, but she worked hard at it. She has the passion for it.”
“You two seemed to hit off real well while I was gone.”
“There you go again, tryin’ to get out of something by cooking up spuntini filled with jealousy. Go where your heart is, smuck. Remember how I kept on cursing you out in several languages when you broke up with her.”
“Couldn’t hear you. Had the pillow over my head.”
“Stop hiding your feelings. You can’t bullshit me. Don’t let her get away, will ya? If you do, you’ll never forgive yourself for not trying. You were so close to something happening big in your life and you let it slip away. If she told you to go to hell, I can’t say you wouldn’t deserve it. But you’re the best buddy a guy could have, so I’m not going to have it on my conscience that I didn’t press you to go. You’ve got nothing to lose. Maybe you just want to sit by yourself in restaurants the rest of your life looking at the paintings on the wall or maybe just marry the first woman willing to put up with you.”
“Stop getting under my skin!”
“No, you got it all wrong again. Caterina should be under your skin.”
Nick felt Nate had just hit the nerve endings in his bad leg but didn’t let on.
“You know something, Nick, with all the things that Rachele has gone through, she still remembered her good friend, Caterina. Maybe she can’t articulate her feelings well, but I could see she was worried about Caterina when she handed me that postcard you tossed aside. And what about you, Nick? Aren’t you at least curious as to what happened to her?” Nick’s eyes watered up. “Don’t do it for me, buddy, do it for yourself.”
“Signor, altro bicchiere di grappa per me e mio amico,” Nick called out and then turned to Nate. “Okay, okay. I’ll go.”
“Now you’re talking, buddy. Tell the waiter to leave the bottle when he comes back. Who the hell cares if we wake up the monastery tonight?”
XXV
The last ferry of the day from the Milazzo port docked at Panarea, the night sky aglow from the volcanic fire northeast on Stromboli. Nick wondered if he were entering paradiso, as other travelers liked to call the island. Or was it really a way station for that erupting island in the distance or the other one he passed, the southwesterly island of Vulcano, known for its sulfuric air marking its harbor? He headed for a brightly lit café on the southern edge of town, passing a few stores and a row of fishing boats lined up on the beach near the port of San Pietro. When he reached the place, he ascended the steps imbedded with black lava stones that led to a small terrazzo facing a group of tiny islands barely visible and Stromboli further up. He carried his gear in a hiker’s backpack and dropped it on the floor under the outside lamp. The thud of his pack hitting the floor brought the café owner out onto the terrace. A man, who looked around fifty, observed Nick’s attire before speaking.
“Inglese, Signor?”
“No, Americano.”
“You have come a long way. È veru.”
“Si. From San Francisco.”
“I know about San Francisco.” The owner smiled. “Big red bridge. I have a cousin there. Perhaps you know him?”
“It’s a big place. Come si chiama?”
“Giuseppe Randazzo, cuginu miu. Io sono Salvatore Randazzo.”
“Like I said, molta genti. Don’t know any Randazzos.”
Salvatore stroked his beard. “Mancia!”
“I’m not hungry. Vorrei un caffé.”
“Certu.”
The fireworks on Stromboli intensified while he waited for his espresso. Nick was alone on a mission that Nathan was surer of than he was. Not that he didn’t want to see Caterina again, but after the way he disappeared from her life, his journey to reconnect was as perilous as bathing near the shoreline under a volcano, waiting for sizzling lava to slope down a path where it has been dropping for years, creating a whirling cauldron in the sea.
“Ecculu, Signuri. Comu ti chiami?”
“Nicolo Spataro.”
“That name sounds Sicilianu.”
“Si.”
“You have returned home. It is in your blood.”
“I’m not sure why I am here. I just need a place to stay.”
“I have a room available upstairs. It is not expensive.”
“Grazii, Salvatore.” Nick sipped the last drop of espresso and followed Salvatore to his new room. He placed his backpack on a chair and settled on the bed without taking his clothes off. He couldn’t sleep and got up to look through the casement windows. After opening them wide, he could still see the volcano smoldering away, leaving steamy puffs of smoke obliterating the skyline. He went back to bed and fell into a deep sleep filled with a dream that he would not choose to recall in the morning, when he awoke with a soaked undershirt. But he could not stop the flashback to the ferryman who had asked Nick for payment to get off at an unfamiliar island. He dug deep into his pockets, then rifled though his backpack and came up with nothing, while the ferryman seem to loom larger over him with each second. As the ferry moved backwards from the dock, the ferryman’s mouth extended so wide while he yelled for his money, Nick thought he would be devoured at any moment. He begged the ferryman to understand his situation but was catapulted into the sea. He swam, smashing his ar
ms and legs on the water’s surface towards the sole light in the pitchblackness, a fire at the summit of another island, while a shark’s fin sliced the water in a decreasing circle around him. He changed strokes to those of a synchronized swimmer, hoping to fool his stalker while mumbling every saint’s name he could think of, as well as every permutation of Mother Mary’s name.
At breakfast inside the café, Nick watched some of the villagers stop by for a caffé and a cornetto, chattering in Sicilian, Italian, or a combination of both. He lost himself in the banter of the morning regulars. When the café got quiet, Salvatore sat down next to Nick.
“Did you have a good rest?”
“I slept, but not peacefully.”
“Your backpack is gone and yet it seems you still have a weight on your shoulders. Another Atlas.”
“I carry more than a myth but I’m not seeking solace.”
“Mi dispiaci, my nature is to be simpaticu.”
“Well, maybe you can help me. I’m looking for someone.”
“Una bella donna.” Salvatore laughed. “We men are always looking for one.”
“Okay, if you don’t want to help.”
“No Signuri Nicolo. I was just having a little fun.”
“Just call me Nick.”
“Whatever you say, Mr. Nick.”
“I’m searching for a Caterina. Her last name is Rossetto. She is a Milanese. Met her in Roma.”
“Ah, you must be very careful how you treat such a woman.”
“You don’t know her.”
“Tu sì giustu ma … Allura, she is not from here. That’s all I can tell you.”
“Are you sure?”
“I have lived here my whole life and know everyone and everything. And whatever I don’t know, someone will gossip to me before long. There are always some scanusciuti here, è veru, looking for something, but no Caterina. Who knows, maybe she snuck in when I was away? Why don’t you take a hike on the road and find a beach to walk on? You can throw your troubles to our winds.” Salvatore raised his right forearm, palm open and slowly lowered it. “I’ll ask around if there is da donna mistiriusa from Milano, Roma, et cetera. We can talk when you come back for pranzu.”
As Nick strolled east along the narrow trail, he passed by houses hidden by whitewashed walls, some with purple bougainvillea clinging to them, the sea revealing itself unexpectedly. He discovered a small church, Chiesa San Pedro. There was no one inside and he lit a candle in front of the saint’s statue. He made the sign of the cross and stepped out the door. The sun blurred his vision, as if a sign that his search would be futile. He continued on and found a beach on the cove of Zimmari. Nick took off his boots and socks and carried them, as he ran through the red sand in slow motion to confirm that he belonged on terra firma. When he came to the end of the cove, he sat on a rock, dropping his footwear, to have a smoke and enjoy the unspoiled setting, but there was no one to share the moment with. Within minutes a shooting pain began from his right calf and wrapped around his lower leg, clamping it like an alley cat sinking its sectorial teeth into a hapless mouse. He limped to the edge of the water, rolled up his pants and waded up to his knees. The cold water shocked the heat in his leg. Before returning to his rocky seat, he scooped several handfuls of muddy sand and smeared it over the sore leg. He lowered himself onto the rock, as the throbbing subsided.
As Nick stared at the Tyrrhenian Sea, he rationalized that this business of being alone wasn’t such a big deal, until Caterina morphed into this watery scene and remembrances of her floated around the undulating sea, memories that he had tried to wash away when he returned to San Francisco. When the sound of the surf brought him back to the present, Nick rubbed the caked mud off, unrolled his pants gingerly and put his socks and boots on. He returned to the café, picking up the pace in anticipation of what Salvatore might have found out. The salty air invigorated him and, as he passed the tiny church again, he wondered why he had not seen or heard the chatter of birds, a sign of bad luck as far as he was concerned.
When Nick got back to the café, he sat at the same table on the terrazzo and watched the movement of fishing boats and the scheduled ferries docking. Salvatore brought out an espresso for Nick, assuming he would need a late morning jolt. He placed the cup down and smiled, but Nick continued peering at the sea.
“Bon giornu, Mr. Nick. How did your hike go?”
“Va beni. Did you learn anything from your paisani?”
“Mi dispiaci. Nenti!” Salvatore rubbed his beard. “Perhaps something will turn up.”
Nick drank his espresso to the bottom and walked into the rear of the café to find the bagno. As he approached the door, there was an occupato sign on the lock mechanism. To kill some time, he moseyed around the middle of the café admiring plates with a sage green, yellow and blue design displayed on a shelf. He turned one around and saw it was crafted in Caltigirone. On the opposite side he noticed a painting in an alcove that would normally have had a statue of a saint. He moved closer to get a better look. The rendering was of a fountain, which reminded him of the one in Piazza Madonna dei Monti. His eyes ran over the canvas and led to the right corner where he saw a name scribbled.
“Salvatore, veni cca,” Nick shouted, while Salvatore finished rinsing a glass.
“What’s all the fuss?”
“It’s signed Caterina. The last name starts with an R and trails off. I thought you said there was no one on this island with that name.”
Salvatore looked up to the ceiling. “Si, a woman who is new to Panarea gave it to me to hang on the wall.” He looked back at Nick. “Said it was on loan for a while. She advised me to fill all the walls with local artists. Ma chi sacciu? But what do I know? She laughed at me for being rusticu, not knowing how to attract tourists.” Nick just wanted to know who dropped the painting off. In exasperation, he extended his right hand palm down, opening and closing four fingers on his thumb, but Salvatore ignored him. “Telling me my place needed to look like the bohemian cafés in Roma. So to keep her happy, after all, she is very attractive, marone, her breasts …”
“Pregu, who is she?”
“Her first name is Isabella. That is all I know.”
“Caterina had a friend named Isabella.” Nick tapped his forehead. “Allura, what else can you tell me?”
“Isabella came here six months ago and rented a villa beyond Chiesa San Pedro.”
“I went by the church this morning.”
“There is a small child. A boy. They hardly ever leave the villa. My nephew, Giovanni, sometimes runs errands for them. If you wish, I’ll get him. You would need him to lead you, as the villa è molto difficili to find.”
“Pregu, it is my only lead.”
“I’ll make you a light pranzu, insalata di mare. Va beni?”
“Grazii, Salvatore.” Nick ran off to the bathroom.
The next morning Nick trailed several steps behind Salvatore’s nephew who looked unhappy that he had to play guide, as the boy strode down the trail, just wide enough to fit a camioncino. Before they reached San Pedro, the boy deviated left on a path, motioning Nick to follow. It was a trail that one person could fit on, winding down an incline. The nephew stopped at a lookout spot and pointed to the villa and said, “Dda” and then took off leaving Nick by himself.
The path widened as Nick got closer to the villa and he chose a hidden vantage point behind a group of prickly pear cactuses where he could see who came in and out. He was thirsty and drank some acqua minerale from a thermos while he waited. A red heron landed on the outside wall of the villa that was covered with purple bougainvillea. The bird had lighted its long body on the top of the wall, made no sound, then flew away. He thought for sure this was a sign and decided to stay as long as it took to see the signora who had dropped the painting off.
Nick munched on some biscotti that Salvatore had stuffed in his shirt picket. He dropped the biscuit when the door opened and saw a woman who held a small boy by the hand. She looked familiar to him. The sun w
as in his eyes and he rubbed them, as he struggled to get a better view of her as she climbed up past him. This was the same Isabella he had met in Assisi, but her curly, black hair was cut much shorter. Perspiration lined his neck at the thought that Caterina was likely to follow, but the door remained shut. He tracked Isabella and the boy into the village, keeping back so far that he could have lost her because he feared she might recognize and interrogate him. If Nick could be unnerved by Isabella’s presence, he couldn’t imagine how he would react if he ran into Caterina.
That night he opened the window to his room to observe the nature show that took place each night. There were billows of smoke emanating from the cone of Stromboli and the star patterns were murky. He could hear the sound of the surf that beat on the shore below his window. He figured since he had come this far, then the least he could do was approach Isabella. There would be no harm in that. He saw the outline of a pair of birds in a channel of water, and judging by their beaks, he thought they were red herons. He wondered if one of them had been the visitor on the villa wall, keeping a watchful eye on him. He undressed to his boxers and white undershirt and stretched himself out on the bed, waiting for sleep to come.
The following morning, encouraged by Salvatore, he set out for the villa again. He reached his destination much faster than he expected and hesitated before knocking, cleaning the dust from his boots on the back of his dungarees. A middle-aged woman in a pastel housedress came to the door, opened it half way and questioned Nick’s presence at the villa. He waited like one of those undertakers who stands at the center of the funeral home, directing mourners to the viewing room with an expression that belies emotion—mulling over how he should act if Caterina were to materialize in front of him after all this time. Or maybe he was already dead of emotion lying in the casket, and near him a faux night table with a photo of Caterina and him and some funeral holy cards of his patron saint stamped on it.
Nick overheard a woman’s voice from another room, allowing him to follow the housekeeper onto the terrazzo, where he busied himself watching a sailboat heading south towards the island of Vulcano. A cool breeze blew under the tent-like structure that he stood under. The signora of the villa entered with a boy who hid behind her.
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