Four Hundred and Forty Steps to the Sea

by Sara Alexander

  “Before my grandmother died, she was overtaken by a great wave of energy. I remember it well. We were in India. She’d gone into the kitchen, placed an apron on, and decided to cook alongside the staff. She instructed them on the art of the perfect roast dinner. Every detail was attended to. She didn’t sit down until everything was done, despite the heat. She didn’t order me out of the kitchen that day, rather insisted I too help. For a month she’d been bed-bound, but that day she was resurrected.”

  “She sounds wonderful.”

  “She was an abhorrent, terrifying woman. But that day she was beautiful. Dead, the next.”

  Off my look, he smiled.

  “It’s quite alright. No need for maudlin. I’m just saying that people, like vegetables, blossom at the end of their lives. The seeds were passed on to me, if you like. Oh dear, the heat’s already cloying my brain. You are to learn to stop me when I begin talking nonsense, Santina.”

  I wouldn’t dream of it. I liked his nonsense. I admired the way his thoughts brambled over one another. I adored the way he would step back after an observation and pick it apart, dismiss it, judge it. And I loved the way his face would crease several years younger as he did so; at once philosopher and curious child.

  Elizabeth’s voice echoed down the stairwell.

  “And so another morning is over,” he said, cleaning off the dirt from his fork and trowel with a rag from his pocket. He always returned the tools to the potting station he’d set up along the side of the house, polished. “You see to madam. I’ve quite the appetite this morning. I’ll eat outside. With the child. Only do let us teach her how to eat like a human, not a small ape, yes?” His face was a playful grin. “There’s time yet before we’re cooked.”

  He slipped the tools into the top drawer, slammed it shut, and went upstairs to wash and change for breakfast.

  The cicadas’ morning chorus deepened.

  * * *

  Elizabeth was settled into an early bedtime as usual, before the major and Adeline took to the terrace for dinner. I could sense the energy down in the bay. The heat had been furious, but I hadn’t stopped in the kitchen all day, simmering the freshly picked zucchini and cauliflower in vinegar, then jarring them with peppercorns, laurel, thin slices of shallots, and whole peeled garlic cloves to preserve for the winter. I counted twenty jars in a row, then permitted myself to finish a small plate of totani with patate—local squid cooked with homegrown potatoes. The heat hadn’t drained me today. I’d kept the shutter closed tight against its beams, and the kitchen became mine and Elizabeth’s cave for the day.

  Inside, I’d taken time to let the totani bubble with thin slices of garlic and skinned tomatoes from the garden. I’d diced the potatoes with precision, then let the mixture simmer for almost an hour. I knew that by the time the major and Adeline ate dinner the flavors of the sea and our fresh produce would have infused to a perfect balance. If I couldn’t eat the dish from any of the stalls down at the bay at the festa, I would be sure to take part from up here.

  I never minded dining alone. It was a welcome moment of solitude after the day, but this evening, I could hear the voices drift up to me from the beach. The performance would begin soon. I wiped my small bowl with a heel of bread, enjoyed the sweet garlicky tomatoes, then headed outside to clear the plates.

  “Santina, that was absolutely delicious!” the major called out. His spirits were still buoyant.

  “Whatever is happening down there, Santina? Is someone getting married?” Adeline asked, still wearing her nightdress. One of the straps hung listless over her arm.

  “Darling, I just told you—it’s Ferragosto, the whole town is erupting on account of the Madonna.”

  I stacked their plates, careful not to make a clatter.

  “Would you like to go down with them, Santina?” Adeline asked. I stopped scooping up the crumbs on the table into the dirty plates.

  “Are you sending Cinderella to the ball after all?” the major asked.

  “Don’t be abhorrent, Henry—look at her!”

  “I can’t imagine that carousing with fishermen is what Santina is after this evening.”

  “Do you imagine what Santina is after very often, Henry?”

  I didn’t want to watch this tennis match. “Shall I bring fruit now?”

  “Only if you want to, Santina,” Adeline said, spikes on her tongue. “Why don’t you ask Henry—he’ll know what you really want.”

  She threw her napkin on the table and glared at her husband.

  “Thank you, Santina, yes.”

  I retreated to my kitchen. The world was in order there. I knew Rosalia looked upon me as a slave to this family, doing more than my share of duties. She told me every other day that most families had several help. I couldn’t imagine being part of a team in such close quarters, day in, day out. Listening to the gossip. Defending the major. Having my loyalty criticized, teased. No, ours was an intimate unit, and it worked, unless Adeline was in the temper of this evening. Or the major for that matter.

  That’s when this room became my sanctuary. Rosalia and Paolino were all too ready to call it servitude, but in here, I was in charge. I was the alchemist. What I chose to cook could shift moods. Hot day: fresh fish to cool the blood. Spiteful moods: fennel, bitter chicory leaves for the liver. Too much restless energy: anything with and including fresh tomatoes, their rich juice, sweet and smart, perfect to balance hot and cold. I intuited more along the way. I dared not tell Rosalia. She would have called me a witch, splashed holy water in my face, and sent me to confession.

  I placed a glass bowl of peaches on the table outside.

  “Our Lady of the Nightgown has proclaimed it cruel for me to imprison you in this ivory tower. Take the evening off.”

  I stood, silent. He looked at his wife.

  “The exact level of joy I would have expected, Adeline—do you see that?”

  Adeline bit into a peach. A trickle of juice sweetened her chin.

  “You may use my knife, Adeline.”

  He handed it to her. She didn’t move. “Off you go, Santina.”

  “Elizabeth?” I asked.

  “A sleeping child is a blissful ward. I won’t repeat myself,” the major replied.

  I’d never run down to the bay quicker.

  * * *

  The beach was crushed with hot bodies. An accordion played beside a drummer thumping his tambourine. The band’s singer wailed a dancing tune. Stands lined the farthest end of the beach near the most popular haunt, especially with the visitors, Buca di Bacco. This is where the stars were photographed and their particulars telegraphed to me via Rosalia, who could somehow remember every detail about their appearance, from the slight crease around their eye to the width of their hem. The smells made my mouth water. The salty citrus scent of fried totani and calamari, tempting vanilla and citrus sweetening the air by the Bacco’s gelateria—doing as much trade in this one night as a whole month.

  Then the drums pummeled into life. A dozen men from the town lined the shore, pounding their barrels. The crowd grew quiet. Far in the distance, the flickering of lights heralded the start of the show. They floated closer till at last we could make out the fishing boats in their disguises. Torn tea-stained sheets hung high, like pirates’ ragged sails; paper crows’ nests were attached to make them look like old, tall ships. Farther behind, other ships had attached huge reed frames covered with bright cloth to mimic enormous sea creatures chomping through the water toward us. When their red eyes lit up, the children squealed with terrified delight. It didn’t feel so long ago that I stood here with my mamma and did the same.

  That’s when I saw Marco, on the far end of the beach. He was sat upon a rock with a group of young men. I wove in and out of the bodies looking over one another’s shoulders to get a good view. I called out to him.

  He waved, then reached down a hand for me.

  “Some things never change, no?” I looked at him, my face warm and grinning.

  “You look
beautiful tonight, Santina.”

  “I’m happy to see you.”

  In a moment I forgot all those afternoons he wouldn’t show up at our picnics. I forgave the Sunday evenings I would linger outside the main church square, by Chiesa Nuova, in the hopes that he would come with me to get gelato. Elizabeth and I would walk up to the cemetery a couple of afternoons a week instead. While he was working I knew I could leave him food and my thoughts without wondering.

  The men beside him shook my hand. Marco told them to keep their hands off his “little” sister. We laughed at that. Before I could carry on the conversation, the bellowing started. Deep throated cries from the boats where the local woodworkers, butchers, fishermen, and bakers pretended to be those ancient Saracen invaders. To the roar of the crowd, they pulled onto the beach, wading through the shallows toward a huge statue of the Madonna planted on the jetty. They lifted it and, returning the float with them, set about lighting the hay piles around the jetty. The flames flapped up into the black night. Everyone jeered. Then, with great aplomb, they pantomimed contrition. Their arms swayed in guilt. They cried up to the heavens. The flames were extinguished and the statue of the Madonna of Positano returned to its place. The crowd erupted then, just as the fireworks burst into the sky. I looked at Marco, his face flashing blue and red and green. His smile was a boy’s.

  The “actors” waded out of the water to their families, undoing the scarves tied around their heads, laughing at each other, patting one another on the back as if they’d sailed around the world. One masked figure caught my eye. He was aping around a group of young men. His hands danced in silhouette, recounting the great adventure. I watched him pull his scarf off his head and wipe his face. That’s when he turned toward the rock where Marco and I sat. He waved his scarf up at me. I’d never seen Paolino look so beautiful.

  He was beside me quicker than I thought anyone could crunch across those stones.

  “You know this clown, Santina?” Marco asked, his face hard behind the grin.

  “Doesn’t everyone?” I laughed, allowing the buoyant atmosphere to lift me.

  “After that master performance?” Paolino strutted. “There’s film directors on the beach tonight—I’ll be surprised if I don’t have some offer of work come across my countertop tomorrow morning.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” I laughed.

  He puffed out his chest, miming a producer puffing on a cigar. “Two etti of prosciutto and a part opposite Loren, yes?”

  A couple more men came and patted him on the back as they walked past.

  “Can I get you a drink, Santina? Gelato?” Paolino asked.

  “That would be nice,” I replied without thinking.

  “The major letting you stray the streets most nights now, Santi’?”

  I turned to Marco, confused and appalled by his snide remark.

  “You want something too, Marco?” I asked.

  “I’m going.” He turned to the men sat with him, who peeled themselves off the rocks and flanked him. They looked taller now. Their eyes shifted across the crowd, as if they were counting the entire beach.

  “We’ll walk you home, Santina,” Marco said.

  “Oh I’ll be fine—I’ve missed being down here.”

  Marco looked at Paolino. Neither blinked.

  “I’ll be at work tomorrow,” Marco said, “if you need anything.”

  “Grazie.”

  I never thought I’d be glad to see him leave, but as I watched him sway through the crowd, I couldn’t help but acknowledge a hidden wave of relief.

  Paolino took my hand before I had time to retract it. We wove through the bodies, some dancing, most drinking, all of them eating and shouting. He ordered two cones and before I knew it we were sat on a bench next to Chiesa Nuova.

  “I love crowds. And I hate them,” he said, breaking the sugary silence.

  “This is delicious,” I replied, taking another lick of gelato.

  His lips were coated with a vanilla gleam in the lamplight.

  “So he let you out?” he asked, as always.

  “It’s not prison.”

  “Tell his wife.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “You look different tonight, Santi’.”

  “So do you.”

  My chest tightened. I crunched into my sugar cone. A couple of pieces fell onto my lap. He picked them off and ate them.

  “You’re a pig.”

  “Absolutely. You never met a Saracen before?”

  My laughter escaped.

  “You’ve been drinking,” he teased.

  “All day.” I giggled. “Must be the fumes from the vinegar have gone to my head.”

  “Not more zucchini?”

  “It may never end.”

  He laughed now. I’d never noticed the faint dimple on his one cheek.

  He finished his cone and wiped his mouth.

  “I’ll take you back before you tell me to go to hell like you normally do?”

  He stood up and offered his hand. I slipped mine in.

  We walked in silence. Everyone who lived along these alleys was at the beach. The sounds of music and cooking swirled up along the cobbles. It spun around the moonlit silence between us. He stopped at the mouth of a tiny stairwell leading off the main ascent.

  We stepped into the shadows.

  I noticed my breathing. Or lack of it. His breath brushed my lips.

  He leaned in. I didn’t move.

  My first kiss was toasted hazelnut and vanilla.

  Chapter 11

  That night, I slipped into the slice between consciousness and dreams. Thoughts tripped over one another, little dust motes spiraling in the moonlight. At last I gave up the fight to rest and stepped out onto the terrace outside my room. I sat there watching the stars fade. With each breath another warren of thoughts: Paolino’s lips, the feel of his hands around me, the electricity splintering down my spine, the thrill of his touch, and the ache for him to stop.

  He had walked me to our door after we left the alley. I did not kiss him there. All of a sudden it felt tawdry. I silenced the sensation of feeling conquered. I reassured myself that Paolino, contrary to my intuition, was more sensitive than I had thought. His touch was gentle. His lips danced over mine. They eased them open. There was no force. No violent edge to his passion. So why was I sat here, looking at the changing sky, unwilling to acquiesce to a skittish excitement? I ought to be floating in a delicious haze.

  Instead, unanswered questions and doubts raced to the surface of my mind like water on a rolling boil. When sleep edged further still, just before the purple sky creased orange, I gave up the fight and went downstairs to the kitchen. I filled the small room with the scent of three freshly squeezed lemons and their grated zest. I lit the oven, not caring that it would add unnecessary heat—by the time the sun rose, this lemon cake would be cooled. I drew a silence around me, beating the eggs, softening the butter, toasting and crunching the hazelnuts into small pieces. I let the swirl of the batter around my whisk paint over my thoughts. I buttered and dusted a molded tin with flour, poured the mixture in, and let it cook on low. I drank my coffee on the lower terrace, watching the rose beams sketch an outline around the clouds. Every ten minutes or so, as the cake cooled, I poured a couple of spoons of the lemon juice mixed with water and sugar over the sponge, watching the sweet-sour sink into the warmth.

  It was almost time to water the garden. I tipped the cake onto a dish, poured the last spoon of sugary lemon juice over the bundt and let the hopeful citrus cleanse my mind. Outside, in the perfect still of the garden, I took my time to visit each plant, the water hitting the dry ground and circling into the earth.

  “I couldn’t sleep either.”

  The major’s voice gave me a fright. I almost dropped the hose.

  I had been lost deeper into my thoughts than I had realized. How did I not see him sat at the far end of the garden?

  “Don’t look quite so alarmed, Santina. I wasn’t here spying on you.
I just found more pleasure in watching the dawn than twisting around my bedsheets. Also, the smell of what promises to be a rather delicious breakfast was near impossible to tear myself away from.”

  I lifted the hose over the brush of fennel leaves toward the tomatoes.

  “I did almost invite myself to share your coffeepot though. I don’t particularly drink the stuff, but when you make it I’m very tempted indeed.”

  He pulled himself off the deck chair, brushed his trousers down. That’s when I saw he was in his pajamas. It was the first time I’d seen him out of pressed clothes. We noticed it in unison.

  “I suppose Adeline is having an effect on me at last. If you see me wandering aimlessly around the garden in a nightdress, you will tell me, won’t you?”

  I laughed at that. His eyes smiled, catching flints of dawn through the trees.

  He reached me, rolled up his sleeves, fetched a trowel from the potting drawers, and began building up the patches of earth around the fennel. I tried to concentrate on the celery, the thirsty rows of parsley and coriander. My eyes kept wandering over to his deft work. The gentle way he cocooned the fattening bulbs with earth. I watched his large hands raise the mounds up and over the base of the plants: a man wrapping a bedsheet around a sleeping lover.

  His eyes met mine. For a moment neither of us spoke. The hose spilled onto my toes.

  “Was the festa memorable, Santina?”

  A smart of embarrassment.

  Had he heard me return with Paolino? Had he slipped me under his judgmental gaze? Could he see how I had held Paolino’s hand as we walked the darkened alley? Why did I need to know he hadn’t compartmentalized me as another local girl whose sole aim was to find a man and procreate? I washed away the memory of Paolino’s mouth with difficulty.

  “It was beautiful,” I replied.

  “I can see that. Your expression shifted through a palette of colors in a moment.”

  I felt naked.

  “When the arrow strikes, Santina, the fine line between pleasure and pain opens up a whole new world, does it not?”

  I pretended not to understand the rhetoric. I just wanted him to keep on talking. I wanted his thoughts to eclipse mine.