Carrie stared at me. “Do you know him?” she asked.
“No, why?” I answered.
“Then why did you talk to him?” she said, looking at all the bins of vegetables and fruits and strange labels and signs—Euros and kilos.
“In Italy, it’s polite to greet everyone when you go into a store, even if you don’t know them. That’s why some Italians think Americans are rude. We Americans usually don’t do that,” I explained.
“Hmph,” Carrie said. “That is strange.” She reached out to take an apple out of a bin and, without thinking, I grabbed her wrist. “Hey!” she exclaimed, her face furious. “What do you think you’re doing?”
In consternation, I let go of her hand and pointed to a box of plastic gloves. I had done it again! I was morphing back into being Italian. “Sorry, Carrie. Put on a pair of gloves. It’s not polite to touch the produce without them. The owner might get mad.”
Nicole’s eyes were wide. “I was wondering what those gloves were for,” she said. “Alessandra, I’m so glad you’re with us.”
“This is so dumb,” Carrie said, but she put on a pair of gloves and placed several apples in a basket.
We bought some veggies and fruits, and walked on narrow, cobblestoned streets to the butcher shop. Some young guys drove by on Vespas, and, seeing us, hit their brakes. The tires squealed, and one of them almost did a doughnut in the middle of the street. The passers-by didn’t take any notice.
“Ciao, bella!” one exclaimed, brushing his hair off his forehead. The other two grinned at us.
“Che cosa fai?” one of the others said, wheeling his Vespa to block our path.
Nicole looked aghast and turned to me.
“Oh, my God!” Carrie said to me. “What are they saying? They’re so hot!”
Instinctively, I knew the phrase, “Che schifo!”—how disgusting—wasn’t appropriate, so I used my Italian to tell him we were very busy and, in no uncertain terms, to leave us alone. Their jaws dropped in shock, and I grasped Carrie’s shoulder and began to propel her around the boys and up the street; Nicole, staring over her shoulder, dragged Carrie by her other arm.
“Mom!” Carrie protested. “What’s wrong?”
“Shush, Carrie!” Nicole said. “Remember what we told you about Italian men?”
“But they were just guys,” Carrie said. “Oh, my God! You’re going to totally keep me in jail!”
Nicole looked at me, mute appeal in her eyes. I took a deep breath. “Look, Carrie, you don’t get it yet, but you will. A few Italian guys are just, well, pushy. Some of them will even try to grab your you-know-what if you’re too close to them.” I would have said, “grab your ass,” but I was pretty sure Nicole wouldn’t appreciate the graphic comment, although it might have shocked Carrie enough to make her pay attention.
Nicole cleared her throat as if to warn me not to say anything more, and Carrie said, “What? For real?”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “Some of the ones you meet on the street, that is. Otherwise, if you meet boys through family or friends, that’s fine. But you have to watch yourself on the street.”
“When you were young, did that ever happen to you?” Carrie asked, curiously.
I smiled. “Carrie, when I was as ‘young’ as you, twelve, it happened to me.” To her credit, Carrie turned red. That stopped her—for a while anyway. I still remembered how wary I had been of some of the guys in the halls when I first went to Sonoma High. Thinking they might pinch me or brush up against me or something, I’d gone out of my way to avoid them. It took my new friends, spotting another of my “Italian-Alert” episodes, to set me straight on that one.
“You’re not really scared of guys?” Morgan had asked me, grinning, while everyone else laughed their heads off. That was another Italian quirk I’d discovered I had to leave behind me, thankfully! Living in Italy until I was almost seventeen had marked me in ways I was still trying to understand. I wanted so much to fit into life in the U.S., but I was definitely a work in progress.
Next, we hit the butcher shop. That was a whole other story.
“Is that really horse?” Carrie asked, pointing at a sign showing the silhouette of a horse next to a hunk of raw meat. “Grosser than gross!”
Behind me, I heard a smothered laugh and turned around to see a really good-looking guy, holding a basket. Were there any ugly guys in Positano? I wondered.
He was wearing a blue polo shirt, nice slacks, and deck shoes, and his dark hair fell across his forehead, but not so far that I missed his brown eyes. My breath left my body.
“The American signorina has a problem with our food?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. Of course, he spoke English to me; we looked so American.
“Uh, no, not really,” I said quickly. “She’s just not used to it.” I had a hard time putting a coherent sentence together as long as I was looking at him.
“And you?” he asked the obvious question. “You are used to it?” He sounded disbelieving.
“I used to live here,” I replied.
“Really?” he answered. “An American? And now you are back.”
“Oh, but just for a visit,” I said, quickly. “Not permanently. I live in California now, in the U.S.”
“I see,” he said. His expression shut right down before he turned away. I must have said something wrong. Had I sounded like I was rejecting Italy? Had I violated some Italian-politeness rule that I didn’t know about, or had already forgotten? Did he think I didn’t want to be here? That was closer to the truth than I should have let him know. Italians are fiercely proud of their country, no matter its problems with Mafia and organized crime.
I held back a sigh. Either way, this guy was arrogant, and I definitely didn’t appreciate that—no matter how good-looking he was. Besides, he made me feel different. And I wasn’t even back in the U.S., feeling different. Here I was, now feeling different in Italy, where I used to feel at home.
Embarrassed by his curtness, I turned back to the butcher case and helped Nicole pick out several cuts of meat in kilos. She wasn’t prepared for the procedure, and I had to dig deep in my memory for the amounts that used to come easily when I went shopping with Mom or Dad.
We finished at the bakery, but not before I ordered some millefoglie, the layered pastry cookie that had been my favorite. Two hours of shopping and we had enough for three days’ worth of breakfasts and lunches. We lugged our bags up the narrow street, past the LoPrestis’ restaurant, and, I have to admit, I did peer through the plate glass windows, wondering if I’d see Giovanni.
The two kids on the motorinos were nowhere to be seen, and I wondered again what they had been doing across from the restaurant the previous day. Dad would probably have been able to figure it out. Now, though, I was on my own. Apparently, besides not being able to fit in easily with everyone in the U.S., it now looked as if I couldn’t fit in here in Italy either—if the snotty hottie’s attitude in the butcher’s shop was any clue. I frowned.
At eight that night, we got ready to go to dinner. I knew it was still too early to eat in Italy, but I decided to say nothing. I felt I’d done way too much of this interpreter-guide stuff for one day anyway. If I was going to stay “Alex” and move seamlessly back into Sonoma High School, I’d better back off and think American for a while. Carrie primped in front of the mirror, fluffing her hair and changing her outfit three times before we left. It was obvious what she was looking forward to at the restaurant, and it wasn’t just pasta.
Outside, the fading twilight softened the buildings, and dozens of people crowded the streets on their way home. Conversation and laughter filled the air and brightly lit shops were filled with customers, tourists, and locals. We got to the restaurant to find that we were the first customers of the evening. It was empty.
“Are they closed?” Carrie asked, sounding extremely disappointed.
“No,” Phi
l said. “People eat a lot later in Europe, remember? We’ll probably do that, too, once we get acclimated.”
Giovanni came out of the kitchen, smiling, and holding four menus. “Buona sera,” he said, motioning us to a table.
“Ooof!” Not watching where she was going, Carrie almost ran right into the table. She’d been staring at Giovanni. He began to smile but cleared his throat and turned his head away for a moment instead.
“Tonight, our specials are linguine with clam sauce and vitello—veal saltimbocca,” Giovanni said. “Would you like to start with a glass of wine?” Did his eyes linger on my face a little?
Blushing, Carrie opened the menu and studied it as if it held the secrets to everything she’d ever wanted to know. Poor kid, I thought, before I remembered what a brat she could be.
“Certainly,” Phil said. Then he did something that endeared him to me forever. He looked at me. “Alessandra, would you like to join us in a glass, too?”
“Thanks. Yes, please,” I answered.
“Hey! How about me?” Carrie protested.
“Now, Carrie, you know better,” Phil said. Carrie slumped down in her chair. She was going to get permanent wrinkles from all those pouts, I thought.
I appreciated Phil offering me wine. He and Nicole had traveled all over the world, and obviously knew that other countries had no drinking age limit—particularly in Italy, where young people were expected to have a glass or two with meals. Twelve year olds were definitely included in this number, but Nicole and Phil apparently didn’t want Carrie to have that leeway. Thank goodness! I thought. She didn’t need liquid encouragement to be any more of a problem than she already was.
Giovanni and Phil consulted over the wine choices, while I glanced around the restaurant. Paintings of Positano hung on the walls, potted flowers graced each table, and the atmosphere was cozy and relaxing. I hoped the food would be good, which would mean we could come back. What was I thinking?
“Ciao!” a voice called from the doorway of the restaurant. A young man held a crate of what looked like wine bottles. “Giovanni! Ecco il limoncello!” He looked really familiar. Where had we seen him? He strode through the restaurant, carrying the box in front of him, and suddenly it clicked. It was the guy from the butcher’s shop—the one with the cocky attitude who’d turned cold when I said I was American and didn’t live in Italy anymore.
“Carlo! Comé stai sta sera?” Giovanni asked.
Carlo jerked his head toward the front door. “C’e ancora,” he said.
“Excuse me for a moment,” Giovanni said to us. “We have our limoncello delivery from the producer. I need to help carry it in.”
Giovanni went out the front door, and I could hear loud conversations in Italian and thuds outside as boxes were being moved.
“What’s limoncello?” Carrie asked. “Some kind of Jell-O?”
Nicole and Phil smiled at each other and then at Carrie. Of course, I knew what limoncello was, but I was done being interpreter-guide for the day.
“I’m just asking, you know,” Carrie snapped. “You don’t have to make fun of me.”
Nicole sighed. “Limoncello is a very potent liqueur that is made in Italy.”
“Southern Italy, really,” Phil added. “Because of the lemons. They use only a few special kinds of lemons.”
“And vodka,” Nicole said. “Lots of vodka.”
“Remember that night in Alba?” Phil asked her. Nicole blushed. I studied my menu. This conversation was going where I didn’t want to go!
Giovanni came through the front door, trundling several cases of limoncello on a dolly. Now, I could read the boxes. Bertolucci Limoncello, Positano, SA.
Carlo strode through the kitchen door, past our table, and out the front door. He didn’t greet us in the usual Italian way, but he knew we were Americans and didn’t live in Italy. We weren’t worth his time and attention, no doubt. Carlo then reappeared, rolling another dolly loaded with cases of limoncello. We could have been stains on the tablecloth for all the notice he gave us. Italian floated out through the open kitchen door. I could catch snatches of conversation, voices speaking about the delivery, it seemed.
Holding a tray with three wine glasses and a bottle of wine, Giovanni came toward us with a grin. Carlo followed him, rolling both dollies toward the front entrance.
“Carlo!” Giovanni called. Carlo turned, a mild irritation showing on his face. He must hate being interrupted while doing his job, I thought.
“Come and meet the American family staying at the Crudeles’,” he said, gesturing toward us. Reluctantly, Carlo turned around and walked over to our table.
“Carlo’s family, the Bertoluccis, are one of the biggest limoncello producers on the Amalfi Coast,” Giovanni said proudly, clapping Carlo on the shoulder. Giovanni made introductions all round. Carrie sat up straighter.
“Piacere,” Carlo said, with a perfunctory smile. “I am sorry, but I am in a rush to make these deliveries,” he explained. “I hope you enjoy your stay.” He inclined his head and left, rolling the dollies in front of him.
“He is a serious guy,” Giovanni said, shrugging. “Always serious. But his family has a big business. He is studying at the University of Napoli to be an agronomist and take over the business. Liquor and wine production are big industries in Italy.”
“Alessandra’s father works at a winery in California, but they don’t make limoncello,” Nicole volunteered. “Have you heard of Nightingale Vintners? In Sonoma? It’s a wonderful winery.”
I froze. Great. Thanks, Nicole, I wanted to say. Bring up the winery—the very last subject I wanted to talk about. My mouth felt dry. Please, let’s not ask any more questions or share any more information—just in case I might end up dead in the trunk of an Alfa Romeo. Well, if I were lucky, I’d be dead. I tried to reassure myself that Mom and Dad wouldn’t have let me come, if they thought that imminent death was even a remote possibility. Of course, here in Italy, organized crime seemed so much more real—more real, at least, than it did back in sunny California.
Giovanni looked at me intently, as if for the first time. Then, he smiled, slowly. “A winery? No, I have not heard of Nightingale Vintners, but here in Italia, we don’t hear much about California wines.”
I couldn’t tell if he was being snobby or if he was telling the truth, but I had the feeling that he looked down on California wines. Maybe now we could change the subject.
Nicole apparently didn’t think he was being disrespectful because she continued, “Alessandra’s father is a partner in the winery, and he and her mother speak fluent Italian.”
“Really?” Giovanni raised his eyebrows, a double inflection that matched the disbelief in his voice. A fleeting expression crossed his face, but he quickly rearranged it before I could tell what he was thinking. Weird.
I felt my face get hot. To tell the truth, I didn’t think all this information was necessary to spread all over Positano—and to people we didn’t even really know. I couldn’t tell if Giovanni was truly interested or if he was just faking it to be polite. More importantly, I definitely knew any winery talk was off-limits. Mom and Dad’s warning echoed in my head. Did my face suggest to Giovanni—or anyone—that I had anything to hide?
Phil beamed. “Alessandra grew up in Bari and Naples and she speaks great Italian too.”
At this, Giovanni blinked in surprise and looked straight at me. “Nevvero. Meraviglioso,” he said. “Benvenuta ancora, Alessandra!”
“Grazie,” I said. “Per favore, mi chiamo Alex.” I might as well start off right—introducing myself as Alex. Giovanni tilted his head to the side, inquiringly. I quickly continued: “Lei é molto gentile, ma il mio italiano non é buono,”—you’re very kind, but my Italian isn’t good—wishing for this conversation to take another turn, and fast. Across the table, Carrie’s face looked like a thundercloud. Phil and Nicole smiled en
couragingly at me.
With a big grin, Giovanni unleashed a torrent of Italian, all of which I understood—about my accent, about whether I was happy to be back, and why I had moved back to the U.S. Almost against my will, a rush of warm nostalgia threatened to overwhelm me. Italian! My language!
“Parliamo piú tardi,” I said, suggesting we talk later. I didn’t like being the center of attention, and I especially didn’t like being the center of Italian male attention. Alex, Alex, Alex, remember who you are, or who you are trying to be, I warned myself. I was American, American, American, and I was going to fit in perfectly when I got back to the States.
“Perché no?” he said with a grin. Why not? Uh-oh. I hoped he didn’t think I was hitting on him. I tucked into my dinner and hoped I hadn’t crossed the line. With any luck, Giovanni was distracted from any winery talk, because I was so not eager to answer any questions about what it was that Dad did. Trying to answer those would push the limits of my creativity.
By now, other diners had arrived, and Signor LoPresti was waiting on them. The hum of conversation filled the air and dishes and pans clattered in the kitchen. We ordered our dinners and sipped our wine, while Nicole and Phil chatted about their books. Phil was working on a non-fiction book about the Saracen invasions of southern Italy and the Norman kingdoms, while Nicole was working on a book about the history of peasant arts and crafts in Italy.
Carrie watched Giovanni as he came in and out of the kitchen, waiting on customers and talking and laughing with them. I noticed that everyone seemed to know him and enjoy his company. Café LoPresti was definitely a popular restaurant with the locals, as well as tourists, which was a good sign. Although Mom and Dad had said that Italian organized crime had taken over some of the restaurants frequented by tourists in Italy, it didn’t seem like that was going on at Café LoPresti. Everyone seemed to be having a great time, and I didn’t see anyone who looked dangerous or sketchy in the restaurant. As if they would wear a sign, I thought. Still, I wondered about the motorino guys. They had definitely looked sketchy, but they had been outside the restaurant, not inside.
Secrets in Translation Page 4