Secrets in Translation

by Sorenson, Margo;

  After breakfast, I checked my email and was delighted to find one from Carlo in my inbox.

  Cara, I read in Italian, please be my guest tonight at dinner at our favorite Café Positano. I will call for you in my Vespa at eight o’clock. Affezionatissimo, Carlo. Most affectionately! My heart lifted.

  Fingers tapping over the keyboard, I answered him in Italian. Of course, and thank you! We are going to go to Paestum for a day and stay overnight in Salerno. Can you recommend a place to stay? My fingers hesitated for an instant. Would I sign off con mille abbracci e baci—a thousand embraces and kisses? I blushed. Instead, I wrote: Affezionatissima, Alessandra.

  Within a few minutes, an answer popped up in my inbox from Carlo. Hotel Corona, should be perfect. Aff. mo Carlo

  I gave Phil the information and my seat in front of the computer, so he could make the hotel reservation.

  “What’s on for today?” Carrie asked Nicole, who was washing the last of the breakfast dishes.

  “I need to get some work done,” Nicole said. “Your dad is in the middle of some preliminary research on the internet. He may want to visit a few sites he finds.” She smiled at Carrie. “You and Alessandra are on your own. You’ve been good sports the last few days while we’ve dragged you around.”

  Carrie looked at me. “I’ll email Hayley, Georgia, and Ben and see if they want to meet us at the beach. They had a paddle ball game organized…that would be fun, wouldn’t it?” she asked.

  “Are those the kids from Indiana that you met on the beach?” Phil asked, looking up from the computer. “It’ll be safe on the beach, won’t it?” he asked me.

  I nodded. The beach wasn’t where murders happened, it was just the place where the murder victims ended up.

  “Yep, they’re the Indiana kids. Can I use the computer?” Carrie asked, nuzzling her dad. “Please, oh please, before they make plans already?”

  Phil grinned. “Here you are,” he said, getting up from the chair.

  Arrangements were made to meet an hour and a half later at La Spiaggia Grande. Carrie and I went through our usual routine of packing towels and sunscreen and water, as well as some panini for lunch.

  “No catered lunch today?” Phil asked, his eyes twinkling.

  I reddened a little. “Um, no. Carlo is busy with lemon producers right now, but he wanted to take me to dinner tonight, if that’s all right?” I asked.

  “No problem,” Phil said. “Please just let us know where you’re going.”

  The American kids were already at the beach, their towels spread in a circle, and they’d brought lunch too. I quickly realized that I was essentially babysitting them all, and again wondered what their parents could possibly be doing—hadn’t they heard about the body that had washed up on the beach? Carrie and I spread our towels to join the circle.

  The kids grabbed the paddles and rubber ball and jogged down to the hard-packed sand near the water. Soon they were shrieking and laughing as they walloped the ball back and forth.

  I lay on my stomach, reading, with my head facing the water so I could keep an eye on the kids. They seemed nice enough, but you never knew.

  From behind me, I heard two men speaking in Italian.

  “You are late,” one muttered.

  “Business,” said the other.

  “It’s always business. But they will be sorry.”

  “Yes,” the first said. “They will be as sorry as that poor fool found yesterday.”

  I stopped in the middle of turning a page, breath caught in my throat, immobilized by fear.

  “I heard about the plan,” the second man replied. I could hardly stop myself from turning around to see who it was..

  “It is the winery idea,” the first said. “That is the one. That will work.”

  I froze. Then I realized that they didn’t know who I was. I looked just like any other young American tourist. In a million years, they would never think I could understand every word they said, much less understand what they were referring to. The winery idea? I felt as if ice water was running through my veins.

  “We cannot talk here,” the first man muttered. “Too many ears.”

  “Tourists, only tourists,” the other answered. But then they both shut up and continued their walk, not five feet in front of me, across the sand toward the walkway to La Spiaggia Fornillo. Heart racing, I stared out at the ocean. Tranquil waves lapped the shore, as they had done before the Normans and before the Moors. What I had just heard was so at odds with the sunlight dancing on the waves and the cheerful calls of the beachgoers that I felt as if I were in a major disconnect.

  I sat up, pretending to look for Carrie, as I shaded my eyes with one shaky hand and glanced at the retreating men, now thirty metres away. One of them was talking on a cell phone.

  The not-so-veiled threats I had just heard chilled my blood despite the hot Italian sun that beat down upon my back. I wondered fearfully whether the men meant to harm Carlo, the Bertoluccis, or even my dad. Was their plan to further entangle the LoPrestis in the Sacra Lista agenda? Or, did it have something to do with Carlo and his family’s limoncello factory? They had had little success in purchasing the Bertolucci factory at rock-bottom prices; did they now intend to harm one of the family?

  But what really chilled me to the bone was the reference to a winery. Valentina and Giovanni knew my dad’s name. They knew he worked for a winery and had wondered about his interest in Italian wineries. My mouth felt dry.

  While I was the only person that I knew of around here who had a winery connection, wineries in Italy were a dime a dozen. It was likely that the winery they were talking about wasn’t Ralf’s at all, but some other Italian winery. Even the mention of the word winery, however, scared me to death given the secrecy that surrounded my dad’s covert operations.

  Taking a long swallow from the water bottle, I tried to clear my head. Then I shut my eyes, laid my head on the hot towel, and hoped that a nap would help bring some clarity to my situation.

  The rest of the afternoon passed in a haze of sunshine, salt spray, and laughter. Ben, Georgia, and Hayley were good kids, so perhaps it wasn’t all that surprising that their American relatives let them go to the beach alone. We talked about the differences between Indiana and California, and those between America and Italy. They deferred to me as the expert on all things Italian, even though I tried to tell them I was just as American as they. With a sigh, I realized that I sounded less and less convincing, even to my own ears.

  Before we knew it, the sun was low on the horizon, and plenty of tourists had already packed up and left. It was time to go. I couldn’t wait for eight o’clock and Carlo. Even though Carrie kept trying to delay our departure, thinking of questions to ask her new friends, I managed to hurry her up and we said our goodbyes to our companions and walked back up to the apartment.

  “Please thank Carlo for his hotel recommendation. I got us reservations at the Hotel Corona. It looks very nice,” Phil said.

  “Sure,” I answered, thinking I’d like to give Carlo a nice, lingering kiss to thank him, but wasn’t going to share that with anyone.

  Carlo knocked on the door exactly at eight, and Phil let him in. I felt a little funny hearing their “hellos” from my bedroom; my heart was a-flutter with the idea that this was just like a real date, after all. When I came into the room, Carlo and Phil were laughing together.

  “Che bella!” Carlo said, his eyes twinkling. How could I keep breathing on my own? Did I have to focus and concentrate so I wouldn’t forget to take a breath during dinner? Carlo was wearing a pale pink dress shirt, black slacks, and sleekly styled black leather shoes. His hair, mussed from his helmet, was a little unruly, and a smile lit up his face. I couldn’t believe that I had him all to myself tonight.

  We sat at the same table at Café Positano that we had had a few days before, the one with the spectacular view of
the harbor. Looking over the terrace from our table, I could see the lights winking on the mountainside, and the moon cast a silver sheen across the bay. The view would have taken my breath away—except for the fact that I was already breathless, thanks to the young man who sat across the table from me.

  Taking my hand, Carlo gazed into my eyes. “Cara, you look so beautiful tonight. But, of course, you look beautiful always.”

  The warm strength of his hand sent waves of heat racing through me. “Thank you, Carlo,” I managed to answer. “You look nice, too.” That was an understatement.

  The waiter brought us wine and water, and we talked about my days on the beach with Carrie, and Carlo’s responsibilities at the factory. I wanted to ask him about the conversation I’d overheard on the beach, but knew that I could not. I could not reveal the reason for my fear, nor could I tell him about my dad and his investigation of the Camorra. And, I thought, melting under his gaze, I did not want to place Carlo in further danger. But, at least I could ask him about the body.

  “Carlo, do you know anything about the body that washed up on the beach?”

  He frowned, glanced around the crowded restaurant, and leaned closer to me. “It is, as we say, a warning,” he answered.

  “To whom?” I asked, a shiver running down my spine.

  Carlo sighed. “My father and I do not know. It might be a warning to us.”

  I grabbed his hand and he squeezed it, his strength sending warm pulses through my body. “Carlo!” I exclaimed. “Are you in danger?” Was I?

  He shrugged. “Perhaps,” he said. “But we have to accept it. It is just a fact of life. Besides, we do not know yet to whom it was a warning. There could be many people who were targeted—even Giovanni—if he is thinking about not cooperating with the Sacra Lista anymore. Or to someone we do not know. The body could even have washed up on the wrong beach and was supposed to be in Praiano, or somewhere else. You know they take the body out to sea and let the tides take it to where they want the warning to be found. It could be a mistake that it washed up in Positano.”

  Looking into his warm eyes, filled with concern, I decided I didn’t want to darken this special evening anymore. So I changed the subject and began asking him lots of questions, not just because you were supposed to do that with guys, but because I was really interested in everything about him. He loved talking about the limoncello factory and I loved to listen to him talk about it. Carlo told me that the Bertolucci family had worked at the factory for two generations; he described the different techniques they were using to improve limoncello production. Carlo had given a lengthy explanation about the pros and cons of different varieties of lemons, when he stopped and looked at me. “You know, Cara, I love talking with you. No one else is so interested in what I do. You are amazing.” He smiled a long, slow smile. My mouth felt dry.

  “I think it is so interesting,” I said. “Most of the guys in the U.S. don’t have much to say.” And besides, I wanted to add, I just want to know everything there is to know about you.

  “I cannot believe how we have become so close, so soon,” Carlo said. “It makes me so happy. I think we are, how do you say in English, the soul-mates?”

  “Yes,” was all I could manage to choke out. “It makes me happy too,” I added, my heart pounding so loudly that I thought he must be able to hear it across the table, in spite of the noise in the restaurant and the loud laughter of the other diners.

  Now, keeping the truth from him was making me really uncomfortable, and suddenly I knew that if I was going to have an honest relationship with him, I had to say something to him soon about my dad, what he was really doing at the winery, and the veiled threats I’d heard on the beach that morning. I felt so torn; Carlo had been so honest with me and I had hidden so much from him. Lifting my glass of wine, I took a sip. Right now, I just wanted to live in the moment, as I’d heard Mom say.

  Tomorrow, I’d figure out how to tell Carlo the truth about what Dad was doing. I had to say it just right, so he’d understand why I’d not said anything before. Surely, I could trust him. After all, he had trusted me with his family’s secret about their factory. Besides, if he knew about Dad’s investigations maybe he could help Dad in some way. After overhearing that conversation on the beach, and after Valentina’s and Giovanni’s cryptic comments, I knew I needed to talk to Carlo. The more information Carlo had about the Sacra Lista, the better he would be able to take care of the Bertolucci Limoncello problem. I didn’t want Carlo hurt, or dead.

  “My father and I have to go to the university in Napoli in two days,” Carlo said. “We have a lemon growers’ seminar to attend. Many important people will be there.”

  “Three days?” I squeaked. “But…”

  As always, Carlo seemed able to read my mind. “Yes, Alessandra,” he said, shaking his head. “When you get back from Paestum, I will be gone. But,” his awesome smile crinkled the corners of his eyes, “as soon as I come back, we will be together.” He reached out a hand and took one of mine in his. “I promise you this. We will be together, in a very special way.”

  This time, there was no stopping the red that colored my face. “Thank you, Carlo,” I whispered.

  “We have not much time left together,” he said, his voice deepening. “But I am thinking that our future is ahead.” He looked at me earnestly. “Fate cannot keep us apart. This, I know in my heart. Perhaps you can study in Italy? Perhaps I can go to California and study the wines?” He smiled.

  I felt dizzy, and it wasn’t from the glass of wine. Carlo thought we had a future! Reality check, Alessandra-Alex, I cautioned myself. We lived thousands of miles away; we couldn’t have a future together, could we? No, I didn’t want a reality check. I wanted Carlo.

  We enjoyed our dinner and shared a glass of Bertolucci Limoncello afterwards.

  “Compliments of the house,” our waiter said with a smile, as he set the frozen glass of liqueur on the table in front of Carlo.

  We sipped our limoncello, and I savored the fact that my lips were touching the glass where his had touched. I never wanted this night—or my time in Italy—to end.

  We drove slowly through the cobbled streets, the warm Italian air caressing my face. I snuggled next to him on the back of the Vespa and fantasized I could feel his heart beating. He smelled like lemons, fresh and clean. When we got to the apartment, he turned the Vespa off and helped me off the back. Then, without a word, he took me in his arms. If people could melt, I thought, sinking slowly into his strong embrace, I would be a little pool of Alessandra on the cobblestones.

  After a long, slow kiss, he tipped my face up with his hand under my chin. “You are so beautiful, inside and out, Alessandra,” he said. “I want you to know that I do want to be with you.” My heart pounded in earnest now. “But,” he continued, “I care for you too much to disrespect you. Only when it is right,” he said, looking into my eyes. “I promise you. And someday, it will be right.”

  My mind blurry from all of the emotions that had swirled around me and swept me up this evening, I couldn’t phrase a question, as in, “When? Before I leave?” But “someday” sounded even further off than that. Which was fine—I wasn’t ready yet for anything like that, even with Carlo. But, the thought of being with Carlo, his arms around me, gazing into his dark brown eyes, feeling his warmth, his strength…

  “As soon as I come back from Napoli, I will see you,” Carlo promised, when we stood in front of the door to the apartment. I handed him my key. He turned it in the lock, brushed his lips against mine one last time, and said, “Buona notte, Carissima.”

  The lights were out in the apartment, except for one small light in the kitchen. I turned it off, amazed that I could perform such a simple task when I felt as if I’d been in a dream all evening long.

  I got ready for bed and slipped under the covers. How could I sleep with my heart racing? Alex, Alessandra—whoever I was…what
had I gotten myself into? Il cuore é Italiano, my heart was Italian, I finally admitted to myself.

  I couldn’t find any other answer. And I didn’t want to.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The next morning, we lugged our overnight bags past Café LoPresti to the parcheggio to pick up our car for our trip to Paestum. Remembering Valentina and Giovanni’s chilling insinuations, I walked as quickly as I could, turning my face the other way, hoping we could avoid seeing Giovanni or his father.

  Carrie, of course, slowed way down, poking along. When I glanced back at her, she was gazing longingly through the plate glass windows of the restaurant.

  “Carrie!” Phil called.

  “Hurry up,” Nicole urged her.

  “Ciao, Alessandra. Un momento!” A familiar female voice stopped me in my path. In dread, I turned around. “Cioé, Alessandra!” Valentina said from a table outside Café LoPresti, her head tilted to one side. “Dové vai?” she asked. Where are you going?

  What do you care? I wanted to retort, but knowing what her father did, I chose the quieter road. “Paestum,” I answered.

  “Andrái vedere le aziende vinicole?” —Was I going to see wineries? Her question stopped me cold. She’d know even better than I that the area around Paestum was mozzarella country, not winery country.

  Stunned, I tried to sound casual. “Aziende vinicole? No, andremmo per studiare le rovine. Signor Cowan é professore.”—Wineries? No, we are going to study the ruins. Mr. Cowan is a professor.

  I could not believe what she’d just asked me. Could it be that the U.S. government had shared news of my dad’s undercover work with Italian Interpol, which then was leaked to the Camorra? How many weeks did I have left in Italy—alive?

  Valentina raised her eyebrows. “Non studia i vini? Spero che sia proprio giusto,” she said, a little smile on her pouty lips—You’re not studying the wines? I hope you’re right.

  If I hadn’t been frozen with fear at her implied threat, and if I’d had my tennis racket with me, I could have just popped her one for attitude.