Secrets in Translation

by Sorenson, Margo;

  “Wait,” Carrie said, stopping in front of another shop. “I want to see that bathing suit.” I followed her in, greeted the shopkeeper, and sat on a bench while she went through the bikinis on a rack. I just didn’t have the heart to shop. I didn’t even have a heart—it had been shattered.

  Carrie picked out several bikinis to try on and vanished behind one of the curtains. In my mind, I went over what I would say to Giovanni. Things were over with Carlo—I couldn’t erase the sight of his cold, accusing eyes—but at least I could stand up for myself, for once, and call Giovanni a liar to his face. I was going to lay it all out for him, no more niceties, no more ignoring reality. It probably wouldn’t make a bit of difference to Giovanni, but it would make a big difference to me.

  The Indiana kids beat us to the delicatessen, and were trying to make themselves understood to the guy behind the counter. I did not recognize the employee, even though we had been to the delicatessen to eat lots of times before.

  “Hey!” Carrie said, delightedly. The kids were happy and relieved to see us.

  “Thank God you’re here,” Georgia said. “I can’t explain what I want.”

  After the usual polite pleasantries in Italian with the deli guy, I told him what everyone wanted to eat.

  “Di dov’é Lei, Signorina?” he asked, curiously. Where are you from?

  I smiled and opened my mouth to answer. Then, suddenly, it hit me. For too long, I had thought that, in order to be like everyone else in Sonoma, I needed to completely forget Italy and be only and always American. These last weeks in Italy had taught me that maybe, just maybe, I could belong to both worlds—Italy and the U.S. My inside self could be my outside self, too. Finally.

  “Sono Americana, ma, quando ero piú giovane, ho abitato in Italia,” I said. “Sono tutte le due.” I am American, but when I was younger, I lived in Italy. I am both.

  “Ah, si! Bene!” he said, grinning.

  Our panini in paper bags, we began walking to La Spiaggia Fornillo. I remembered the last time we were here, on the beach with Carlo. I shut my eyes for a second, willing the tears not to come. Carlo had met the other factory owner, Signor Scioscia, on this tourist path. They had discussed the difficulties of the Bertolucci factory, the insidious, low-priced offers. The tentacles of the Sacra Lista and the Camorra, and of all the organized crime families, were wound around and through the lives of Italians. Some few strong individuals were able to break free, but it required courage, resourcefulness, knowing the right people in government, negotiating, and, ultimately, standing up for what was right. Knowing Carlo and his family, I felt certain that the Bertoluccis would be able to do that.

  Then the thought occurred to me: Maybe I could help them do it. But now, the Bertoluccis would have nothing to do with me, after Giovanni’s accusations. That shouldn’t prevent me from doing the right thing, though, I vowed to myself.

  Ahead of us, at the end of the cliff, I saw Il Torre Clavel, standing guard as it had for centuries. Some things about Italy never changed. The people were unfailingly kind; their love of life, and their willingness to let people live their own lives was a part of Italy that I had always cherished. Italy was an important part of who I was, who I had become, and no one was going to steal that from me, not Giovanni, not my new American friends, no one.

  We sat on stone benches by the little piazzola, and the four kids laughed and talked together, making plans to stay in touch once they got back to the U.S. Carrie told them how great California was and how they needed to come and visit her there.

  “Well, we like Indiana, but it doesn’t have anything on California,” Hayley said, making a face.

  “It’s fine, and we have some fun times,” Georgia said defensively.

  “Good sports teams,” Ben said.

  “What?” both girls said in unison, and then everyone laughed.

  “Well,” Ben said, his face a little red, “good state teams, anyway.”

  Listening to them defend their home states, I was glad I didn’t have to join in. In spite of my realization that I wasn’t really looking forward to going back to the States and to my life in California, I had decided to try this being-part-of-both-worlds out and see how it worked.

  First, I was going to talk with Giovanni and set him straight. Then, I’d try to contact the Bertoluccis to see if I could help them in their fight against the Sacra Lista.

  Regardless of what Carlo thought of me, I knew that I couldn’t leave Italy without trying to make things right for Carlo, his family—and myself.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The afternoon wore on. The Indiana kids had brought two packs of cards and taught Carrie and me a game called Golf, where you could try to psych out the other players. At least they weren’t doing crazy stuff like trying to balance on the parapet of Il Torre Clavel with the waves crashing far below. I’d have to play lifeguard then, and that didn’t appeal to me. Emotionally, I was exhausted, and the image of Carlo with his shirtsleeves rolled up and the ocean breeze ruffling his hair was real and raw in my mind.

  The sun dropped lower in the sky, sending a greenish-blue reflection across the water. Finally, I looked at my watch and, playing the nanny once again, said, “Okay, kids. Time to go. We have to get ready for dinner and you guys are leaving. Your parents are probably wondering where you are.”

  With groans and complaints, they picked up the cards, and we walked back across the walkway to La Spiaggia Fornillo, across the wharf to La Spiaggia Grande, and up the main street back into town.

  The four kids hugged farewell with tears and giggles and promises to text.

  “Goodbye!”

  “Arrivederci!”

  “Thanks for helping us with Italy,” Georgia said, which made my eyes sting with unshed tears.

  Waving until we couldn’t see them anymore, Carrie and I trudged up the streets to the apartment. I had to admit, I was looking for Carlo everywhere. Did I see him in the crowd on La Spiaggia? Was he cruising around the corner on his Vespa? Was he in one of the limoncello shops, arranging another delivery? My heart ached. How could something that was supposed to be just a functioning organ in my body, pumping blood through my veins and arteries, be a source of so much pain?

  The moment I had dreaded all day was now approaching. We were passing Café LoPresti and, sure enough, Carrie slowed up. Just as she did so, a kid on a Vespa almost hit us, reaching out to grab Carrie’s bag as he swerved past. He gave a violent yank on the bag slung over Carrie’s shoulder, throwing her off her feet. Carrie fell screaming to the pavement, still clutching her bag. The kid zoomed off, empty-handed, little curls of exhaust hanging in the air.

  “Oh, my God!” Carrie shrieked.

  People stood shocked and motionless, then moved on, almost at the same time. Italian mingled with English and German as people bent over Carrie, helping her to her feet. It had all happened so fast that I could hardly register that it had happened at all.

  Carrie’s arms and face were bruised and scraped, and she moaned tearfully about her shoulder. I gave her a hug and she sniffled into my shoulder. A nonna pulled a white handkerchief from her purse and mopped at Carrie’s brow, murmuring, “Poverina, poverina mia.”

  Someone offered to get an ambulance but I could see it wasn’t necessary. Carrie just needed to get home to her mom and dad. Suddenly, I realized I felt like her big sister, not her nanny.

  “Carabinieri,” someone said. “Li chiamo.”

  “Non é necessario chiamare i carabinieri,” I heard a voice say over my shoulder.

  Looking up, I saw Giovanni. No wonder you don’t think we need to call the carabinieri, you lousy jerk, I thought. They’re the last people you’d want around here. My heart rate accelerated with suppressed anger.

  Carrie stood beside me as two Italian women mopped her brow and massaged her shoulders. Her tear-streaked face was white, but her wails had quieten
ed to sniffles and whimpers. She was going to be fine.

  I stood up, squarely facing Giovanni. A sardonic smile lingered on his face, as he stood with one hand on his hip. I felt a rush of anger, the like of which I had never felt before, and it channeled fiercely into my Italian self.

  “You!” I spat in Italian. “You dare to even use the word carabinieri? You slimeball! You, who think nothing of betraying someone! You have no business even taking a breath!”

  The crowd around us fell silent—even people who weren’t Italian and couldn’t understand what I was saying could sense that something serious was happening.

  For an instant, Giovanni’s face looked shocked, before a calculating, cold expression molded his features. “You are a stupid girl,” he said, condescendingly. He looked around the small crowd, almost as if asking for confirmation as to the stupidity of American girls. “You don’t even know what you’re talking about. You do not know what you are dealing with here.”

  My breath seemed to come in gasps, but I forced myself to go on. I was shaking with fury. “My family and the Bertolucci factory! Does that sound familiar?” I cried. “You are a liar! We had nothing to do with it! Nothing!” I was making a scene in the street but I didn’t care. I’d lost Carlo and it was Giovanni’s fault. From the corner of my eye, I saw Carrie’s white face, eyes wide, staring at me. A side of Alessandra she had not seen before, I thought grimly.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Giovanni said arrogantly. He tried to play to the crowd, shrugging and turning his palms upward.

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about, you jerk,” I spat.

  “If you mean the factory, well then, that’s the way it is here,” he said calmly. Then he laughed. “You have to understand, you Americans, that here, the truth is only what gets you something.”

  The small crowd murmured at that, and I was sure from their reactions that even the Italians didn’t completely agree with Giovanni’s statement.

  “You are behind the conspiracy. It is you and the Sacra Lista.” Behind me, I could sense the crowd shrinking back from us. The dreaded phrase had done its work.

  Giovanni snorted. “Sacra Lista. Those are only words. You are only a girl, and an American girl, and you have no idea about the meaning of those words.”

  Suddenly, another voice spoke from behind me. It was Carlo!

  “I have words for you, Giovanni,” Carlo said evenly. I whipped around to see Carlo, standing with his arms folded, his head to the side, staring at Giovanni as if he were examining an ugly biological specimen under a slide.

  “You!” Giovanni laughed, but I could see his demeanor was cracking. He was rubbing his thumbs nervously against his forefingers.

  “Yes, I,” Carlo said. He moved past me, without looking at me, and stood before Giovanni, who took a step back. “I will defeat you,” Carlo said. “And that is not a threat. I do not deal in threats. That is a promise.”

  “You are challenging the wrong man,” Giovanni protested.

  “No,” Carlo said, quietly, staring into Giovanni’s eyes. “You are challenging the wrong man.” Then Carlo glanced at me, and my heart stopped for an instant before he turned back to Giovanni. “This is only the beginning.”

  “We shall see,” Giovanni blustered, gesturing to the small crowd that had fallen silent. Even Carrie’s sobs were muted. “We shall see.” He stalked back to his restaurant.

  Everyone began talking at once, solicitously hovering over Carrie, some clapping Carlo on the back, others patting me on the shoulder. I stood still, staring at Carlo. His deep brown eyes gazed into mine. Then, he smiled—that smile that lit up his face and crinkled the corners of his eyes. Carlo took a step toward me, his hands outstretched, and I fell into his arms. His strong arms encircled me and his lips brushed mine.

  “Carissima,” he breathed in my ear, “I am so sorry.”

  “But—but, how did you know?“ I asked.

  He put his finger gently across my lips. “Shhhh,” he whispered. “One of the new workers was bribed by the Sacra Lista to put the bacteria on the machines. He confessed today.”

  “How—why?” I asked.

  Carlo smiled. “Let’s just say that I have a talent for the business,” he said. “I knew the questions to ask everyone and how to ask them.”

  “So you know Giovanni lied to you?” I asked.

  Carlo tipped my face back and kissed me full on the lips. Some in the audience tittered and some clapped. The little group was dispersing, but some had stayed, no doubt, to watch the concluding drama of the love story. Carrie was being attended to by the little nonna, and she looked as if she was recovering nicely.

  “You, carissima, are my soul-mate, and I should have known it in my heart from the beginning. I was coming here to tell Giovanni what I had learned, and I came upon this scene,” he said, running his fingers through my hair. “You are a brave one, Alessandra.” He kissed me again, and I melted into his arms.

  A brave one, he had said. Well, I guessed that was true. I would see how brave I could be when it came time to go back to the U.S., but I thought now that I could do it. I wasn’t going to lie about Italia any more, and whatever Morgan and my new friends thought about it would be just fine. Italy was too much a part of me to pretend anything different any longer. I was who I was, and I was finally proud of it.

  “And I think I know what you were going to tell me about your father,” Carlo said softly in my ear. “We heard rumors during the seminar that some people in a California winery were trying to find out which Italian wineries were controlled by the Camorra.”

  Relief washed over me. He would believe me, after all! “My dad told me not to tell anyone, but I really wanted to let you know—and I was going to,” I said, my words tumbling over each other. “I’m so sorry.” Tears filled my eyes. “Oh, Carlo, I’ve made a mess of everything—here and back in California.”

  “You will triumph, Alessandra,” Carlo said. “You will be fine back in the U.S. I know it. We will take care of this problem here first, together. And we will be together in so many ways, for so many years. I have plans.”

  “Alessandra!” Carrie interrupted. “Let’s go home. I need some Band-Aids!”

  “I have to go now.” I smiled at Carlo through our kisses.

  “Tonight, dinner, nine. I will call for you,” he said. “We will talk about when to meet with the police and some government officials, along with Signor Scioscia and my parents, and give Giovanni an ugly surprise he will not forget. The truth will get us something. It will get Giovanni and his truth-loving friends a number of years in an Italian prison.” He smiled into my eyes. “Oh, and we will talk about how possibly I will study viticulture in California next year at the university close to where you live.”

  “In California? Really?” My heart filled with a rush of joy, and I hugged him, hard, luxuriating in the feel of his strong back under his starched shirt. We could be together next year!

  “Alessandra!” Carrie grumbled. “Enough of the smooching! I’m bleeding!”

  “Nine, then?” he said, grinning, as he released me. “I’ll call for you at nine.”

  “You can call for me, and you can call me Alessandra,” I said, “forever.”

  Acknowledgements

  In grateful acknowledgment for all you have done for this manuscript; this book could not have been written without your invaluable help: Bonnie, Carmela, Gabriele, James and Manuela, Katie, Nicki and Mariana, Margherita, and Jaynie.

 

 

 
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