My
lips moved but no sound came from them. “Oh Lord, bless the soul of that murdered gypsy. Let the perpetrator be found before he kills again. Or she, although I can’t imagine one female killing another but anything is possible, I guess.” My painful knees reminded my thigh to rebel, so much so that I sat back into the pew and ended my prayer with, “As for Margo, give me strength to replace my shameful envy with the patience I sorely lack. Oh, and thanks for letting me have my first taste of love and please don’t let me make a fool of myself over this … this holiday romance. Unless it gets seriously serious, in which case please clear my head of any stupidity standing between the old me and the new me. Amen.”
I sat for another half hour, reveling in
the quiet and comfortable with my decision to leave the convent after two years.
“You didn’t
have enough discipline,”
Mom had told me with a click of her tongue.
“You were and still are too wrapped up with yourself instead of Our Lord.”
“Thanks for the mi
ni psychological appraisal,”
was all I could say.
But did she leave it alone, no.
“Who knows you better than me, your mother? Make the most of your best traits—common sense and more brains than your sister will ever have.”
“But she’s prettier.”
I didn’t see it coming, the sharp sting of her hand across my face.
“Stop whining. Such nonsense doesn’t become a failed nun.”
“You mean postulate.
I didn’t take my final vows.”
Even now
, ten years later, I rubbed my cheek, the humiliation still with me but not a single tear shed. Shifting in my pew, I looked around to see the church emptied of tourists. Enough with the mental flagellation, the new me got up, moved into the aisle and genuflected. Whatever physical pain I’d been feeling had taken a much-needed break. I walked toward the exit and from there into the welcoming sun of my new day.
Another th
irty minutes of window shopping and feigned interest in souvenirs passed before I returned to the church, this time positioning my rear end on an outside bench, the perfect spot for catching sight of Margo on her upward trek from the boat dock. Two men wandered by, both gypsies I figured because one was the smarmy gypsy from yesterday. I met his gaze with mine and refused to back down.
“Whatever you’d like to say, don’t bother,” I told him. “Or else I’ll scream and then you’ll really be sorry.”
Other than the hissing sound he made with his tongue darting in and out, followed by a flash of gold tooth when he curled his lip and sneered, the gypsy did nothing else that would’ve given me an excuse to carry out my scream threat. When he hissed a second time, I returned the insult with the horn gesture, bringing a merciful end to an exchange of one-upmanship. The other gypsy mumbled something under his breath and they both moved on, I guess with more important concerns than me, an uppity
Americana
.
After the gypsie
s came an elderly man, about ninety years old and dressed in an elegant summer suit similar to those I’d seen on Via Venuta in Rome. He tipped his panama hat to me and grinned with what appeared to be the teeth God had given him.
“
Buongiorno, signorina
,” the gentleman said
.
He asked how I was.
“Come vanno le cose?”
“Bene, et
tu?”
Fine, I told him and asked the same of him.
“Molto bene, grazie.
E Lei Americana?”
“Si.
And my
Italiano
is very poor.”
He sat beside me
and continued to speak in Italian, very slowly to make sure I understood each word. One phrase I didn’t get until he repeated it for a third time; and only then did I realize he’d been propositioning me.
I laughed, and shook my head. “
I don’t even know your name.”
“
Io sono
Bernardo Cozzani
,” he said with a lift of his tanned brow.
I played the tease, responding
as Margo would have. “No, no, no. I am too old for you, Signore Cozzani.”
“
Bernardo,” he said and asked if I would have cappuccino with him.
Pointing to my
watch, I shook my head again. “I am meeting someone.”
Bernardo
held up one forefinger, the nail buffed to a fine sheen.
“Uno,”
he said with the smile I now found irresistible.
“Venti minuti.”
Twenty minutes, why n
ot. Knowing Margo, I figured she’d be late anyway.
I stood al
ongside my new friend, slid my arm through his, and we walked across the way to the same trattoria I’d crashed on my arrival at Monterosso. The owner quickly seated us and brought a cappuccino for me and for Bernardo, two drinks—a grappa and an espresso.
“
Bella, bella
, Elena,” he said, lifting the grappa to me.
“You know my name?”
Instead of answering my question, Bernardo turned his attention to a prominent official approaching our table, one I’d met the day before. Commissioner Novaro nodded to me and began a conversation with Bernardo, naturally in Italian too fast for my brain to absorb. All except for two key words I’d recently come to recognize:
femmina morta.
Or dead female, either version reminded me to care about the least among us.
When both
men paused at the same time, it took all the courage I could muster to blurt out, “Scusi, Commissario, is this about the gypsy found dead on the beach?”
To my
relief he replied in English. “You know about the deceased, signorina?”
“Doesn’t everyone? Her story was in the newspaper.”
Okay, so I couldn’t read Italian any better than I spoke it.
“S
i, a most unfortunate incident,” the commissioner said, “but as a tourist you need not be concerned.”
“For my safety, no; but what about
the woman, she died under mysterious circumstances?”
“My men
… , as we speak?”
“Why do I get the feeling there’s more?’
If looks could kill … clearly my persistence was annoying the commissioner. Bernardo came to the rescue with a few soft-spoken words and a bottle of wine that appeared like magic. Along with the waiter who filled three glasses.
We didn’
t bother with clicking before sipping. After our second sip and a glance toward Bernardo, the commissioner released a new wrinkle I had not expected.
“
Another woman found dead, signorina. The body was discovered early this morning in the train tunnel.”
I nearly choked on the wine trickling down my throat.
“First the beach now the tunnel, what’s going on with these gypsies?”
“Do not be too presumptive
,” he said with the indignation I probably deserved. “For all we know, the victim could’ve been a tourist although she has yet to be identified. We expect to solve both crimes within a matter of days.”
“How did she die?”
“I’d rather not say.” He poured more wine for himself and Bernardo. None for me, thank you.
“Do you have any suspects?”
I asked.
“None I wish to discuss.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“Careful, signorina, I have told you far more than any tourist should expect.”
“My apologies, Commissioner, just one more question, please. About Lorenzo Gentili, he left early this morning and I was wondering if that had anything to do with the investigation.”
“Lorenzo è
un uomo occupato,”
Bernardo said, referring to what a busy man Lorenzo was.
“You know Lore
nzo?” I asked. Then it hit me: why Bernardo knew my name before I’d given it to him.
He
shrugged in the manner of all Italians when they don’t want to answer a question.
“
Perhaps I should explain,” the commissioner said. “Signore Cozzani is the
zio
of Lorenzo.”
His uncle,
please. Lorenzo had sent this nonagenarian, this geriatric gigolo to look out for me, Ellen Savino, who’d been looking out for herself since parting company with the Ursulines. Not knowing whether to be amused or insulted, I stood up instead. “Scusi, I must find my sister.”
“Be assured, your sister is in no danger,
” the commissioner said.
“But I will feel better when I meet up with her.
” Nodding to both men, I added,
“Grazie and arrivedeci, signori.”
***
I hurried back to the church and squeezed onto one end of the now crowded bench. Another woman murdered, this time perhaps a tourist, so there may not have been much relevance to the first victim being a gypsy. Did this woman bleed out too? Not on the beach but in the train tunnel? An area I’d walked with Lorenzo and Jonathan less than twenty-four hours before.
I
pulled out my paperback and flipped to the marker. Four pages later having had no idea what I had read, I shoved the book back into my handbag and came across an emery board, which I used to smooth out the rough edges of my nails. No way could mine have competed with those of Bernardo Cozzani, how humiliating. Not the manicure, the whole set-up. Me being propositioned by a man old enough to be my grandfather, please.
Still no Margo, where the hell was she? Margo should’ve stayed in La Spezia, better yet in Florence. No, she shoul
d’ve gone back to St. Louis where gypsies rarely ventured … although women did get murdered on occasion. If anything happened to her, I never would’ve forgiven myself for being me, as in catty to a fault. Sure, she may’ve had it coming at times. Okay, some of the time but not all the time.
Memo to self:
Be nicer to Margo, some of the time but not all of the time.
Thirty or so tourists
came strolling up the hill so I called out to a man who glanced in my direction. “Did you just get off the motorboat?”
“You bet we did
,” he replied in American English. “The villages are absolutely amazing.”
I
almost asked if he’d noticed a very attractive woman on board but didn’t want to appear desperate. Better to act like the civilized tourist Lorenzo had been entertaining. The one he’d made love to, one time.
Chapter 17
Another Boat to
Cinque Terre
Me, Margo Savino self-absorbed … get real, who was El kidding. The very thought made me feel like tossing my cookies, which I rarely did unless I’d eaten more than my fair share. Yes, I could’ve stayed in Firenze, made up with Giorgio, or not, depending on the Mama from Hell, but I couldn’t stop thinking about El and this fast friendship with a guy she barely knew. Not that I hadn’t found myself reeling from similar situations in the past but this was sweet, naïve El, my kid sis who lacked the experience, the know-how that came as second nature to me.
After she
’d recovered from her initial shock of my being at that precious villa in La Spezia, we agreed to meet the following day in Monterosso. Shortly after our call ended, the little old lady answered her phone, nodded a few times, and hung up. I only caught half of what she said to me but soon found myself sitting down to a bedtime snack of hot chocolate, a yummy mascarpone cheese and spinach panini, plus a wedge of hazelnut cake that I wound up carrying to my room—El’s too. She’d left most of her things behind, including the keys to our rental. Thank god for small favors. I even did one for El, stuffing the best of her dated wardrobe into one of my suitcases.
A
bathtub as big as this one was too tempting for me to resist. I soaked in hot, bubbly water, so soothing I could’ve fallen asleep and slipped into the next world had it not been for El needing me. Even though she wouldn’t know that until we met up again. Sleep did not come easy; never does when I’m trying to find my comfort zone in a bed new to me. This was not about being alone or missing Giorgio … well, perhaps his lean body, his strong arms yet boyish charm. The vision of his mama making that obscene gesture, of poking her face into mine stirred up the promise of an impending nightmare. Enough, why punish myself over an incident that could never be rectified even if I wanted it to, which I didn’t.
Having parted company with the bed,
I padded over to the window and checked out the moonlit garden below. Good grief, never before had I seen so many cats in one place, all milling around bowls of … milk, I guess, given the price of cream although who knows what lurks in the mind of Italians and what value they place on nocturnal creatures that meow and purr and screw while the rest of the world sleeps. The villa’s little old lady must’ve taken care of these felines before putting herself to bed. Or could their supplier have been the younger woman below, dressed in a dream of romantic gauze. Walking away from the garden, she stopped without turning around, as if aware of me looking at her.
Buona notte
, I whispered, as much for myself as for the mysterious Cat Woman who disappeared into the night.
The next morning I slipped in
to the white backless sundress I’d bought at a vintage shop in Rome while El was kneeling in a nearby church.
Seize the moment,
had always been my motto, especially when it involved a once-in-lifetime find such as this, one guaranteed to make heads turn.
F
amished, I walked into the villa’s dining room and sat down for another breakfast-as-usual in the Italian way, which should’ve been quite sufficient had I not been obsessing over visions of a big fat cinnamon roll or maybe a sausage and egg biscuit, something sinfully American, a dangerous precursor to Phase I Homesickness. That would change for the better as soon as I caught up with El and set her straight, that is, if she’d let me.
But first things first: as in
two espressos and a wedge of yummy cheese. After resisting a satisfying lick of my fingers, I went to my bathroom and took a satisfying pee instead, after which Little Old Lady helped me drag luggage to the Fiat parked too far from the villa but closer to the road. Did I complain? No, what would’ve been the point of playing the
Brutta Americana
. Instead we exchanged a
grazie
for a
prego
, a smile instead of a hug. She shook her head and kept telling me to wait, but what for? Time was a-wasting and I had none to waste.
I climbed into the
passenger side, prepared for El to take her place behind the wheel. Damn, perhaps I needed El as much as El needed me. Bury the thought, what a mind-boggling fiasco that would’ve been. I stepped out, spread a road map over the Fiat’s hood, and was trying to make sense of the route when a car pulled up and stopped alongside mine. The driver made a quick exit, and speaking in Italian I could understand, explained he’d been hired to drive me to the harbor, or anywhere else of my choosing. Halleluiah and double halleluiah. I tried thanking Little Old Lady but all I got in return was another smile.
***
Boats and water, life couldn’t get any better than riding in an Italian motorboat along the coastline of the Ligurian Sea. Having left my luggage with the captain who seemed only too happy to oblige, I took a seat along the bow, turned my face to capture the spray of water, and lost myself in the moment. That particular moment ended almost before it began when two men, maybe early forties, plopped down on either side of me.
“I’m Franz
,” said the guy to my right.
“And I am
Max,” said his buddy. “Nice sundress.”
Yes, just the reaction I’d hoped to get.
Franz had a stocky build and curly brown hair. Max was thinner; his hair combed back and brushing the collar of a knit shirt. Both wore knee-length shorts and Birkenstock sandals, not exactly my type but neither was any other unattached male within nautical range.
“Are you reincarnated from Marilyn Monroe?” Franz asked.
“Marilyn was a blonde,” I said.
“But not a dumb blonde,”
Max said.
“I’m neither blonde nor dumb.”
“You would look good as a blonde,” Max said. He lifted a few stands of my hair, inspected them like the stylist I knew him to be would’ve done.
“Please don’t touch the merchandise,” I said. “None of it’s for sale.”
His face turned red; he dropped his hand, and said he was sorry
“Apology accepted.” Only
then did I notice the pricey Swiss watch encircling his wrist.
“Can we hang out with you?” Franz asked.
“That depends on how well you behave.”
“We are Austrian,
” Franz said, “well-bred and courteous in spite of my friend’s recent faux pas.”
“
Again, my sincere apology,” Max said. “What is more, we do not bite unless requested to do so. And we have money.”
“Well, that’s a start,
” I couldn’t help but say with my best smile. “But remember, no touching.”