Chapter 7
Sleep Tight
Around ten o’clock I
crawled into bed, only then realizing I’d be sleeping on top of a feather bed covering the mattress, a first for me and one I anticipated like a princess ignorant of the proverbial pea awaiting her discomfort. Those next four hours consisted of me punching pillows and flipping them over, tossing off the covers only to snuggle back into them. I finally pinpointed my unrelenting anxiety to the devil in Lorenzo’s Italian-style coffee instead of my oxymoron version, the simpering decaf.
Somewhere
in the night cats were engaged in a vast conspiracy, their screeching worse than babies demanding their next meal. I grabbed a pair of shoes—the sandals that squeeze every one of my sensitive toes—and stomped to the window. But before I could launch the first of my feline attacks, a sudden breeze slapped against my face, so strong it closed both eyes. I opened them wide and on looking down, did a double take. There in the moonlit garden was my elusive woman, this time dressed in a flimsy nightgown and kneeling as she enticed the calico and Persian with a bowl of milk. Along the ledge of a gray stone wall more cats had gathered, a row of hungry spectators meowing as they waited their turn at the milk. The woman lifted her head and again waved for me to join her.
I
leaned over the window sill. “First, tell me your name,” I called out, my voice cutting through the darkness of night.
She
opened her palms and lifted her shoulders, as if to say she did not understand.
“Nome—par favore,”
I all but shouted. To which the woman walked away, more like disappeared into the mist. No more games, especially after midnight. I stepped back, retreated to my bed, and burrowed under the covers where my imagination conjured up a newspaper article buried on page three of the
La Spezia Giornale
:
An insignificant American
tourist has died from an overdose of arsenic-laced cream at the villa of the prominent Lorenzo Gentili, coincidentally on the tenth anniversary of his beloved wife’s mysterious disappearance. After completing a thorough investigation, the local carabinieri have confirmed Ellen Savino’s death to be a suicide, for lack of a better explanation. Arrangements for disposing of the remains are incomplete, pending notification of a sister believed to be cavorting in Firenze with an Egyptian mummy in need of a close shave.
Chapter 8
Cinque Terre via the Sea
Seven hours later and still groggy from a
god-awful restless night, I still wasn’t convinced that caffeine-induced hysteria had produced the elusive cat woman. To hell with the late hour and creepy felines, I should’ve gone downstairs a second time and made friends with her. Too late now, the sort of story of a life filled with one too many
could’ves, should’ves, would’ves
. After a solitary breakfast of more caffeine tempered with hot latte and soft tomino cheese patted onto day-old bread heels, I followed Lorenzo down the path leading to the parking area, a walk which made me aware of his sloping shoulders and broad hipline, a far worse negative than the unfortunate nose cursing an otherwise ordinary face.
I found
the calico cat perched on the hood of my rental but didn’t see the Persian. “Here kitty, kitty, kitty,” I called out.
Zero response. The creature was either dead or didn’t
capice
my English. Next time, if ever there’d be another trip to Italy, I vowed to learn a few more key Italian phrases instead of relying on Margo who listened to language tapes on her drive to and from work.
“You like the cats?” Lorenzo asked.
“Not really, just curious.”
He ope
ned the passenger door and I climbed into his Mercedes van. With Lorenzo secured behind the wheel, we circled down the winding road, which afforded me a better view of the houses I’d hardly noticed the day before. None could match the understated pride of Lorenzo’s villa and confirmed I’d made the right choice.
After a few quiet moments I
threw out a casual comment, for no other reason than to test his reaction. “About the cats, they were very busy during the night, lapping up milk the mysterious lady in your garden provided.”
He spoke without glancing in my
direction. “Sometimes the moon plays tricks on my guests, especially those
Americani
who resist changes to their routine.”
Did he think this
Americana
a pushover? “I know what I saw, Lorenzo.”
“What you believe you saw,
signorina.”
Lorenzo set his condescending jaw into silent mode, hands gripping the steering wheel as he maneuvere
d the fifteen hairpin curves I didn’t have time to count when I’d been the one driving. He didn’t speak again until we reached the main road. He repeated the particulars of my boat tour and where we should meet that evening: nine o’clock, Church of San Giovanni Battista in the heart of Monterosso. When he dropped me off at the harbor, his last words were a reminder about the glaring rays of the afternoon sun, which at ten-twenty on this morning were hiding behind a mass of hazy clouds.
I bought my
ticket and boarded a crowded vessel scheduled for stops at four of the five coastal villages, weather permitting. The motorboat departed at ten-thirty and moved with ease through the calm bay. After reaching the Ligurian Sea, the boat started bouncing over rough waters, forcing me to spread my feet into a sea legs stance and to wrap my hands around a deck rail lined with the more resilient passengers. I did manage to release one hand long enough to snap a few photos of rolling waves battering the coast before a powerful swell drenched my hair and made me consider going below with those passengers having the common sense I lacked. Don’t be such a wuss, I mumbled to myself and resolved to stay top deck.
Our
boat approached Riomaggiore’s harbor with determination and after several failed attempts the captain finally executed a successful docking. Waves rocked the vessel as busy crewmen lashed its gangplank to the mooring, and anxious passengers pressed forward, waiting for permission to disembark. I sidestepped one of two metal eyes securing the deck ropes before shifting my weight to accommodate the boat’s erratic rhythm. As soon as I reached my comfort level, the boat surprised me and all of the passengers with a raise of its bow to accommodate the incoming water. The sturdy woman who’d been swaying in front of me slammed her rear end into my stomach and we both hit the deck. She yelled a string of what could only be described as obscenities in an unfamiliar language, her dead weight crushing me into the protruding metal eye. It inflicted pain on my hip and butt so excruciating I wanted to scream but didn’t have enough oxygen for a single peep. The passengers surrounding us reacted with dumbfounded expressions until one man came forward and extended his hand to Dead Weight. After pulling her up, he did the same for me.
“It’s an
absolute disgrace,” said the man whose accent told me he was an okay American guy. He helped me to a seat along the bow, all the while talking about my near disaster. “Not a single rail or safety precaution on the entire boat. Back home you’d have good cause for a lawsuit. Too bad those issues don’t apply here.”
I nodded although m
y immediate concern centered on sucking in some much-needed air before attempting to speak.
Dead Weight took one look at me, press
ed her hands against chubby cheeks, and sputtered an apology I couldn’t begin to understand yet managed a second nod to show my acceptance. She held onto her hat with one hand, tugged on her handbag with the other. Somehow during the commotion my handbag had gotten tangled up with hers and after much unwinding she undid the two of them, patted hers protectively, and passed mine to me.
“Scuzi,
signorina, you all right?” asked one of the crewmen who handed me a bottle of water.
“I’m not sure,” I choked out, having found my wind. I rubbed my
throbbing thigh, and was relieved not to discover a broken femur.
“Perhaps you should ge
t off at a later stop.” The crewman edged away from me, his boat duties more important than any injuries I might’ve suffered.
“Si, grazie,”
I said.
T
he crewman was right. Blinking away tears, I repositioned myself to watch able-bodied passengers step onto the swaying dock, and from there onto the rocky terrain of Riomaggiore where they began climbing the stone walkway leading to this ancient village, a terraced showplace of structures painted pastel shades of red, yellow, ecru, terracotta, and green.
Da
mmit, I belonged out there with those tourists taking each step with the assurance of owning it. If only Margo had stuck to our original plan, I wouldn’t be suffering such agony now. Who knows, we might’ve taken a later tour, or endured this one shoulder to shoulder, laughing as our brave boat battled the treacherous Ligurian waters.
Memo to s
elf:
1) Bitch-slap Margo as soon as we meet at Malpensa Airport.
2) Arrange for separate seating on our flight home.
3) Tell Mom the gorgeous daughter behaved like a selfish, common slut, thus causing great bodily damage to the daughter
stuck with a beautiful mind.
4) Keep silk scarf purchased in Florence
for myself instead of giving it to Margo for her birthday.
5) Quit blaming Margo for everything that goes wrong in my life. Sorry, Sis.
6) Pray for less envy and more self-discipline.
Chapter 9
Discord in
Paradise
“But you promised, Giorgio.” It was late forenoon, too early for hunger pains, too late for another round of sex, and we were sitting on his balcony.
“Si, but
my words came during a moment of weakness,” he said. “Do not hold me accountable for wanting nothing more than to please you.”
“Huh? Do you even know what you
just said? It makes no sense.”
“Please
, I am
Italiano
. Tomorrow I will reinvent myself as the Egyptian mummy, for you and only you. But this day belongs to Mama, it cannot be helped. I promised her before I promised you.”
So much for promises and the orde
r in which they had been made and who came first, obviously not me, but what could I expect in exchange for a few days of sex with no strings attached. We’d been drinking endless cups of espresso laced with the grappa he took pride in having made, both of us watching the scene below like smug gods immortalized in Roman mythology. Such bliss, I didn’t want it to end. Giorgio, however, had other ideas.
He leaned over, sandwi
ched my face between his expressive hands, and kissed me in a way
that said,
prepare for round four.
Or maybe five, after last night’s incredible ecstasy I could still wet my pants just thinking about it.
“
Permesso
to impose on you, cara mia,” Giorgio said, as if I could ever refuse him.
“Anything, anyway,” I managed to blurt out.
“I usually have a little pasta before every performance. The carbohydrates, they help calm the nerves.”
“Mine too.
I’d love to go out for an early lunch.”
“No, no,
I require a quiet ambiance in which to eat and properly digest. Could you … would you mind making lunch for me, I mean for the two of us. Everything you need can be found in the kitchen. Mama keeps the pantry well stocked. Olive oil, spaghetti, tomatoes, she uses nothing but the very best.”
“But you said ….”
“Not to worry about Mama. I will take care of her; you take care of me. Please?”
I sighed, wishing I’d paid more attention to
my mother when she cooked. What the hell, I pushed myself into his mama’s kitchen, one that could easily have been featured in
Gourmet Magazine, Italian Style.
Giorgio stopped short of following me into the pantry.
“Any particular way you l
ike your pasta?” I called out.
“There is
more than one way?” he asked.
No, I suppose not. Although
not having a jar of Prego would definitely complicate the process. Somehow I managed to assemble what I considered a decent bowl of spaghetti smothered with a can of San Marzano tomatoes I’d squished between my fingers before heating.
Giorgio didn’t look all that happy, or hungry, when he sat down at the table.
I piled pasta onto his plate and even kissed his cheek. But when I stuck my tongue in his ear, he jerked away. Okay, okay, I got it.
“Yo
u’re not eating?” he asked.
“Maybe later,” I replied
with a smile.
He
swirled the pasta onto his fork until not one strand was left hanging. Turning the fork from side to side, he inspected the mound with a critical eye before shoving it into his mouth. After a brief chew, he swallowed with a hard gulp followed by another. With a roll of his eyes, he pushed the plate aside.
“There’s a problem?”
I asked through gritted teeth.
He tapped his
front teeth with two fingers. “The pasta, it has been cooked too long. And the sauce—”
“
Don’t tell me, I already know. Not like your mama’s.” As if I gave a super colossal shit.
“
Not to worry, cara mia. This evening I will explain the difference.”
“Pe
rhaps we could try that charming trattoria down the street.” My treat, I almost said but changed my mind. So far, the only time we’d eaten out was when I footed the bill.
While I cleaned up, as in threw out the mess
I’d created, Giorgio retreated to his bedroom and the large wardrobe housing his various costumes. When I next saw him in what I referred to as the living room and he called the lounge area, he’d transformed himself with white make-up, rouged lips and cheeks, and exaggerated eye-liner. He paraded before me, this one-man circus act, his body molded into a skin-tight red leotard, silently preening and blowing kisses, one of which I caught in my hand and sent back to him. He held the imaginary kiss in the palm of one hand for a moment before releasing it, as if setting a butterfly free. Or perhaps himself free of me.
Standing before
the cheval mirror, he smoothed out the black tights covering his strong, sinewy legs before turning to view the full length of his body profile. Only then did he speak, to ask if his ass had passed inspection.
“Acceptable, yes; perfect
, no,” I said. My feel-good bitchiness sent Giorgio’s face into a state of panic I couldn’t help but relish. “As for your frontal equipment, may I be so bold as to suggest you put a sock in it.”
“A sock, what do you mean, a sock?”
“Never mind, I’m sure some of the
touristi
won’t even notice.”
“The
touristi
will be more interested in the quality of my actions,” Giorgio said, “my ability to tell a story from the heart without relying on the use of words and music and other distracting sounds.”
“Yes, how clever
, the touristi will understand how well you disguise those shortcomings God has seen fit to deliver upon you.”
He turned to face the mirror again
, stared into it with eyebrows crunched and lips pouting. “Perhaps I should skip this afternoon’s performance.”
I leaned back on the headboard
, gave him my most convincing come-hither look. “And do what instead?”
“Call Mam
a—she’ll know what I should do.” He glanced around the room. “My phone, have you seen it?”
“Not since you last talked to your mama. Would you like to use mine?”
“No, the call coming from an unfamiliar number such as yours might confuse her.” After thirty more seconds of pondering a variety of posed reflections, he said, “A-hah, I have the solution, one I should’ve thought of before now. You call me and when my phone rings, I will know where to locate it.”
“Brilliant. I should have thought
of that.” Of course, I already had and while he’d been in the bedroom transforming himself, I threw the damn phone out the window, watched it land in the bed of a passing truck, never to be heard again. Bye-bye, Mama.
Nevertheless, t
o pacify Giorgio I tapped his number onto my phone, listened to the ringing until his recorded voice told me to leave a message. I shrugged in mock disappointment. “Sorry, darling, the phone is bound to turn up when and where you least expect it.”
Giorgio
fumed. He paced the polished floorboards, all the while muttering words in Italian I didn’t understand, a blessing if ever there was.
Unable to take any more
of his agonizing, I finally said, “Look, darling, I do believe your manhood has returned, and with such intensity we shouldn’t let such a masterpiece go to waste.”
He stopped in front of the mirror again, obviously pleased with his proud package.
“Cara mia, you are my angel, the best thing that ever happened to me, except for my mama who cannot help herself. But now we must hurry to the Ufizzi—and don’t forget the collection basket. My tightrope debut will outshine anything I have attempted in the past.”
“How about
giving me a preview?” I asked.
He
kissed his fingertips and pressed them to my lips. “It would not be fair to my audience. Spontaneity, it is what I thrive on, the pride of my existence.”
“Perhaps an umbrella for balance,” I said, taking a small one from a leather holder in the hallway.
“Cara mia, please, have faith in my ability. And the imaginary pole I will carry in these hands that will not fail me.”