Chapter 10
Change of Venue
The
choppy waters of the Ligurian continued to savage my injuries and prevented our boat from docking at Manarola. With teeth clenched I turned my camera to this charming village and captured one more row of pastel houses plus an extended mound of black rock rising from the sea like the almighty Zeus. From Manarola our boat moved on to battle another siege of hazardous waters before passing by Corniglia where rows of colorful buildings perched high above the rocky coast to hover over vineyards and olive groves sloping down to the Ligurian. A distant view of Vernazza presented me with more photo ops as the boat slowly bypassed its fishing port. Other than the first stop at Riomaggiore, not one passenger had set foot on land, so I could hardly mourn the loss of close-ups I wouldn’t have been able to see anyway.
The voice of an American interrupted my thoughts with a profound observation.
“Just you wait until tomorrow.”
I
looked up to see the guy who, minutes before, had freed me from the crush of Dead Weight. Keeping one hand firmly gripped on the back of my passenger seat, he leaned forward, and said, “Expect countless aches and pains tomorrow unless you check into the nearest hotel today and soak in a hot bath as soon as possible.” He offered me his free hand and with that his name. “Jonathan Ballister, Des Moines.”
The Iowan had an irregular face, one side not quite parallel with the other
, a slight defect most people wouldn’t notice but for me, one more nail in the coffin of what Mom considered my irrational quest for perfection. His ruddy complexion reminded me of those I’d seen in Missouri’s Ozarks but without the lines and deep creases that provided interest. He pumped my hand until I spoke the magic words that made him stop.
“Ellen from St. Louis.”
“That’s it?”
“For now, yes.”
“Well, Ellen from St. Louis, if you need any—”
“I’
m fine, really. And thanks again—gosh, did I forget to thank you the first time, my apologies.”
He took a business card from his pocket, scribbled something o
n the back, and handed it to me. “Just in case, here’s where I’m staying in Monterosso.”
I shoved the card
in my pocket and dismissed him by turning my face into a spray of salt water. Big mistake, but one deserved. I didn’t have to touch my hair to feel it frizzing up, nature’s protest against the smooth bob I preferred. When I turned back to Jonathan from Des Moines, he’d made himself scarce, which suited me fine.
By the time we
reached village number five, the sea had calmed down and Monterosso’s wide concrete dock welcomed us with its sturdy presence. I hobbled off the boat, lagging behind the other passengers as they walked along the base of a low cliff and from there on to promises of an exciting day. Seafood, local wine shops, artisans, and boutiques—Monterosso offered an entire array of commercial splendor. Unfortunately, the early bird tourists who’d arrived by land or a previous boat had already taken over every souvenir shop and gelato stand.
As for me, s
hopping did not present an immediate option, especially with pain now shooting from my hip to my ankle and every nook in between. I pushed myself no farther than the patio of an inviting trattoria and ordered cappuccino before limping off to the restroom. Behind the closed doors of blessed anonymity, I took a mirror from my handbag and evaluated the damage in all its naked glory.
The clinical pathology report reveals an unattached, angry female presenting with a swollen right buttock and thigh, no external abrasions but small ruptures to the blood vessels
indicate discoloring to her alabaster derma faster than the overturned palate of a temperamental artist unable to do justice to the deep blue of the Ligurian Sea. This whimpering patient maintains a pathetic demeanor while begging for her mother … somebody … anybody … even her sister Margo … correction: especially her sister Margo.
I splashed my face with cold water, waited for a rej
uvenation which didn’t transpire so I returned to the table. At least the waiter had delivered my cappuccino. After a painful sit down, I closed my eyes and sipped, relishing a moment too precious only to have it interrupted by the stilted English of a now familiar voice
“Scuzi,
signorina, I did not expect to see you in Monterosso so early in the day.”
One eyelid cranked
open to reveal Lorenzo Gentili leaning over me. I raised the other lid, motioned to the vacant chair, and he sat down. Within minutes the waiter appeared with a cup of espresso which Lorenzo must’ve already ordered.
“You’re not feeling well?” he asked.
I babbled out the details of my horrific morning, watched his face soften with each word. He offered the services of a village doctor which I refused.
“Perhaps the
ospedale
in La Spezia,” he said.
“No hospital.”
“Then I will drive you back to my villa.”
“Certainly not, I’ll be fine; I just need to elevate my leg for a while.”
“Please, allow me to extend my hospitality to Monterosso.
I have an apartment nearby. You can relax there while I complete my business.”
“Uh-h, I hate to bring this up but—”
“I keep no cats in my apartment, however, be assured there will be some wandering around outside.”
“Did I
say anything about cats?”
“You did not
have to, signorina.”
Under the circumstances his offer seemed
more than reasonable so I said yes. Determined to pay my own way, in this case for my coffee and his, I slipped one hand in my handbag and dug around for my wallet. When I didn’t find it right away, desperation set in. I flung my bag onto the table, opened it wide, and search every area.
“There is a problem?” Lorenzo asked.
“Only if I can’t find my wallet … that woman on the boat … she must’ve … oh, no.”
Oh, yes.
My wallet was gone, along with the euros inside it. At least the passport and credit cards I kept in a zippered pocket hadn’t been disturbed. The woman, I could barely recall what she looked like, except for those chubby cheeks. Her hair, her hair, I couldn’t recall its color. Maybe she wore a hat.
“
La Stazione di Carabinieri
is but a short distance from here,” Lorenzo said. “You really should report this.”
“Can
’t it wait until … never mind, I’ll do it now.”
Clinging to Lorenzo’s
arm, I let him drag me to the police station where he helped me file a report with an officer wearing a crisp blue shirt and dark pants. He was polite but non-committal, as I would’ve been in his shoes, since the three of us knew my money was gone forever, also a few photos of Margo and me. Hmm, Margo, I hadn’t thought about her for several hours. Losing a fistful of euros had changed my perspective, at least for the moment. Thank god for credit cards. We stopped at the nearest bank where I bought more euros, all the while cursing the woman I was sure had stolen my money. How could I have been so careless, me, Ellen Savino, who never lost sight of the necessities of life much less the necessary incidentals.
From the bank
and still clinging to Lorenzo, I limped up the cobblestone street, passing shopkeepers going head-to-head with the tourists, one of which should’ve been me since I consider myself quite the bargain hunter. When I stopped to admire a pyramidal display of lemons the size of California oranges, the vendor insisted I rest on his stool while he stood with Lorenzo and discussed whatever Italian men are prone to discuss: the local economy, local and national politics, even the murder of a female whose body had been discovered on the beach the previous week. Although I didn’t understand everything being said, I did get the impression Lorenzo’s opinion carried some weight. Ten minutes later we moved on with Lorenzo now carrying two bags of lemons and assorted byproducts, their fragrances so intoxicating I welcomed the strange headiness overtaking my lagging brain as we walked upward through the marketplace and beyond.
“One can never have too many
of the
limoni
,” he said.
Sure but for what, I
wanted to ask but needed the oxygen to preserve my remaining energy. Just a little longer I told myself when we entered a residential area of more pastel-colored buildings, apartments, narrow and stucco-covered, with green shutters flanking most windows and underneath those windows, magenta and pink flowers spilling over their boxes. When we reached a curve in the street that brought me to the verge of collapsing, I heard Lorenzo announce we had arrived. Almost but not quite, that is. I followed Lorenzo up three steep flights of stairs before we entered his apartment. The obligatory walk-around revealed antiques more rustic but every bit as charming as those in his La Spezia villa, plus a small balcony overlooking the street I’d struggled to climb only moments before. My view to the distant bluer-than-blue sea bowled me over now that the sun had made its appearance.
“Words can’t do justice to this
,” I said. “How many apartments are in the building?”
“At the present
mine is the only one occupied. I plan to have the other two renovated.”
“
You must be very busy. Are you sure I’m not imposing on you?”
Lorenzo’s ears turned red agai
n, rather un-macho for a full-fledged Italian or so I’d been told. According to Margo, some quirk in the DNA of Italian men made them incapable of blushing. He handed me two door keys and explained one was for the outer door, the other for his apartment.
“Please,
signorina, consider my house as your house. You will find bread, cheese, fruit, and wine in the kitchen. I will take care of my business and should return around six.”
“Me too, I intend to go sightseeing this afternoon.”
His smile indicated he didn’t believe me, but what did he know. “In that case I suggest you take a taxi to the Church of San Giovanni Battista … very near to where we had coffee earlier today. From there it will be an easy stroll around the immediate area. Later, around seven or so, we can meet on the boardwalk.”
“
The boardwalk?” I asked, picturing an Atlantic City I hadn’t seen.
“Si, the
concrete walkway above the seawall beach, you passed through it earlier today after getting off the boat.”
No wonder I didn’t remember it.
“From there decide on a place to eat and enjoy the incredible sunset,” Lorenzo said. “You will not be disappointed.”
Lorenzo’s
words seemed more commanding than inviting but I didn’t care enough to object. As soon as he left, I eased my aching bones onto the nearest bed and released myself to sleep—and from there to endless dreams about spiteful gypsies, obnoxious cats, and deranged wives. The Evil Eye was chasing me through the pages of a Gothic novel when I heard a distant voice urging me back to the real world. I bolted upright, let out a scream, and flopped back onto the bed.
That’s when I saw
Lorenzo standing in the doorway, a worried look on his face. “It is six o’clock, signorina. Did you go out earlier?”
Earlier, what earlier, I brushed the cobwebs from my brain before speaking.
“Oh, crap, I must’ve slept the hours away. How dreadful—an entire day in Monterosso wasted.”
“Ah-h, but the hour of
sunset will make up for any pleasure you may have lost through a much needed rest. I know a marvelous place where we can dine, one not too far and a comfortable walk downhill. After dinner, we can take a taxi back here before driving to my villa.”
“Sure, just give
me a minute to freshen up.” I rolled to my side, only to stop from the stiffening pain that prevented me from moving any further.
“Or,
we could have dinner here,” he said. “And watch the same sunset from the convenience of my balcony.”
I gestured a ‘whatever’ with
eyes closed and let several minutes pass before willing my body into an upright position. After finding the floor with my feet, I stood and shuffled toward the bathroom where a mist of steam was creeping from under the door, an invitation too tempting to resist. I pushed the door open. Lorenzo had his back to me and was leaning over the tub, a knife clutched in one hand. I almost let out a scream but exchanged it instead for a gasp. Only then did I realize he was using the knife to slice lemons into the hot water.
He
straightened up, closed the knife, and slipped it into his trouser pocket. He edged passed me, our bodies inches away from touching.
“I took the l
iberty of ordering our dinner to be delivered,” he said. “This is the season for anchovies.”
“Anchovies—I don’t know.”
“These are like none you may have tasted from a can. They are quite sensational when accompanied by the sharp contrast of capers and lemons plus a drizzle of olive oil.”
“You really should’ve been a chef, Lorenzo.”
“I think not, signorina. Cooking for others is not a prerequisite for appreciating ingredients of the finest quality.”