Italy to Die For (7 page)

Chapter 13

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Humiliation

How could my own sister have treated me so shabbily after all I’ve done for her over the years, especially those following her failure as a namby-pamby novice with those Ursuline nuns. Not that I ever thought she’d been blessed with a religious calling but who is nowadays when picking and choosing from so many career opportunities. Worldly distractions, as El said on entering the convent and probably her reason for leaving, one I certainly understood although we’d never discussed the exact details of her departure. Working as a middle school librarian suited her personality much better—the contradiction of a childlike yet studious quality our mother found so appealing. On the other hand, those twelve-year-olds she served could be incredibly cruel, I guess. Or maybe honest, yes, more like honest to the point of cruelty … at times but not always, at least that’s how I remember my own candid interventions with her when I was no more than twelve. Was it my fault she couldn’t take a bit of honest criticism? That she didn’t believe me when I said her face would eventually catch up with her nose. And that I kicked some guy in the balls when he called her Ellie with the two-ton belly.

As for Italy, this
was El’s idea not mine. But had it been mine, I’d have insisted we make the trip with a group of upscale singles, whatever it took to loosen her up and to let me be me. No way was I going to let her hold me back though. Nor was I about to hold her back. In fact, I all but cheered when this macho guy in Rome had pinched her ass instead of mine. Come to think of it, I didn’t tell her about my late-night encounter with that same guy—in the alley of a centuries-old building, what a hoot. At least it was a hoot at the time, although on further reflection I must confess to feeling somewhat slutty.

As for Giorgio, I have absolut
ely no regrets, especially the magic of those times when we connected—body and soul and everything in-between. If only he hadn’t been so attached to his mama … if only she hadn’t ….

What
the hell, no way would I allow a mere bump in the road ruin what remained of my Italian holiday.

Chapter 14

Tourist Distractions

Whatever pain I’d
been feeling ended with Margo’s phone call. As did any further concern for her current problem which we both knew would end as soon as one more crucial took its place. Problems, they separated us. Problems, they held us together.

A pleasant scan of Monterosso from Lorenzo’s balcony showed a village
already coming to life with shopkeepers setting out their wares again and the first wave of tourists seeking out what they perceived as early morning bargains. My watch indicated nine-thirty, plenty of time for exploring with Lorenzo before eating again. I was beginning to see in him the makings of a decent escort, despite the unfortunate nose and less than spectacular physique. Those minor irregularities were either less intrusive than when we first met or I’d grown more accustomed to them. Not that I was the model of perfection, not by a long shot as Margo would’ve said.

Mustn’t think about Margo
; mustn’t let her get in the way.

Back in the apartment
Lorenzo had removed his apron and changed into a dress shirt, blue with its long sleeves rolled half way up to reveal a mass of dark hair covering his forearms. He smiled on learning I had decided to stay although I didn’t mention anything about extending my holiday longer than the original plan.

Ed
ging toward the door, he spoke as only a gentleman would. “I will wait for you downstairs, signorina … I mean, Elena, in case you desire to freshen up before we begin our tour.”

Already this sort-of-date promised to surpass any remnant of
my last real date, a disastrous set-up if ever there was. A touch above a fourth-class-low-brow with manners to match, ever so thoughtful with comments on the order of:
“Better pee while you got the chance; don’t know when we’ll find a john cleaner than the one I just took an incredible whiz in.”

***

Minutes later I was outside, navigating alongside Lorenzo, my arm hooked in his, not because I couldn’t have managed otherwise but because he’d engaged me in this simple act of courtesy, one that provided a sense of security, of belonging to someone if only for a day or so. We stopped at first one shop, then another, my only purchases a bra and two pairs of undies while Lorenzo waited outside, plus sandals and an over-priced pair of tan knit pants, matching top, and another outfit, clothes that would take me from morning to night without allowing a single wrinkle.

Otherwise,
I browsed without buying since the dollar was so weak against the euro and I was already out about three hundred hard-earned dollars. On the other hand, I had promised myself one special souvenir before going home and a certain pair of earrings kept calling my name. Holding the amber stones against one ear, I gazed into a round mirror sitting on the countertop.

“Perfetto,”
said the clerk, a younger-than-prettier-than-me who would’ve looked good with mud daubers hanging from her ears.

“The stones
make a nice contrast against your hair,” Lorenzo said.

He was right and had this
been Margo, she would’ve pulled out the plastic without asking the price but not me. Rash decisions weren’t part of my vocabulary.

“Quanto costa?”
I asked the clerk.

“Tre cento,”
she replied, as if to say it’s only money.

I did a quick calculation in my
head—four hundred forty dollars, far beyond my skimpy allotment. Hel-l-o, just like that the earrings lost their glitter. I returned them to the clerk. “Grazie, I’ll have to think about it.”

“Do not think t
oo long,” she said with a smile. “These are one of a kind.”

“It would be a shame to leave them behind,” Lorenzo murmured.

I responded with a quick move to the door. He managed to get there first and held it open for me. I stepped into the bright sun of noonday and shifted my sunglasses from atop my head to the bridge of my nose. A display of silk scarves caught my eye. I checked them out, compared the quality and price to the birthday scarf I’d decided my sister didn’t deserve. Maybe I’d give it to her after all, what with Margo so tormented in Florence over her break-up with Giorgio and me having such a marvelous time in Monterosso without her. But wait, something was missing—Lorenzo. I turned and scanned the crowd until I found him nearby, leaning against a post while reading the newspaper. I walked over and stood beside him. There, on the lower corner of the front page was a photograph of Monterosso’s beach and several policemen searching the area.

“What’s the story?” I asked
.

“The body of a woman
was discovered some nights ago,” he said, pointing to the accompanying article. “The carabinieri suspect she may have been murdered. They are undertaking a complete investigation, which is one reason for my staying in Monterosso. I want to help in any way possible. This type of publicity has a negative effect on Cinque Terre.”

“To say nothing of the poor woman who died.”

“But of course, si … Elena. It was not my intention to appear unsympathetic.”

I smiled. “I’m
teasing, Lorenzo. Coming from a country that thrives on the rewards of capitalism, I have no business criticizing your concern for a murder that affects the local economy.”

“We should speak of topics more ple
asant,” he said, closing the newspaper. “Perhaps you would like to see the Church of San Giovanni Battista before we stop for lunch.”

“Later, if you don’t mind. What I c
ould really go for would be some wine and pizza.”

“I know just the place,” he said, once again taking my arm.

***

Pizza margherita
just didn’t get any simpler or better than tomato sauce, olive oil, and basil topping a crisp crust that surpassed any I’d eaten in America. It must’ve been the flour or the water or a combination of both. Lorenzo chose a local wine: a dry white that slid down my throat with such ease it left no aftertaste.

After lunch we
resumed our walk and hadn’t gone far when Lorenzo stopped to confer with a gray-haired man he didn’t bother introducing to me. I strolled ahead, making my way down a side street without tourists, or for that matter anyone else, that is, until a man and woman approached me from the opposite direction. Both were dressed in the casual wear of tourists—light-weight T-shirts and slacks, open-toed sandals. The woman, something about her struck a jolting chord, her determined walk and full lips projecting a smile that wasn’t really a smile. As we came face to face, she removed a pair of oversized sunglasses, revealing one brown eye and one blue eye. What … no way, but yes, this way, right in front of me, that horrible gypsy from the Autogrille here in Monterosso of all places. She crossed those mismatched eyes and expelled a sly laugh, as did the man with her.

I clutched my
handbag with one hand and with the other, transformed my index and pinky fingers into the horn of a bull. I pointed my horn to the ground, just as my defender at the Autogrille had done. The female gypsy laughed again, this time resulting in a chicken-like cackle.

“The signorina now walks with a limp,” she said in broken English.
“It serves her well and is well-deserved.”

The man spoke with an accent
too, perhaps Eastern European. “This woman has the years of a signora, but lacks the wisdom of one. Nor is she accustomed to the rough waters of our sea.” He smiled, showing off a front tooth covered with gold. “Perhaps a special charm to ward off the
zingaro
spells ….” He held out his palm containing an amulet similar to mine. “For you and only you I make a special price—ten euros.”

“Not today,” I said.

“What? No money, did you lose it all?”

F
orcing my eyes away from the woman’s, I walked past both gypsies and kept walking until I reached the bottom of the street. Only then did I stop and look back. The gypsies were nowhere in sight, nor had I expected otherwise. Seconds later Lorenzo came hurrying down the same street.

“My apologies, Elena,” were his first words to me
. His second showed some concern. “You do not look well. Your leg, it is giving you pain?”

“Wors
e than that, I just had a weird encounter with two gypsies.”

He cocked his head, hes
itated before speaking. “Gypsies … here in Cinque Terre? It is possible, of course, though not a daily occurrence.”

“But wherever
tourists gather, there are bound to be gypsies, according to every guidebook I’ve ever read. You must’ve seen those two, a middle-aged man and woman. They headed up the same street we both came down.”

“But Elena, I saw no gypsies.”

“That’s because they were dressed like ordinary tourists, not the gaudy clothes many gypsies wear, especially the women.”

“Then what made you think these two
were gypsies?”

“The woman had one brown
eye and one blue eye.”

“This is unusual, si. But not
necessarily the sign of a gypsy or of someone you should fear.”

“
I beg to differ. Two days ago I met this same gypsy on my way to La Spezia. We exchanged words in the parking lot of an Autogrille. Everyone, I mean the Italians, who saw her backed off, except one man who came forward and did this to ward off the Evil Eye.” I showed him my forefinger and pinky pointed downward. “I made the same gesture to this couple but the woman just laughed at me.”

Lorenzo covered my
hand with his, a gesture too intimate for me to ignore.

“Not everyone believes such nonsense,” he said.

“Nor did I before the Autogrille. But both gypsies knew about my unfortunate mishap on the motorboat.”

“Perhaps they were on the same excursion.”

“No and double no.” I shook my head. “Those two I would’ve noticed. Although, now that I think about it … the woman who stole my wallet, perhaps she was a gypsy disguised as a tourist.”

“Monterosso is a small village, Elena. People talk. Perhaps this man and woman heard about your misfortune from someone else.”

“The man offered to sell me an amulet. He knew I’d lost my money.”

“It is a common excuse
that tourists give to gypsies.”

“But you said there weren’t any gypsies in Cinque Terre.”

“Highly unlikely would be more accurate.”

Arguing with Lorenzo was as frustrating as
arguing with Margo, perhaps worse because he’d been patronizing me without realizing it. If that wasn’t enough, a surge of pain radiated from my hip to my ankle. My eyelids started to droop.

“Are you all right, Elena?”

“Not at the moment. Would you mind if we postpone our excursion? I really need to rest for a while.”

***

Back in Lorenzo’s apartment I went straight to the bedroom, slipped off my shoes, and stood beside the bed, undecided as to whether I should lie on the comforter or pull it back first, all the while fighting my eyes on the verge of closing. I heard the front door close. Good, Lorenzo could take care of his business; I would take care of mine, starting with a careful folding of the comforter. From there I stripped down to nothing, slipped into the comfy robe, and lay crosswise across the bed. I slept for an hour before getting up and laundering my clothes in the bathroom’s deep pedestal sink. After hanging what little I had to dry on a line running the length of the tub, I put on my new undies and knitwear. Boring by those standards set by Margo, who never wore boring clothes or allowed so much as an inkling of boredom to creep into her life. Still, I hoped she would find a non-boring someone to help her forget Giorgio, if only for the time it took us to meet up again. Whoever heard of breaking up over pasta cooked too long, so much for the macho men of Italy.

I’d been si
tting on the balcony for a short time when Lorenzo came walking up the hill. Not alone but with the same gray-haired man he’d been talking with earlier. Stocky and dressed in business attire, he wore an air of assurance that set him apart from the locals as well as the tourists. He and Lorenzo stopped for a few more minutes of animated conversation, the usual hand gestures Italians employ to express their every thought. After he turned and headed into the tourist area, Lorenzo happened to glance up and seeing me, he waved.

Soon after
, he walked into the apartment, apologized for keeping me waiting, and said it wouldn’t take him long to freshen up.

“You’ve been gone all day,” I
said. “Please don’t feel obligated to go out again on my account.”

“My reasons are self-serving, Elena. To walk with such a lovely woman on my arm
would be not only an honor but a delightful pleasure.

How could I
resist such flat-out bullshit even though not one word of it truly applied to me. My perfect date took me to a different trattoria, a decision that made perfect sense considering there were so many choices. I wasn’t hungry but at his suggestion, ordered the seafood ravioli
in brodo
. Every morsel I ate, every spoonful of broth, tempted me into consuming another and at the end of our meal when Lorenzo suggested grappa, I agreed to that as well.