The House in Amalfi (16 page)

“Don’t worry; you could use a few pounds,” Jammy said, ordering another carafe of wine.

And of course I could. My lanky thinness was no match for the sleek women sitting with Lorenzo. “How could such a cute kid grow up to look like me?” I demanded, scooping up more eggplant and burning my mouth once again.

“Neglect.” Looking up from her plate where she was busy demolishing a very large deep-fried fish, Jammy eyed me critically. “Actually, you look better than you’ve looked in years.
The haircut is great and you’ve got color in your cheeks. I swear you’ve even got a curve here and there.”

I grinned. “It’s all the pasta, and I’m hoping the ‘here and there’ are in the right places?”

“Yup. Small but perfect,” she said, and we laughed together. Everything was going to be all right; I knew it.

A while later, we nodded our good nights to the Piratas and wended our way, arm in arm, back to the steps and the parking lot. We stopped to take a look at the village, lit by yellow globe lamps and the ruffles of fairy lights outside the Amalfitano.

“It’s a picture postcard come to life” Jammy said, pointing out the illuminated belfry over the old church and the arches leading to the waterfront.

We were up early the next morning, slinging Jammy’s bags into the car, heading for Naples Capodichino Airport. We checked Jammy in and went and hung out over coffee and
sfogliatelle,
the sugary pastries with a custard filling that were a Naples specialty. I talked about the house and said I was going to call in an architect and an engineer to make sure everything was structurally sound before I began my renovations, though I intended to start work immediately on the gardens.

“With Mifune’s help,” I added, “because nobody knows better than him what’s under all those weeds and overgrown shrubbery.”

And then Jammy and I were hugging each other and saying our good-byes. She walked quickly, as she always did, into the tunnel leading to the plane, pausing just once to look back and wave. She was smiling, but I caught the troubled look in her eyes. I had chosen a new life, and now I had to get on with it.

As far as I could tell, the house needed no major work. The cliff was another matter. Mifune and I discovered erosion in areas where the shrubs and undergrowth had been cut back. I didn’t think it was a problem, especially as I planned on replanting it later, but to make sure there was nothing major wrong with it and the house I called in an architect from Sorrento.

He came skittering down the steps on tiny feet, a short, round man with a tight mouth, a thin pencil mustache, and large black-rimmed glasses that gave him a look of importance. He wore a narrow black suit, a silver tie, and a Panama hat. Behind him came a couple of harassed-looking young assistants, carrying his briefcase and an umbrella, plus various surveying instruments.

Il architetto
barked a
“Buon giorno”
at me and with a wave of a pale hand set his minions off to survey the land, to make sure, he told me, that it was not all about to cascade into the sea. Then, with the air of someone speaking to a mere assistant, he asked me importantly where
il signore
was.

“Il signore?”
I looked puzzled and he looked impatient.

“
Sì, il signore,
the owner of the house. The one I am to consult with.”

“But I am the owner.”

He stiffened, turning to look fully at me for the first time. “Signora?”

“I am the Signora Harrington. It was I who arranged for you to come inspect my property,
Dottore
.” I threw in the title as well as a smile in the hopes of softening him up. After all, I didn’t want to get on the wrong side of the local town council with a bad property report; nor did I want to spend a fortune putting to rights problems that might not even really exist. I was beginning to wish I hadn’t bothered with this inspection.

Il architetto
pulled himself to his full height of five-four and, mouth pursed, inspected me slowly from behind the blockade of his eyeglasses.

“
Perdona, signora,
but I had reason to believe I was to inspect the property for
il signor
Pirata.”

I shook my head, and he looked most put out at having humble me for his client instead of hobnobbing with the
gran signore
. I said firmly, “Well now,
Dottore,
since we have established that I shall be paying your fee, perhaps we can get on with inspecting the house.”

I led him briskly indoors and gave him a quick tour. “All I really need to know is that the building is in sound shape,” I said. “Nothing has been touched since it was built in the nineteen twenties.”

He stood in the hallway, peering into the pretty
salone
and then into the kitchen. His nose wrinkled in contempt.

“Is a very small, this house, signora,” he said. “Is meant to be a guest cottage, no?”

“No,” I said firmly. “This is my home, and I’m very anxious to make sure that everything is in order before I begin work on it.”

“Hmmm. . . .” He thought for a minute, then went outside
and summoned his boys. He gave them what sounded like a long haranguing lecture. I wondered if he was telling them off for not informing him that he was not about to meet the
gran signore
and asking why he had been dragged all the way from Sorrento to meet a woman who intended to live in a place obviously meant for servants.

He turned to me finally. “My men will conduct the inspection of your property. We will submit a report in due course,” he said.

My heart sank. “In due course” could mean any time between now and next year.

“And now, signora, I will bid you good day.” And with a pointed glance at his watch, no doubt to let me know exactly how much of his valuable time I had wasted, he unfurled his umbrella and marched back up the
scalatinella
. I watched him go, plump and pale and sweating, looking, I thought, like Dirk Bogarde promenading the Lido in the movie
Death in Venice
.

Sighing, I went to the kitchen. I took a couple of almost cold Peroni beers from the ancient refrigerator that was scarcely big enough and certainly not strong enough to chill much more, then went out onto the terrace and called the “boys.” I waved the bottles at them in case they didn’t understand my stumbling Italian. They glanced at me, then quickly at the
scalatinella.
Their boss had disappeared and they smiled and accepted the beer, mopping their heads in relief.

They were young, olive skinned, and shadowy eyed, probably from overwork, I thought, but they perked up considerably with the beer.

“Is beautiful, your house,” the spiky-haired one said, with a shy smile.

“
Grazie, signore.
I think so,” I said modestly, but I was pleased.

I heard steps and swung round to see Nico bounding down the stairs. He was in bathing shorts and I guessed he was on his way to the boat.

“Carina,”
he called, giving me the big warm smile that always drew a responding one from me. “I just passed a strange man on the road. He looked as though he was dressed for a grand luncheon party, circa 1927. What’s going on?”

I laughed; he had described
il architetto
perfectly. I explained who he was, offered Nico a beer, and said I had to get back to work.

“Why not come out on the boat with me instead?” He looked pleadingly at me. “It’s such a beautiful day, we could have lunch in Capri.”

I hadn’t been to Capri since Jon-Boy’s time. “But I have my ‘boys’ to look after.” I gestured to the surveyors dragging equipment through the garden, measuring the cliffside. “And besides, I was going to paint my bedroom.”

“Oh, come on, Lamour; there’s always time for work. A beautiful day like this was not meant to be wasted.”

I thought guiltily about the cans of apricot paint and the new rollers waiting for me upstairs. “Well, but what about them . . . ?” I said doubtfully.

“Don’t worry; I’ll take care of them.”

I heard him call,
“Ciao, amici,”
as he walked toward them, and somehow I knew he would charm them into doing whatever he wanted. I thought it must be nice to have that kind of special confidence, knowing that everyone would just love you and do your bidding.
Love:
the thought slipped into my mind. I decided not to think about love and instead ran upstairs to change into something suitable for a boat ride and lunch in Capri. In the end I wore white shorts and a green halter top and clipped my long hair firmly back. Just in case, I put a bikini into the straw bag I’d bought at Umberto’s in Pirata, along
with a straw hat, sunscreen, and lip gloss. I was ready in less than five minutes.

Nico was lounging on the patio. There was no sign of the boys. He grinned at me. “They went to the Amalfitano for lunch,” he said. “I told them to put it on my tab.”

I shook my head doubtfully. I knew all about those long lunches at the Amalfitano. “So when are they going to take care of my job?”

“They promised to come again tomorrow. I’ll work it out with their boss. I know who he is; he’s the kind of guy who’ll be thrilled to get a call from the Pirata family.”

I laughed; of course he’d called it right.

“So now you’re free,” he said, taking my hand and leading me to the elevator.

We stood close together in the little wooden box, looking out the glass door as it slowly descended. I avoided his gaze. “I haven’t been to Capri since I was eight years old,” I said, trying to fill the hot silence. I was going to say, “And that was thirty years ago,” but decided against it, suddenly aware that there was a terrific difference between twenty-eight and thirty-eight.

“Here we are,” Nico said as the elevator doors opened. He took my hand and we ran to the stone jetty and the waiting Riva.

He helped me in, then untied the rope and leaped in after me. The boat rocked under his weight, then the engine roared to life, and we slid silkily out of the small harbor. Then we were flying across the water with the wind in our hair and the cool sea spray anointing us, along the beautiful coast, past secret little villages reached only from the sea and small cliff-side hotels, and dark green caves and azure inlets.

It was so beautiful and so exhilarating, I laughed from the sheer pleasure of the moment. The wind snatched my
laughter away, as well as the clip from my hair, so that it whirled around my head in a cloud.

“Like Medusa,” Nico yelled, and I laughed some more. Happiness was, after all, in the moment.

After about half an hour the island appeared on the horizon, its rugged limestone cliffs white against the deep blue sky and topped with a fluffy areola of greenery.

“Wonderful,” I yelled to Nico.

“Wait,” he yelled back, catching my hand and bringing it to his lips in a kiss.

I felt the blush stealing up my neck and turned away. No man had kissed me, not even my hand, in a long, long time. I treasured the moment, feeling that little bubble of happiness fizzing inside me.

“Look now,
carina
.” Nico slowed the boat and I turned and looked into the famous
Grotta Azzurra,
the Blue Grotto.

The still water was a deep wine dark blue flecked with aquamarine. It hardly seemed possible that the sea could be this color.

Nico said, “The legend is that centuries ago a ship was passing by carrying a cargo of Tyrian purple dye. It was a special color that only the Roman emperors could use. The ship foundered and sank in the grotto, dying the waters this magnificent blue.”

I trailed my fingers in the water, looking up at the cavern’s iridescent walls, reflecting all the colors of the sea like a giant opal. Great natural beauty always gave me, a landscape architect, a sense of awe; it was something only God and time could
achieve. Then Nico suddenly threw the boat into overdrive and we were off again.

He moored the Riva next to other similar sleek craft at the Marina Grande; then, with him holding my hand, we took the funicular along with other tourists up to the piazzetta, the bustling main square.

I’d forgotten how beautiful the little whitewashed town was, with its cobbled streets and miniature piazzas and the narrow flights of steps between the buildings. Arches tumbled with hot pink and purple bougainvillea, and winding lanes led to grand Moorish villas hidden behind high white walls fringed with oleander.