Italy to Die For (2 page)

Whoa,
this time she’d gone too far.

“
Your
things, Margo. As for me, I’m sticking to our original plan. Ready or not, Cinque Terra here I come.”

Chapter 3

Margo and Giorgio

“El, you
have got to be kidding,” I told her.

“You know I’m not.”

Okay, we both knew she’d made the right choice, which said a lot considering the ho-hum existence that defined her. Had it not been for me suggesting this trip, we’d’ve gone our separate vacation ways, just as we led separate everyday lives. When I got too busy for the minor details, El being Ellen took over, planning every Italian hour of every Italian day, down to when we’d stop for potty breaks and how much time we should allow for shopping that didn’t appeal to her but sent me into an orgasmic fashion orbit. Hello, can you say Feragamo and Gucci in the same breath. As for what El considered orgasmic, don’t get me started. How many duomos, cathedrals, fountains, and museums can one person ooh and aah over before slipping into a touristic coma. Need I say more?

After
Giorgio finished bottle of wine number three, El and I followed him back into the apartment. El eased onto a stiff brocade chair from the nineteenth century. She pressed her lower back against the chair’s lower back and held it there by planting her feet firmly on the carpet. Giorgio and I went for the sofa—me at one end, him at the other. He stretched his arms overhead and winked at me. I kicked off my shoes and circled my tongue over my lips. They tasted salty from beads of sweat that had popped out while we were on the balcony.

“Leather, El,
need I say more.”

“What about that
awesome handbag?” El asked.

“I meant for you. C
heck out that leather shop near Ponte Vecchio.”

“We already did
, more than once. I can’t afford those prices.”

“Check it out again.
I’ll catch up with you later.”

El shot me a look
of disapproval. I shot one back that told her to bug off. After an awkward silence, Giorgio got to his feet, held out both hands and pulled me up to stand beside him. We were walking toward the bedroom door when I heard the front door close. A twinge of guilt crossed my mind but only for a nano second. Nature was calling in the most primitive of ways and all I could think about was a delicious roll in the hay with this Italian hunk. My first in his apartment, in a bed so old it must’ve supported some incredible positions over the past century or two, maybe three considering its length, too short by today’s standards, even those for Italian men who oozed sex whether they stretched out to five feet, four inches or six feet, four.

Giorgio wrapped his
arms around me, kissed me with such passion my scalp went tingly and my toes started to curl. He asked permission before undressing me, beginning with my blouse and bra and ending with my capris and panties. I did the same for him, top to bottom, and paused to marvel over the size of his proud soldier. I’d lifted my leg onto the mattress, giving him a sneak preview of our next move when the ringing of a phone interrupted a moment so magical I almost cried from the frustration.

W
hile he dug around in the pockets of his jeans to find the phone, I plopped onto the bedspread embroidered with birds and flowers, spread my wings and teasing legs, only to stop mid-air when he shook his head and said, “No, no, not on Mama’s
paradiso.
”

I opened my palms, gave him a look that said, “
Huh?”

Instead of
answering me, he answered the fifth ring of his phone. “
Ciao, Mama, ti amo, Mama.”

Okay, I got it. He loved his mama.
Having pulled back the Paradiso spread, I rolled over on one side, assumed my most seductive position and waited. And waited some more, all the while watching Giorgio’s mighty soldier assume an at-rest position. For the next fifteen minutes he listened to his mama’s every word, interjecting his own with an occasional,
“Si, si,”
before ending with another,
“Ciao, Mama, ti amo, Mama.”

“
Mia madre
, such a worrier,” he told me after kissing his phone. “She cannot go but four hours without making sure I am okay.”

“In that
case we shouldn’t waste another minute.” I crooked my finger, patted the sheet I’d been warming for him.

Giorgio,
on the other hand, checked his watch. “
Madonna mia
, where did the time go? I must prepare for my next performance.”

“Can I help?”

“Si, my one and only angel, thank you for asking. Alas, I require solitude, an hour or more to focus on no one but myself—if only your sister hadn’t overstayed her welcome.”

He leaned over and kissed me. When I returned his kiss with a wet and wild one that promised more, he pulled away and
headed toward the bathroom. “Would you mind leaving the bed as you found it,” he said from over his shoulder, “out of respect for mia madre.”

“This is her bed?”

“She does not mind although I have never asked permission.”

“And you expect me to spend the next four days with you?”

“But, of course, do not be offended, mi amore. Come see my performance and afterwards I will make love to you like no American has ever done. In my own bed, if you prefer.”

A smarter me would’ve
walked away and never looked back. Instead I remade his mama’s bed, tucking in every corner to perfection before taking a shower I didn’t think necessary. That is, until those shower heads made up for what Giorgio had denied me.

Back on the streets of Firenze I avoided
El by hitting certain places she never would’ve gone. For one, the lingerie shop where I splurged on a black lace bra and matching panties instead of hiking back to the pensione to select from my existing stock. Nor did I encounter El outside the Ufizzi, where I stood enraptured by Giorgio’s repeat performance as the Egyptian mummy. Not once did he step out of character. Nor, did I do anything that might’ve distracted him, even though I wanted to tell everyone that those dark eyes surrounded by linen wrappings were meant for me and only me.

After
Giorgio collected his basket filled with coins and paper euros he acknowledged me with a single blink of his eyes. I walked away from the pedestrian area, hailed a taxi, and waited until he joined me in the back seat. Given the short distance to his apartment and the constrictive binding, there was only so much one mummy could do and yet he managed to turn me on and upside down. One giggle led to another, and another that extended to the driver who was still giggling when I paid him, along with a nice tip, while Giorgio hurried into the building.

By the time I
got there, he’d already begun to unwind his binding, a lengthy process that would’ve gone on and on had I not given him the added incentive of my mini-striptease. Later in the bed he swore belonged to him and no one else, he made love to me in ways no American ever had; hopefully I did the same for him.

“Never have I experienced such beauty,” were Giorgio’s exact words to me, words which made me feel more beautiful than those two beauty contests I
’d won in my late teens, not counting second runner-up in the state pageant, a heartbreaker if ever there was, one that eliminated me from traveling to Atlantic City for the final round. History now, if only I could move on.

Four
glorious days with my more-Italian-than-Egyptian mummy was all I wanted to think about on my return to the hotel. As for El, if she really, really needed to see Cinque Terre, it would have to be without me. If only she could connect with her own special guy, if only she could dump the anal retentive attitude she’d been feeding for years. Easier said than done, all those
if onlys
, just ask the voice of experience.

Chapter 4

Arrivederci
and
Benvenuto

Without Margo was how I spent my last evening in Florence, walking the historic center’s pedestrian area as if hurrying to meet a special someone who only existed in my head. I even called out to no one in particular, telling an imaginary person to go on without me. On one of the side streets I stopped at a lively trattoria. The waiter seated me at a table of complete strangers who conversed in Italian and expected the same of me, a struggle to say the least. I ate what they ate—creamy risotto, grilled veal chops, and roasted red peppers. I drank what they drank—a robust red wine from a carafe our waiter didn’t allow to go dry. I nodded and smiled, even threw back my head to belt out a laugh or two with my new friends, over clever expressions that somehow got lost in the translations they attempted. When the party started to break up, I opened my purse, expecting to pay my share, but the Italians wouldn’t hear of it. So, while they were piling their euros in the middle of the table, I found the waiter and paid the entire bill myself, a small price for a memorable evening I didn’t have to endure alone.

Back at our
pensione the sweltering heat forced me to open the room’s only window, an invitation for the River Arno mosquitoes to enter and feast on my flesh. Hungry parasites be damned. After a quick switch from street clothes to T-shirt and boxers, I climbed into bed and pulled the sheet over my head. Hours later the dawn of a new day invaded my space, along with Margo dancing around the room in her black lace panties and push-‘em-up bra.

“Wake up, sleepy head,” she
all but sang. “You were dead to the world when I came in.”

“The mosquitoes were brutal.”

She stuck her face into mine. “Ooh, those are some nasty welts you’ve got, really, really nasty. What a relief the little bloodsucking shits don’t like me.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So, how was your evening?”

“Incredible.” I sat up, hugged my knees to my chest and stifled a yawn.
“I made friends with some of the locals. We had dinner together.”

“Terrific!
Then you’ve decided to stay after all.”

“And miss Cinque Terre? Not on your life.”

***

I’d
never traveled alone in a foreign country but refused to change my plans for Margo, not that she was even aware of the anxiety I was experiencing—so much for
la famiglia
, especially when it took precedence over romance. Neither Margo nor I had much to say at breakfast, although we did agree that she’d take the cell phone and I’d take the iPod. Later, while she settled our bill with the manager, I rolled my single piece of luggage and one of her three down five flights of marble stairs and then waited for her to bring the other two, all because the elevator had taken its own holiday. We continued across Via Lungarno to where a string of cars were parked, including our rental, and piled our belongings into the Fiat.

Having
assumed our usual positions, me behind the wheel and Margo to my right, we drove along several blocks of riverfront stores before slowing down near the Ponte Vecchio in deference to a gang of shop-‘til-you-drop tourists determined to let nothing interfere with their pilgrimage to the covered mecca of pricey gold shops. A strained silence permeated the car as we continued on Via Lungarno, but when I stopped near Giorgio’s apartment, Margo hugged me as though our separation might last for months instead of a mere four or five days.

“Pay attention t
o the map and directions,” she said. Already her mind had left me as her eyes wandered the street. “Just stick to the Autostrada and stay clear of any gypsies along the way.”

As if I
needed that reminder, after getting ripped off at Rome’s Spanish Steps—a bait and switch scheme which found me shelling out twenty euros for a ratty scarf instead of the silk one some devious gypsy had waved in my face.

Margo stepped onto the sidewalk, accompanied by an impatient fugue of honking horns, to which I looked into the rear view mirror and responded with an Italian version of the American bird: a flick of fingertips to my chin.

“See you at the airport.” I said.

“Right, Malpensa.”

Right, the one in Milan, it’s not like we would be flying out of Rome. We exchanged kisses, the mid-air kind guaranteed not to leave any lipstick traces. “Now scoot. I can’t hold up traffic any longer.”

After pulling away from the curb, I did not
look back. So what if Margo would have four days with Giorgio; I’d have Cinque Terre with … nobody but myself. Fine with me, I couldn’t think of a better person to hang around with.

***

After passing a few more bridges, I crossed over the Arno and entered a crowded residential area of modern apartments and small businesses. Another phase of the unfamiliar, bringing with it the tension of a rubber band stretched between my shoulders that only relaxed when I eased onto the Autostrada. Tuscany’s picturesque countryside of stone houses and orange-tiled roofs soon drifted into mounds of rolling vineyards spiked with the dark green of cypress trees standing proud and tall. No photograph or DVD could’ve done justice to the wow factor surrounding me, the same scene travelers must’ve witnessed for centuries before.

Dammit,
I banged my fist against the steering wheel. How could Margo have deserted our two-year dream: the trip I’d planned in minute detail, with Cinque Terre as the maraschino cherry topping off a three-week escape from our humdrum existence in the Midwest, Margo with too many failed romances, me with not one failure or success to my name. Still, truth be told: had I been in her shoes, I’d have done exactly what she chose to do.

Two wrong exits in as many hours was no worse than
I’d expected of myself, especially in a country whose natives had little regard for posted speed limits. I stayed my course in the right lane and never exceeded the speed limit. After a while my stomach started to growl, reminding me the mid-day meal time would soon end, which, in spite of the country’s reputation for excellent food, could mean tired pasta and limp salad along the Autostrada. I stopped at the next Autogrille and after checking out the buffet, decided on the deli instead. Stretching my legs at a stand-up table, I indulged in a hot panino: thin slices of ham with melted cheese oozing from a toasted roll. To my left a shorter-than-me Italian leaned back and took his time measuring my rear end with his eyes while I debated as to whether I should totally ignore him or find a different table. He wore the clothes of a laborer and, from my limited Italian I was pretty sure he suggested I follow him to the toilette for a little
dolce
. Please, as if I couldn’t do without a pre-packaged dessert. Margo would’ve blown him off with a snappy comeback, or depending on how adventurous her mood, might’ve led the way. I, on the other hand, played dumb with a shrug, all the while wishing I could’ve mustered the nerve to play along. Just once, get down and oh-so dirty.

Back in the busy
Autogrille parking lot two female gypsies with tacky skirts dragging the asphalt pavement were heading in my direction, flashing unctuous grins with teeth in need of dental work and lacy tablecloths I had no intention of buying.

To make my point while passing by I said,
“No, no, no, no, no, no, no … get that crappy junk away from me.” A simple no should’ve been enough and maybe referring to the junk as crappy might have been a bit over to the top. One thing was for sure, I should never have looked in the direction of those two gypsies. The older one leveled her forefinger at me, and spit out a threat I didn’t understand. If that wasn’t enough, she crossed her eyes—one blue, the other brown. So weird and yet so intriguing, the sight of them made my feet incapable of taking one more step. Nearby, three or four Italians backed off with a shake of their heads. Except for one man who got between the gypsies and me, configured his forefinger and pinky into a bull’s horn, and pointed it to the ground. The older gypsy hissed like Hannibal Lecter. She grabbed her accomplice, and they hurried off to a nearby van, oversized by European standards and on its side a mural depicting a caravan of gypsies from long ago, complete with colorful wagons, decorated horses and women much prettier than the two I’d recently seen.

“Grazie,” I told the man who’d come to my rescue.

He showed me the sign again, using his thumb to hold down the two middle fingers. “To ward off the
malocchio
—the evil eye—and other curses,” he said in broken English. He rocked his hand sideways. “Maybe work, maybe not. Either way you be careful.”

E
vil eye, gypsy curses? Unlike my mother and her mother, I had my doubts but thanked him again. Willing my feet to move, I walked away with head held high and one hand clutching the leather handbag that held my money and passport. My legs were still shaking when I slid into the Fiat. Just to be on the safe side, I opened my wallet and made sure the horn-shaped silver amulet Mom had given me was still there, a connection with the Italian and his protective gesture I should’ve made before then. Still, Mom would’ve been pleased to know I’d been so scared I tinkled in my pants, just a little but enough to make me uncomfortable.

Fa
rther along on the Autostrada a road sign indicated I was leaving the region of Toscana and entering that of Liguria. The silence was deafening so I turned on the iPod, listened to Maroon 5 for awhile and ended with “She Will Be Loved.” At Carrara I couldn’t help but slow down to rubberneck its renowned quarries and hills, snow-white marble destined to someday grace most Italian homes, however modest, as well as some of the finest of homes throughout the world.

M
y head was starting to nod by the time I exited at La Spezia, the southern approach to Cinque Terre. Somehow I made a wrong turn and wound up on the Autostrada again, heading back in the direction I’d just left.
Dammit, Ellen, pay attention
, I told myself with a slap to the right cheek. Twenty minutes later found me back on course, following a road that wound high above the outskirts of the city. Twice I stopped to ask directions but neither woman understood my choppy Italian or recognized the grainy sketch of a tiled-roof villa I’d printed off the Internet. At last on the third upward trek I spotted my destination. Unremarkable would best describe the distant villa wedged into a hillside. I could only hope its close-up view would be more enticing.

Another five minutes
of circular driving passed before I shifted into first gear, sending the efficient Fiat up a narrow, unpaved driveway until braking alongside a white stucco building. I switched off the ignition, got out, and after knocking on a set of double doors tall enough to have accommodated carriages from another era, it occurred to me I might be standing at the villa’s rear entrance. A scowling man from next door confirmed this with a wave of hands that also told me I was blocking his driveway. He stood his ground, hands now cupped to hips, but retreated into his manicured yard when the carriage door creaked open. A tiny woman with white hair pulled into a topknot pointed to the trunk of my car and gestured a series of
uno-due-tre
instructions easy enough for me to understand.

After leaving the luggage with her,
I backed down the driveway and parked in an obscure area near the road’s entrance. This time I started my upward trek on foot, following a zigzag path lined with hydrangeas, daisies, larkspur, and yellow-rose climbers. A trio of butterflies led me through the scent of jasmine toward the villa’s main entrance while in the valley below La Spezia stretched out to the horizon and somewhere beyond there to
Le Cinque Terre
—those five lands overlooking a part of the Mediterranean known as the Ligurian Sea. Taking a deep breath, I could almost taste the good earth. I relished the thought of tomorrow, knowing it would bring the taste and smell of salty sea air.

In an arched doorway of the villa sat two fat cats, a calico and a white Persian, their eyes narro
wed into slits and observing my every movement. I couldn’t help but think of Margo, how she connected with the obtuse creatures. Me, they made … a-ah-aah-choo. While I fumbled in my handbag for a tissue, the calico turned its rear end to me and lifted its tail erect to expose a taunting anus.

“The same to you,” I
said.

And would’ve said more had it not been for the front door swinging open
to reveal a forty-something wearing wire-rimmed glasses. Clean-shaven with straggly hair graying at the temples, a style I’d seen throughout Italy.

He offered a reluctant smile and spoke in stilted English. “Welcome to my villa,
signorina.”

Hmm
… as with the gypsy rescuer this Italian also considered me a signorina. At thirty-two, I was flattered to have made the cut which at one time ended before the age of thirty. He introduced himself as Lorenzo Gentili and nodded once to my long-winded explanation of Margo’s absence that came to a halt when I realized my somber host didn’t give a rat’s ass whether there was one guest or two since we’d paid for our stay in advance and the date for any refund had long since passed.

I
followed him up twenty winding stairs of uneven, worn marble and through the immense living and dining rooms before reaching my assigned suite. Still unsmiling, Lorenzo showed me around the antique-filled sitting room and bedroom, their adorned ceilings and walls similar to those in Giorgio Molina’s apartment. This ceramic-tiled bathroom also boasted a claw foot tub, big enough for two, not that I had anyone in mind, certainly not my host even though he towered over me by a good six inches.