Italy to Die For (8 page)

“You must sip ve
ry slowly,” he said. He held one glass to his lips, waiting for me to go first with the other.

I let the grappa trickle down my
throat, all the while ignoring the rush of tears welling in my eyes.

“You have now been baptized,” he said. “How does it feel?”

“Born again,” I managed to say. “Thank you but I do not want another.”

“
Nor did I expect you would. Shall we talk about tomorrow?”

“Yes,
but first a question about today, one I hope you will answer. That man I saw you with, do you mind telling me his name?”

“It is no secre
t, Elena. Everyone in Cinque Terre knows my good friend Dante Novaro, better known as
Il Commissario
. Dante is the head of our carabinieri in La Spezia … what you Americans call the police commissioner.”

Chapter 15

Not-So-P
rivate Tour

“Perhaps I should stick to my original plan,” I told Lorenzo the next morning at breakfast. “I haven’t changed my airline reservations yet.”

“You’re thinking of leaving tomorro
w?” He lifted a thick eyebrow that came close to meeting its mate from the other eye.

I nodded, unsure if I wanted him to convince me
otherwise.

“A single
day leaves no time to savor the other four villages to their fullest extent,” he said. “You will leave Cinque Terre with but a few memories instead of the many our five lands rightfully deserve.”

I could’ve argued that point—my
aching thigh, the money stolen, those smarmy gypsies, that woman murdered. Instead, I brought up his work, those responsibilities at La Spezia and the villa.

“Zia Octavia can manage since
we do not expect more guests until the end of next week. And should I be otherwise occupied, she will ask our neighbor to assist her, a task for which I pay him well. The villa is more for Zia’s benefit than mine although I do enjoy certain aspects of it.”

“Such as?”
I asked.

“The guests,” he said, “some more than others.”
He tapped his phone. “With this I am in constant touch with my office in La Spezia. The rest of my work revolves around Cinque Terre.”

“Exactly what is it you do for a living, Lorenzo?”

He should’ve smiled but to my embarrassment, did not.

“This
is a question one does not ask of Italians, signorina.”

“Oh? So we’re back to
signorina. I’ve been banned from the first-familiar terminology. My apologies, asking what people do for a living is so American. I didn’t mean to overstep my boundaries.”

“Indeed, it is my turn to apologize. I did not mean to slip into the formal address, especially since I now consider you a good friend … Elena.”

His voice had lost its awkward edge. I waited for him to reveal his employment record, the source of his income. Instead, the Italian rubbed his hands together.

“Now, where were we?” he said. “Ah, yes, the discussion regarding
your travel plans. Whatever the decision, only you can make it. But speaking as a new friend and an enthusiastic guide, may I encourage you to stay for another week. Even longer, should you desire.”

Thinkin
g
no
was easier than saying
no
. Sometimes excuses worked just as well so I said, “Yesterday morning I felt confident about extending my time. But those gypsies … that horrible person with the Evil … the strange eyes—”

“I did report your concerns to Commissario Novaro
who already knew about the unfortunate robbery from the report you filed earlier. As it turns out, the body of the woman found several days ago, was also that of a gypsy—what we refer to as Roma or zingaro—so he was not surprised to learn about the two people you encountered.”

“I knew it, I knew it.”

“The commissario and his assistant are staying here in Monterosso while they investigate the homicide, knowing Dante as I do, until the case is resolved. He expects to see more of these Roma descend on Monterosso, but only for a short visit. Naturally, they are concerned about one of their own dying in such a violent way.”

“How did she die?”

He hesitated before answering. “I believe she bled to death. Her throat was slit, to be more precise the carotid artery, according to the commissario.”

Without thinking, I lifted one hand to my throat. I rubbed my
fingers against the skin, a reminder I needed to apply a heavy dose of moisturizer. How crass of me, considering the victim’s throat would never have such need again, or if it ever had. Pressing my thumb below the hollow of my throat, I made a tiny sign of the cross, only then realizing that Lorenzo had been observing my actions.

“The newspaper account did not include th
e cause of death,” he said. “Therefore, I must ask you not to speak of this to anyone.”

“To whom would I speak? Other than you, I don’t know a soul, or the language well enough to communicate.”

“I think on a day as
bella
as this one will produce more English-speaking tourists in Cinque Terre than those who claim Italian as their primary language.”

“Okay, I won’t tell a soul.
” But that didn’t stop me from rolling my eyes. “It’s just that ….”

“There is more you wish to discuss?”

“My mixed emotions, for lack of a better cliché—forgive me for not expressing myself better.”

“We are friends, Elena
, however recent. Just say what you feel.”

“Okay, I’ll try. It’s this whole gypsy thing. On the one hand I feel violated, first the Au
togrille incident and now the tourist pretense.” I showed him my palm, my way of saying,
let’s not go there again.
“On the other hand, I can’t help but think about the murdered gypsy. That I have an obligation to care ….” I let my voice trail off, along with my thoughts about the convent years and how we were taught to love the least among us.

“Not to worry, many others share your feelings,” Lorenzo said, “which is why the Roma take care of their own.”

“I’ll bet they’re vindictive too.”

“Aren’t we all?”

“Some more so than others,” I countered. “Back to that poor woman, because I really do care, or at least I think I do. Whoever cut her throat could’ve been a jealous lover or a betrayed husband. Someone who already knew her, don’t you think? Another gypsy would be my guess.”

“Or perhaps someone the woman
had cheated,” Lorenzo said.

“
Tourists don’t get murdered in Cinque Terre, do they? I mean those wandering around in broad daylight.”

“None that I
recall.” He paused, resting his eyes on me again. “Do not be afraid, Elena. You have my promise: no harm will come to you.”

“That’s so sweet of you a
nd I do appreciate your concern.”
Deep breath, now exhale; let it all out, every sour note
, I thought
.
“I’d love to take my time touring the other villages, with or without you, so-o the use of your apartment is a definite plus. But I refuse to monopolize all of your time. You have business obligations, whatever they might be, and I am quite capable of taking care of myself. I won’t stray from the beaten path. Are we in agreement?”

“But, of course, whatever you say.” He held out his
phone. “You will, however, need to change your airline reservations before we become too involved with our day.”

“Right.
And arrange another week’s rental for the Fiat.” Even though I wouldn’t be using it while in Cinque Terre, and after that, only time would tell.

***

My original plan with Margo had included an ambitious hike from Monterosso to Vernazza, a ninety-minute trek over two miles of rough terrain but when Lorenzo suggested we sightsee by train, I didn’t hesitate to agree. Walking down the gradual incline toward the train station was all I could handle, that and struggling to keep up with his long stride. By the time we arrived, I was determined to purchase my ticket and Lorenzo’s but while I fumbled for my credit card, he bought both tickets, making the day feel more like a date than a paid arrangement.

On the
train I slid across the seat, all the way to the window, practically hugging it to avoid rubbing shoulders with Lorenzo although once and a while we did. I detected Gucci and lemons again, perhaps an astringent in his aftershave lotion. He crossed his legs, feet extending out into the aisle while I marveled at glimpses of the vast sea, its blue reflected from a sky even bluer and dotted with puffs of marshmallow clouds. It was a rail ride too quick, one that took no more than a few minutes to reach Vernazza.

Lorenzo helped me step down from
the train and after leaving the station, I clung to his arm again, letting him pull me into this pedestrian village dating back to the eleventh century, common for Italy and most of Europe but this one overlooked a natural harbor filled with fishing vessels and pleasure boats. Touching my fingertips to the paint peeling from Vernazza’s pastel-colored structures was quite different than viewing those structures from a boat rolling on the distant sea, although each perspective in its own way took my breath away. The big picture versus the close-up, without a doubt I preferred the close-up, perhaps due to the advantage of a personal guide who answered my questions before I asked them and pointed out landmarks known only to the locals.

“
Many tourists consider Vernazza their favorite of the five villages,” he said.

“I c
an see why but I’ll have to visit the other three before making my decision.”

“As we
ll you should. It is only fair.”

“Do you have a favorite?” I asked.

“Si, but to reveal this might influence the decision you have yet to make.”

How honorable was that.
The more time I spent with Lorenzo, the more I could feel myself attracted to him, in spite of his seeming at times more than a little intimidating. Scary, yes, but in a way I wanted to continue, at least for a while.

We
strolled around the shops, stopped for a cappuccino at a bar overlooking the water and watched the boats maneuver in and out of the harbor.

“We can eat
here,” Lorenzo said, “or there is another restaurant higher up, if you do not mind the walk.”

His comment reminde
d me to indulge in an under-the-table stretch of my legs, though not as satisfying had it been in a private setting. “I vote for more walking before these legs grow any stiffer than they already are.”

“Excellent.” He stood and helped me get up.

Again, I took his arm and we strolled upward along a path lined with lush greenery and blooming plants until we came to a trattoria starting to fill with noonday tourists.

He introduced me to t
he owner, a woman in her mid-forties and well acquainted with Lorenzo, judging from the way they communicated in Italian too fast for my basic level. Whatever was said between them must’ve made an impression because Lorenzo and I wound up sitting outside, at a table under white canvas and with a view below of the harbor and the sea. A waiter appeared with a carafe of wine and poured two glasses.

“You must sample
the local vino,” Lorenzo said, “a pleasant
bianco
that will enhance almost anything on the menu.”

I lifted my g
lass to his and we clicked with a simultaneous,
“Cin cin.”

Sitti
ng back to enjoy the scene, I felt comfortable without the American need for constant conversation. The comforting silence soon ended with the mention of my name.

“Well, if
it isn’t Ellen from St. Louis.”

The voice came from a mal
e, Middle America, as in flat with no discernible accent. I looked up, at first puzzled by the broad toothy grin. Scanning the asymmetrical face and ruddy complexion took another minute before I recognized him—my rescuer from the motorboat incident two days before, a man I found even less attractive than I’d first found Lorenzo, which can only describe me as every bit as shallow as Margo. Still, I projected a friendly smile meant for a fellow American.

“Oh, hello ….” I
hesitated, my mind searching for his name. “Good to see you again.”

He grinned, wrinkling the crows’ feet wedged in the outer corner
s of his eyes. “You seem to have recovered from your ordeal, Ellen.”

“Enough to visit the villages, but you were right about the stiff after
effects.” What was his name—A, Adam … B, Bill.

Have you seen
a doctor?” he asked.

“I offered to take the signorina but she refused,” Lorenzo said. “However, she did agree to my acquainting her with
Le Cinque Terre.”

Oops,
I had forgotten about my host. The American shifted his attention to Lorenzo and extended his hand. “Jonathan Ballister, originally and currently from Des Moines, Iowa, it’s a pleasure to meet any friend of Ellen’s.”

Jonathan
, I would never have guessed. He didn’t have the face of a Jonathan but he did have some nerve, insinuating we were friends instead of mere acquaintances. I glanced over to Lorenzo who by now was standing.

He introduced himself and shook
Jonathan’s hand with a single pump before releasing it to ask a perfunctory question. “Are you enjoying your visit to Cinque Terre?”

“Absolutely and I’m
in no hurry to leave. In fact, I’ve been searching for a good place to eat lunch. Any recommendations?”

Lorenzo rubbed his chin with one
thumb and index finger, his way of pondering. “Well, all of them are quite good.”

“Spoken like a typical Italian.”