A Not So Lonely Planet

by Karina Kennedy

  “Sì,” I whisper. “Yes. Sì.” It’s all I can manage.

  * A note about good Catholic, Italian boys who grow up around good Catholic, Italian girls. They are masters of the art of foreplay and all imaginable forms of sex without penetration. This is thankfully true for virgins because once penetration actually happens, you’ve got about thirty seconds to enjoy it.

  Chapter 16

  How Not to Love and Leave

  Marina Grande, Capri: Thursday, 7:45 a.m.

  Tango and I enjoy our lattes and cornetti con nutella (croissants filled with hazelnut chocolate goo) while I wait for the first ferry to arrive. He has to work today, and I’ve got to check out of my room in Positano by eleven. We’re both kind of bummed to say goodbye so soon after he took off the training wheels. He’s a quick study and intent on improving performance. But I’m feeling good about training him up for the next lucky girl. I wonder if this will be Chiara.

  “I wish you stay longer.”

  “My work here is done,” I smile.

  “No, I need more practice,” Tango says as he wipes the Nutella from my cheek, and then kisses me.

  “We practiced enough.”

  “Non abbastanza, not enough.”

  “Abbastanza. Enough. I like this word. Si, abbastanza bello. In bed this morning, the shower, the police office closet. It’s enough.” Tango takes my coffee, puts it down, pulls me close.

  “Non è abbastanza. Tienimi stretto, bella.”

  “You said this last night. What does it mean? Tienimi stretto?”

  “It mean, hold me tight.” He leans in and kisses me, holding me tightly.

  “I think you’re good. You’re ready for a girlfriend,” I say.

  “There are not girl-friends here for me. Capri is small.”

  “What about Chiara?” Tango looks surprised and then sheepish. He shrugs.

  “Chiara is young and the sister of my friend,” he says.

  “She likes you a lot,” I say.

  “Sì,” he admits.

  “She’s very pretty.”

  “Sì.”

  “And smart,” I say.

  “Sì,” he admits. “Smarter than me.”

  “Then what’s the problem?” I ask. He leans on the rail and looks out at the water, watching the distant ferry approaching.

  “Chiara is too smart for Capri. My island is too small. She will not stay here,” he says quietly. And there it is. The truth. He’s afraid of getting his heart broken. And she will do it. Tango is right. She will leave. Like I did.

  “So you wait for other girls to come love you and leave you?” I ask pointedly.

  “It’s better, no?”

  “No.”

  “Perché no?”

  “Perché . . . it’s different, dude.”

  “How?”

  “We just had sex. We didn’t make love. Making love is being with someone who gives you chill bumps when she smiles,” I say. “Who can make you laugh and cry at the same time; who thinks more highly of you than you do of yourself . . .” I trail off. There’s a tightness in my chest. I’ve only been with one person like this.

  “You had this?” asks Tango. I nod.

  “What happened?”

  “I left.”

  “Why?”

  “My island was also too small,” I smile. The ferry gets bigger and bigger as it gets closer. “You cannot hide from love because you’re afraid,” I say. “I am not afraid,” Tango objects.

  “You are. And you’re missing out. Enjoy her while you can. She needs it too.” I dig out my journal. “You know that opera record, the one that broke?” He winces.

  “Sì, Renata Tebaldi, famous soprano. She is my aunt’s favorite.”

  “I looked her up on your phone while you were getting dressed. She was pretty awesome. This was my favorite quote: I was in love many times. This is very good for a woman.”

  “What about a man?”

  “A man too.” The ferry sounds its horn as it docks. “I have to go.”

  “Trie-nnei-mi straight-o.” I smile.

  “Tienimi stretto,” he corrects, and hugs me tightly. “Grazie bella,” he whispers.

  As the ferry pulls away, I take a deep breath of cool wind. I look back over to the dock, but he’s gone. The ferry plows steadily forward. I look down, watching the waves. From time to time, I see fish hurling themselves out of the water, into the air, crashing back down, to swim like me, haphazardly in some new direction. With the twenty-four percent charge my phone got in Tango’s jeep on the way to the marina, I decide to read up on Renata Tebaldi.

  NOTES ON ITALIAN WOMAN OF INFLUENCE: Renata Tebaldi

  1. Born: 1922, Pesaro, to a mother who had wanted to be a singer and a WWI vet father who played the cello.

  2. Tough chick: Polio survivor! (Battled Polio age three to eight.) Sang during the war—while traveling during wartime, her train came under machine gun fire. Co-star killed by a bomb before a performance—she still sang!

  3. A lirico-spinto soprano, of verismo (“true”) roles. The “realism” movement of Italian opera was like naturalism in world literature, seeking to portray a realistic world. Composers wrote about the lives of average people, not gods or royalty.

  4. Fiery rivalry through 1950s with Maria Callas began with a joint performance in Brazil: Tebaldi took two ovations after both women had agreed not to. Their rivalry was based in this: expression of emotion through sound (Callas) vs. beauty and quality of sound (Tebaldi); this rivalry fanned their fame, with verbal barbs about each other quoted in Time.

  5. How much of this was a Bette Davis vs. Joan Crawford style rivalry, exaggerated by male agents and press? There are positive quotes from each, and when Callas quit La Scala, Tebaldi announced she would not sing without Callas.

  6. Tebaldi performed at: La Scala, San Francisco Opera, and at the Met. Tebaldi was known as “Miss Sold Out.” She only sang in Italian. Even Wagner.

  7. She never married: “How could I have been a wife, a mother and a singer?” she famously said to The Times in 1995.

  8. By the end of her career, she’d performed 1,048 operas including: Aida, La Bohème, Madama Butterfly, Tosca (forty-five times!), Otello, and Falstaff.

  9. “Tebaldi’s soprano was rich and creamy, totally secure in technique and breath control.” —London Times. “Dimples of iron.”—Rudolf Bing, Met manager. “Your memory and your voice will be etched on my heart forever.” —Pavarotti.

  10. Died 2004. Museums to visit: Villa Pallavicino in Busseto and Castello di Torrechiara, Langhirano.

  She was quite unique and yet, anyone who heard her could feel her emotion. “I was in love many times. This is very good for a woman.” My mind drifts back to Florida. Back to Will. When he fell for me, did he know my island was too small? That I was going to leave? To break his heart? Did he choose love anyway? How did his date go? Did he meet someone without ants in her pants? Did he get into her pants? Just the thought makes me feel nauseated.

  What was he doing right now? It was just after lunch there. He was probably sitting in his squad car, finishing his turkey and cheese sandwich from Which Wich and tossing the sliced pickles out the window for the pigeons. Maybe I’ll just send him a message. Just to say ciao. My phone is on airplane mode to save charge, but I switch it back to normal. Instantly several messages pop up. My heart leaps a little. But no, none are from Will. My heart sinks a little. That’s fine. È meglio. It’s better.

  YIN: having fun?

  MOM: Hi Marina, it’s Mom. Did you change the settings on the printer? It’s only printing blue. Are you having fun? There’s a tropical storm south of Cuba named Catherine, like your aunt, isn’t that funny? I wonder if it will leave a wake of destruction too? LOL (see I know how to do phone talk). I saved you a newspaper clipping about a Christian women’s book writing fellowship in Miami. Don’t forget to send me more photos. Love, Mom.

  YANG: party car to Amalfi, DLT!—noon

  Party car to Amalfi? All thoughts of W
ill, my mother, and home fly out of my head. Amalfi wasn’t on my itinerary. I planned to take a bus to Salerno to research Trotula of Salerno, a pioneer of women’s healthcare. But . . . party car to Amalfi? How can I decline? My phone rings.

  “Hello?” I answer.

  “Pronto. Ci siamo incontrati l’altra sera.”

  “I don’t speak Italian. This is Marina Taylor. Non capisco.”

  “Sì, Nati-vity Marina Tay-lor. Ho trovato il tuo portafoglio.”

  “Portafoglio?” (My wallet!) “Are you from the hotel?” I ask.

  “No hotel. Le tue carte di credito, e ID . . . I found near la chiesa . . . church.” My heart leaps. It was Magwitch The Night Walker. He’d found my wallet! YES! God was rewarding me for imparting life lessons to young men.

  “Non c’erano soldi. No cash,” says Magwitch. Ok-ay. God was rewarding me, minus the virgin tax.

  Private Car, Highway SS163, Amalfi Coast: Thursday, 1:04 p.m.

  Lady Gaga belts from the stereo of the private car Yin has hired with her mother’s credit card. The sunroof is open and Yang is standing up, pretending to fly. All the windows are down. We’re in our bikinis. Mimosas are flowing. Cool wind. Warm sun. The driver is a hot Italian woman—also in a bikini. Apparently you can order a lot of things in Italy. I wonder what else she’s been hired for, but I don’t ask. Life is good. We are hanging out the windows. We are in our seats. We are singing at the top of our lungs. A winding coastal road with amazing views around each turn. A kaleidoscope of eye candy whisks by us. Deep blue sea. Brightly colored villages wedged into hillsides, with houses stacked up like gumballs in a machine. White, wispy clouds. Magenta flowers cascading down trees. Beautiful green grass.

  Side of Highway SS163, Amalfi Coast: Thursday, 1:45 p.m.

  We are vomiting in the beautiful green grass.

  Side of Highway SS163, Amalfi Coast: Thursday, 2:05 p.m.

  We are peeing in the beautiful green grass (again).

  Private Car, Highway SS163, Amalfi Coast: Thursday, 2:13 p.m.

  We are sleeping in a pile.

  Private Car, SS163, Amalfi Coast: Thursday, 2:25 p.m.

  I wake to a buzz on my phone. I wipe Yang’s drool off my arm as I pull my phone out of my pocket and try to focus on the message:

  She bewitches me,

  she kisses me,

  I need no one else.

  She is everywoman.

  She is.

  Wow! A love poem. But from whom? I look at the number and see a +33 country code. France? Can it be Frantonio? Did Yin give him my number after the dinner debacle in Positano? But why did he wait so long to text me? Or maybe it’s Ernesto? He kept running out of money on his phone and texting me from other numbers. He wants to be a writer . . . so the poem makes sense. I stare at the words. Do I answer? As I ponder this, Yang sits bolt upright and shouts:

  “Pull over I’m gonna spew again!”

  Chapter 17

  How Not to Go Unnoticed

  Piscine di Paradiso, Amalfi Coast: Thursday, 3:01 p.m.

  We are late for lunch at a private hilltop swim club where we are to meet Yin’s mother’s friend, Regina. Our dresses are wrinkled. Our faces are wrinkled. Our hair is tangled. Our makeup is running. We have all smelled better. Much better. We are looking for one thing, the bathroom. A concierge heads us off at the entrance. No doubt we’ve wandered in by mistake, looking for the youth hostel or local women’s shelter. He’s about to throw us out when an alto voice turns our heads.

  “Allora, there you are, darlings!” There in front of me is the most beautiful older woman I’ve ever met. She could be fifty or even sixty, but it’s hard to tell and doesn’t really matter. Her white chiffon dress floats around her like a sparkling mist, kissing her legs and shoulders, hugging her waist, plunging into her cleavage. Her smile is incandescent. She has a natural looking tan and radiant glow—the magnetism of Sophia Loren. She is a goddess. I feel like a roach in her presence. She embraces Yin with gusto. “Belle comme toujours, chérie.” Turning to Yang, she kisses Yang on both cheeks. “And you, still full of trouble, yes?” Finally, she’s looking at me. “And who is this?” My antennae droop under her gaze. My wings twitch nervously. I want to scurry under the carpet. I am vile.

  “This is our new friend, Marina Taylor. She’s a writer from America.”

  “A writer! You have brought me another artist. Fantastico! Benvenuta, Marina Taylor, I am Regina. Please join us for lunch by the pool.” She’s Italian, but speaks perfect English with a British accent. Unlike Yang’s, her accent is like a newly made bed—fresh, clean, with ironed sheets.

  “We’ll just . . . powder our noses first,” says Yin, feeling as scuzzy as I do.

  “Of course, dear. I’ll order you girls some mimosas,” she smiles. Yin and I look at each other. Oh, God. Please no.

  UNHELPFUL HINTS FOR SOBERING UP IN THE BATHROOM:

  1. Cold water in the face.

  2. Have your friends slap you.

  3. Run in place to sweat as much as you can.

  4. Vomit.

  5. Take a multi-vitamin.

  6. Massage your hands and feet to increase circulation.

  7. Press your naked skin against the cold tile of the wall.

  8. Deep breaths of fresh air until you feel light-headed.

  NOTE: none of these actions lower your blood alcohol level. The only thing that will help you sober up is TIME.

  Yang has apparently decided to try the emergency sobering tactic of taking a huge shit right before you plan to drink more, because she kicked us out of the bathroom about ten minutes ago. Yin and I are sipping coffee and sitting quietly waiting for her. I look back at the mysterious poem message on my phone.

  “Would you know anything about a certain French-Italian photographer requesting my phone number?” I ask.

  “Would that be a good thing? Or a bad thing?” She returns with a smile. That doesn’t really answer the question. The bathroom door swings open.

  “Let’s get out of here before someone goes in there and faints,” says Yang.

  Poolside Bar, Piscine di Paradiso: Thursday, 4:27 p.m.

  “Sex is used to sell anything, anywhere in the world,” smiles Regina. She was the reigning regina di lussuria nazionale (queen of the nation’s lust) for twenty-five years. “Italian ads are just more honest about it,” smiles Regina. She should know. Remember that rigatoni commercial I mentioned earlier? Starring in that ad was only the beginning for Regina. Films, television, magazines. She was an actress, model, European sex symbol. Regina even had her own talk show for a while, Segreti del Sesso, or “Secrets of Sex.” It was half celebrity romance gossip and half advice for your love life. She interviewed actors, models, marriage counselors, gynecologists, plastic surgeons, famous mistresses, strippers, porn stars, call girls, and orgasm coaches (yes, these exist). Oprah meets Masters and Johnson. Who wouldn’t watch that show? Okay, my mother wouldn’t. But I certainly would. My phone buzzes again, but I decide not to check it in front of the other girls. I still haven’t answered the poem text and prefer to keep my delicious secret for now.

  “Yeah, I get what you’re saying,” says Yang, “I’m just not sure a topless model is going to make me want to buy toothpaste. It makes me want to suck on titties, not brush my teeth.” Yang and Regina are embroiled in a discussion of the economics of the “sexual gaze” brought on by a commercial Yang saw on Italian cable at her hotel last night. They’re enjoying mojitos while reclining on fluffy poolside cabana beds. Yin and I soak nearby in the pool and sip fizzy water. We’re both done drinking. I listen, fascinated, as does a nearby hotel employee behind the wet bar as he shucks fresh oysters and arranges them on plates of ice between wedges of lemon and orchid blossoms.

  “After you suck the titties, then you brush your teeth?” I suggest.

  “No, she doesn’t,” says Yin.

  “You are still affected by the commercial. You see something you want, you equate that with the product. The sexual gaze is a non-
negotiable force of nature,” says Regina.

  “What, like gravity or inertia?” I laugh.

  “Esattamente, yes. But the difference is, you cannot control gravity.”

  “The object on which the force is acting need not be passive,” explains Yin, “but instead, control the gaze, and in so doing, the gazer. It’s simple.”

  “Innit?” Yang reaches down and yanks the string of Yin’s bikini. “You cunning little siren.” Fair skinned, small perky breasts and nipples get a glimpse of sun, exposed to the world as Yin giggles and reorganizes her top. I glance over at Oyster Man, expecting him to have slashed a hole in his hand with his oyster knife, but he’s not even giving the blonde waif a second glance. He’s fixated on Regina, a woman thirty years older. She comes here a lot, so it’s not just the fact that she’s famous. He’s surely captivated by her grace, confidence, style. There’s a gentle power to her poise, a fluid sensuality to her movements. I watch him watch her. The way she holds her shoulders back as she gently shakes out her hair, unfolding a long graceful arm to retrieve a vintage sunhat. Arching her back slightly, she positions her hair under her hat, exposing a swanlike, bare neck. He drops something behind the bar and we hear glass break.

  Oyster Man bends to clean it up, and as he stands, his furtive glance back at her is met by a simple, reassuring smile. He blushes. Regina lifts her glass, places her lips around her straw, and delicately drains the last of her mojito. Within mere seconds Oyster Man is by her side with a new drink.

  “Signora, un altro?” he asks.

  “Ce l’ho.” Our waiter has appeared simultaneously, also holding a mojito.