[Iris and Lily 01.0 - 03.0] The Complete Series

by Angela Scipioni

  After providing Iris with no news of his whereabouts for nearly a month, Max had begun sending her messages and emails telling her he had “so much” to tell her. But because he never progressed beyond that preface, she never knew whether he was sorry, or suffering, or missing her, or making a new life without her. At least, not until the day he turned up at the apartment in Ruta to pick up some clothes, and took the opportunity to inform her that his lady friend in Ponza was pregnant. So she had been right all along. This Lorella woman - whom Iris, with the help of Bea and the Internet, had since identified and viewed photos of in various poses and situations, determining that she appeared even more beautiful and successful than Iris had imagined - was definitely giving Max something Iris could not. Something another woman, in another set of circumstances, was also giving Gregorio. As soon as his divorce from Iris was final, he had plans to marry the demure elementary school teacher with two small children he had met at the Policlinico, where she had entered the respectable and pitiable state of widowhood following a risky surgical procedure unsuccessfully performed on her terminally ill husband.

  With quivering lips, Iris had asked Max to hand back his keys (Lily had been bugging her to change the locks, but Iris thought the measure rather drastic), and told him to send over a van for the rest of his belongings within a week. She then threw herself on the sofa for a good cry, the duration of which was further prolonged by her realization that soon the sofa itself would also be gone.

  Iris sighed, wishing that the painful memory of that moment could be prolonged, at least enough to prevent her from wondering whether Max’s baby had been born yet, whether it was a little boy or a little girl, whether he would take his family with him when he traveled, or whether he would leave them behind so he would be free to pursue fresh prey at each new destination.

  Shaking her head to chase away such thoughts, she strolled over to the climbing tea rose, whose thin branches were weighed down by dozens of bright pink flowers and hosts of tight, new buds. She stopped to tie some wayward stems to the rudimentary trellis she had constructed from canes, then looked around to see what else needed tending. The grass of the gently sloping lawn was a bit wild, but she liked it that way, especially when it was swimming with little daisies like now, or earlier in the season, when the generous sprinkling of violets had discouraged her from cutting until it had almost grown too high for her to tackle with the rusty-bladed manual lawnmower left behind by the previous owners.

  She wandered over to a spot near the old apple tree, which was her favorite corner of the garden. That was where she had found a cluster of irises, and where, in honor of Lily, she had planted the bulbs of the calla lilies, choosing them over the sweet-smelling lilies of the valley which were so dainty they would been overshadowed by the taller flowers. Leaving plenty of room for both to grow, she had planted the lily bulbs near the dormant irises, and waited impatiently for them to blossom. It filled Iris with joy now, to see the fanciful purple flowers and the essential and elegant white blooms standing side by side on their sturdy green stalks, in a safe place, where no one could trample them.

  Her eyes roamed over to the fig tree raising its tender new leaves to the sun on crooked arms, to the lemon and orange trees, which bore both fruit and blossoms at this time of year, to the olive trees her mother had taught her to dream about decades ago, simply by placing one outside the kitchen window. The simple plants and flowers of her childhood home in America and the more exotic flora of her adoptive home in Italy surrounded her, fostering the realization that her home was neither here nor there, but the place where she was free to live and grow according to her nature.

  There was still plenty of work to do on the little rustico she had found not far from Camogli, but she had moved in as soon as the plumbing and electricity were in working order, anxious to escape the memories (and junk) left behind by Max in the apartment in Ruta, which she could ill-afford once she became jobless. As soon as she laid eyes on the simple stone structure that had been standing in the sunny valley long before the sumptuous villas and overpriced condominiums had overcrowded the Riviera, she had felt an unexplainable flutter deep inside, as if some dormant part of her were stirring to life. The two-room house, once a shepherd’s cottage, had belonged to a retired boatswain living in Rapallo, who spent his days tending to the small plot of land that had been in his family for generations. When the man died, his widow was anxious to sell the house, but the modest property was too small to accommodate the material needs of a modern family, too simple to encourage the expectations of a young couple, too fraught with architectural barriers for an older person, too isolated for singles so used to living in a densely populated area that they felt uncomfortable without the noise of neighbors living above, below and beside them. For Iris, it was perfect. The old woman had agreed to rent it to her until she could come up with the money for purchase, and then it would be hers.

  Iris had been apprehensive about taking the leap with so little financial security backing her and such a foggy future looming ahead of her. She had only recently started her freelance job inspecting hotels all over the country and writing reviews for Delightful Hotels and Resorts, the same representation company with which she had collaborated as manager of the Dimora Baia dell’Incanto. When she emailed Lily the photos of the neglected home and overgrown garden, Lily had written back immediately, telling her the house looked like it needed her just as much as Iris needed it. Backed by Lily’s encouragement, Beatrix’s string-pulling with the director of her bank’s mortgage department in Milan, and all her savings, Iris managed to close the deal by Christmas. When she had devised the four-point recovery plan to help her get back on course after her breakup with Max, Iris had never imagined that the resolution to “follow your heart” (point 1), and “be daring” (point 4) would entail indebting herself up to her eyeballs, but then again, she never would have imagined most of what had happened to her in life.

  Iris gazed regretfully at the sun as it slipped behind the hill, knowing it would still be shining in Camogli. These were the longest days of the year, and she was struck with the idea that this might be the perfect time to fulfill another challenge she had put to herself but postponed for far too long with the excuse of waiting for warmer weather, and which would also have the added benefit of satisfying her “stay physically fit” requirement (point 2).

  Excited by her newly hatched plan, Iris put away her tools and skipped into the house, where she changed, stuffed a few items into her backpack, including the book she was reading in Italian, to “pursue mental stimulation” (point 3)”. She hopped on her scooter and headed up the hill; within minutes she caught up with the retreating sun.

  “Diecimila,” the aging beach boy in a Speedo said, and Iris placed a banknote in his hand. He stashed the bill in the money pouch strapped around his waist, then tucked two lank strands of sun-bleached hair behind his ears and lifted a yellow kayak from a rack. Iris was hoping he would give her the red one, but said nothing. Balancing the kayak on his shoulder, he pranced nimbly across the pebbly strip of beach and placed it at the water’s edge. He told Iris she could leave her backpack with him, and in exchange handed her a long wooden paddle.

  “What about my life vest?” Iris asked the guy, as she peered at the immense blue looking-glass stretching across the gulf, and out into the open sea.

  The guy cocked his head and looked at Iris as if she had asked whether there were a fully stocked bar on board. “It’s smooth as oil,” he said, pointing his chin at the sea, “but there’s probably one behind the seat if you need it. These things are unsinkable. If you flip, just hang on and swim.”

  Iris forced a nervous smile as she lowered herself into the cockpit, then made a surreptitious sign of the cross as the man launched her with a shove and a grunt. She focused on her breathing and balance as she floated past a group of shrill-voiced children throwing stones in the shallow water despite mothers nagging them not to get wet, then maneuvered awkwardly to avoid a gr
oup of boisterous teenage boys tossing a water polo ball back and forth. Few swimmers ventured farther out into the deeper, colder water, especially at the beginning of the season, leaving Iris feeling quite alone in her kayak. Looking over her shoulder to gauge the growing distance from the receding safety of the beach, her courage wavered, and she fancied she could see past images of herself shimmering on the surface of the water: a younger, inexperienced Iris following Gregorio’s lead, each movement of hers meticulously monitored, patiently corrected, as she paddled behind the husband who was poised to rush to her rescue should she stray from the safety of the course he had charted for them both. A breeze rippled the water, dissolving the image, and a more recent version of Iris emerged, an Iris trembling with determination to prove her worth to a smirking Max who goaded her on from behind, challenging her to paddle faster, daring her to adventure farther, his constant prodding confusing her to the point that she lost sight of where she was heading. When she finally turned around to ask for directions, she saw him zigzagging off in another direction.

  She reminded herself that today she was finally the captain of her kayak; she set her own course, her own speed, her own goal. She turned her gaze forward, knowing she must not look back again if she were to succeed. Taking a deep breath, she focused on the distant view of Punta Chiappa, lurking low on the water like the humped back of a mighty sea creature. She had hiked over land from San Rocco to the agglomerate rock outcrop many times, but this was her first time venturing there on her own by sea. Knowing that reaching her destination depended solely upon her own abilities and determination was both a fascinating and frightening feeling. Her strokes were hesitant at first, their rhythm erratic, as they thrust her into the unfamiliar dimension she had decided, of her own volition, to explore. Her sense of vulnerability was not allayed by the fact that both sea and sky were calm, nor could she dismiss as irrational her concerns that stealthy currents and whimsical waves might at any time pounce upon her and overturn the kayak just for fun, the way a playful pup might topple a toddler.

  “What is the worst that could happen?” she asked a seagull bobbing on the water, as she imagined the scene of the capsized kayak. She might be able to swim back, as long as she didn’t panic. Or, she could hang onto the kayak until someone came looking for her, praying not to freeze or drown in the meantime. Staring down into the deep blue sea from the flimsy fiberglass shell that suspended her above the abyss, Iris imagined her legs dangling beneath the surface of the water as she clung to the kayak. Thanks to those dreadful killer shark movies, she could visualize perfectly how tender and juicy her white flesh would look to the eyes of the fish that were certainly lurking beneath her. She paddled cautiously, watching with increasing dismay the rocky coast to her left rising to form craggy cliffs too steep to provide a place to land. Iris was stranded in her shell, her paddle her only defense against the fickle elements. She knew she was free to turn back at any time, but she also knew she couldn’t. She wouldn’t.

  Counting each stroke as it sliced the water, concentrating on the coordination of her movements, she gradually relaxed, and soon found her rhythm, alternating her arms, right, left, right, left, each dip of the paddle sprinkling her bare back and shoulders with cold seawater. She managed a smile when she spotted a shoal of silvery anchovies glittering just below the surface of the water, and frowned as she glided past the orange buoys which marked the fishing nets of the tonnarella that were dropped in the same spot each spring. The nets reminded her of her trip to Carloforte just a year ago, of the bloody rite of the tuna kill, of the phone call warning her of Auntie Rosa’s imminent death, of Max’s total lack of understanding, of his lighthearted betrayal.

  Iris reached Punta Chiappa just as the passenger ferry on a stopover from the isolated hamlet of San Fruttuoso en route to Camogli reversed its engines and pulled away from the jetty. A young couple with a camera and a child waved their hats at her; she smiled and waved back, though her heart was pounding as the kayak rocked wildly on the waves caused by the ferry’s wake. Iris imagined what comments the tourists might make about the woman they saw in the kayak, so brave to go out on the sea all by herself. Vowing to be as fearless as they must think her, she rubbed her white knuckles, took a deep breath, and set off for her return trip to Camogli.

  As she paddled, Iris felt a sudden surge of courage. It seemed a uniquely feminine form of courage, filling her with equal doses of physical and emotional strength, daring and caution. It flowed into her shoulders and arms, propelling her forward, infusing her with determination.

  “There’s no looking back, Iris,” she said out loud, ever aware of the abyss below still threatening to undermine her confidence. “Just stay your course.” She recalled the dark sea of emptiness into which she had plunged after her break-up with Max; how bitterly she had regretted giving up the security of marriage and the safe haven of a family for him, how foolhardy she had been to toss aside her financial independence and professional identity to follow him around like a stray mongrel, licking up his crumbs, hoping for a pat on the head; how terrified she had been to discover herself all alone, with no one to share her life, her dreams, her failures.

  “There’s nothing to be afraid of!” she called out. Lily had repeated those same words to her many times since then. “You’re doing great on your own!” The louder she spoke, the more convinced she felt, and the more convinced she felt, the harder she pushed herself. She was amazed at her ability to achieve such speed, and maintain such a steady route.

  “Did you really need a Max to prod you and push you?” she cried to the open sea. “Did you really need a Gregorio to tow you and guide you?” she demanded of the sky. She thrust her pelvis forward in sync with each movement of her shoulders and arms, feeling her anger grow with each stroke. She unleashed her fury at the men who had designated themselves her leaders and superiors, but was even more outraged at herself for falling into their traps, for not having had the courage to try and find out who she really was, instead of letting others decide for her.

  “You will not do that again!” Her voice rose to a shout as she pressed on. (stroke-breath) “I’m talking to all you Gregorios out there!” she yelled. (stroke-breath) “I’m talking to all you Maxes!” Water sprayed over her shoulders and back as she oared, her palms burning, her shoulders aching. (stroke-breath) “And I’m talking to you, Iris!” She had never forgotten Lily’s words: What kind of woman are you when you’re with Max?

  “I was a stupid woman! (stroke-breath) A blind woman! (stroke-breath) A weak woman!” (stroke-breath) Seawater splashed her face as Iris jettisoned the fear and insecurity that had been the ballast of her life. “I’m not that woman anymore!” she yelled, as the kayak glided over the water, light and swift. “I never want to be that woman again!”

  Just be Iris had been Lily’s simple words of advice. “I’m Iris, you hear that?” She filled her lungs and thrust the paddle into the water, harder and deeper. Raising her face to the sky, she was shouting, “I’M IRIS CAPOTOSTI!”, when she felt rather than heard a heavy thump reverberate through the thin hull. The kayak shook and swerved, nearly capsizing before Iris managed to recover her equilibrium.

  “What the heck?!” she cried, holding the oar across her chest, her heart pounding as she scanned the water for the tip of the submerged rock or trunk of driftwood or frightfully large fish that might have caused the impact. Whipping her head around to check her wake, she was horrified to see a pair of human hands attached to a pair of human arms floating just below the surface of the water.

  “Oh, my God!” Iris screamed. She lowered the right end of the paddle into the water to veer the kayak around. As she rowed over, a head emerged, sputtering and coughing. Like the hands and arms, it was attached to the body of a man! An alive one, praise Jesus, Mary and Joseph!

  “Oh, my God!” she cried again, instinctively continuing in the mother tongue of her madwoman monologue. “Are you hurt?”

  “Are you crazy?!” the man screamed, press
ing a hand against his skull. At least he could still speak, and in English at that.

  “Oh, my God!” Iris yelled a third time, horrified to see blood dripping from the man’s head, down his hand and into the water, where it disappeared together with Iris’s newfound courage. What had she done? What if the guy lost consciousness? What if he drowned, right there in front of her?!

  “I can’t believe this is happening!” she cried, her voice trembling, her insides quivering.

  “You can’t?!” The man tilted his head up to look at her. She tried to check for signs of concussion in his eyes, but all she could see in them was the molten orange glaze of the setting sun reflecting off the water.

  “Are you all right?” she cried, hoping he would say something to contradict her impression that he was on the verge of passing out.

  “What does it look like to you?” he barked.

  His tone of outrage was reassuring, anyway, but it also rekindled the still smoldering anger Iris had been venting out at sea. Who did this man think he was, talking to her like that, when she was only trying to help? She might be at fault for paddling into him, but really, the guy must be crazy to be swimming so far out on his own. Why, he could have been struck by a motor boat and chopped to pieces by the propeller! And if he didn’t care about his own safety, he should be more considerate of others. Because of his stupidity, she was the one sitting there feeling guilty and helpless all over again.

  “What are you doing way out here, anyway?” she said, determined to assert her new self, but instead of replying, the man slipped silently beneath the surface of the water again, and stayed there. Wasn’t he ever going to come up for air? What if he didn’t? What if he had lost consciousness after all?!

  “Hey, you!” she cried, pushing herself closer with the kayak. She watched in horror as his thick dark hair swirled in the bloodied water around his submerged head. “Don’t do that! Come up! Right now!” She inched closer, until the kayak was almost on top of him, until she could reach into the water and grab a fistful of his hair. She tugged at it so hard, the kayak listed to one side and a wave splashed over its edge, flooding the cockpit with water.