“Sorry for the damages,” Tina offered with a shrug. “I’ve been trying to teach Jonny some stuff.”
“Jonny? As in the hot little Italian running the pool café?”
“That’s the one,” she said and smiled coyly. “C’mon. Don’t tell me you haven’t been working the room yourself, Val.”
The good girl inside me gulped involuntarily. “What do you mean?”
Tina grabbed the book from my hand and flipped it over to the back cover. “This guy,” she said, pointing at a photo of the author, Rick Steves. “Looks a bit like your Friedrich, don’t you think?”
I snatched the book back from her. I studied the photo for a moment. At the angle the photo was taken, Friedrich was almost a dead ringer for Steves.
“You’re right about the way he looks, Tina. But you’re wrong about the other. There’s nothing going on between me and Friedrich.”
“Not yet….maybe.”
I laughed. The sarcastic tone in Tina’s voice was the perfect match for the jaded mystique this girl worked so hard to cultivate. She was way too young to be truly world weary. Still, her suggestion of a fling with Friedrich sent my stomach fluttering. I needed a diversion. Suddenly, a wickedly wonderful idea popped into my mind. I looked Tina in the eye and raised an eyebrow.
“Are you up for some shenanigans?”
Tina didn’t reply. The crooked grin that crept across her face was all the answer I’d needed.
***
“Get ready,” I warned Tina from our lookout post behind the cracked door of the hotel’s internet room. “Berta, hush!”
Berta had been pecking away on a computer and talking to herself. In the wrong place at the wrong time, she’d become an unwitting accomplice to my plan, albeit a willing one. The three of us peeked out from behind a crack in the door. Like clockwork, Friedrich arrived at the lobby bar for a beer before dinner.
“Go…go!” I whispered to Tina. I pushed her out into the open lobby, toward the cocktail bar.
“Alright, already. Hands off the merchandise!” Tina took a deep breath, shook her head confidently, grabbed my tattered phrasebook and strolled out the door like an actress making her Broadway debut. Tina sauntered up to the unsuspecting German.
“Excuse me, do you speak English?” she asked. Somehow the tough Jersey girl managed to look innocent despite her scruffy jeans and scrappy appearance.
“Yes,” answered Friedrich. He eyed Tina with no particular interest.
Exactly according to plan, Tina glanced left and right, then whispered to Friedrich. “Tell me. Are you Rick Steves?”
“My name is Friedrich Fremden. I don’t know who is this Rick Steves.”
Tina turned the abused book over and showed Friedrich the author’s photo. “This looks like you. Come on. You can tell me. Are you really him?”
Friedrich eyed the photo. “No. That is not me.”
Berta and I watched from behind the cracked door, snickering like prankster schoolgirls. When Friedrich unexpectedly glanced our way, we ducked our heads and held our breath. A second later, we peeked out again. Tina had regained his attention.
“Come on,” she insisted. “Isn’t Friedrich Fremden just a code name?”
“I am sorry to disappoint you, but I am not this man.” Friedrich’s face registered a tinge of annoyance.
“Don’t lie. I know this is you.”
Friedrich took a big gulp of beer. He looked uncomfortable and shifted on his feet. Berta and I held our hands over our giggling mouths as we watched him squirm.
“Just sign my book.” Tina shoved the ragged tome toward him. “One autograph and I’m outta here. I won’t tell a soul.”
“I am not signing, because I am not him,” Friedrich insisted. His face flushed with frustration.
Out of ideas, Tina shrugged and looked over at me for guidance. Friedrich followed her eyes. Being an engineer, Friedrich did the math in an instant. The gig was up. Berta and I burst from the doorway, laughing.
“Ha ha! Did we fool you?” I asked.
Friedrich shot me a pursed-lip smile and said nothing. I wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or a bad one.
***
Uncertain of Friedrich’s mood after our prank, I’d felt awkward at the thought of being alone with him. I’d asked his permission for Tina and Berta to accompany us to Pulignano. He’d nodded his approval.
After dinner tonight, we all piled into his tiny Peugeot. Like a chauffeur not quite certain he had permission to join the party, Friedrich maintained his distance as he drove Berta, Tina and me, laughing and screaming like a carload of college grads, to Pulignano.
The place surpassed every fantasy I’d ever had about a quaint, seaside village. Small, stately and dignified, Pulignano looked like a fairytale castle perched on the cliffs overlooking the Adriatic Sea. The town was alive with hundreds of people milling about, there to see and be seen. The girls looked fancy in glittering tops, short skirts and impossible stilettos. Boys with furtive eyes ambled about, taking in every detail.
We walked through a stone archway to a bridge that led to white cliffs plunging down to a fake-blue sea. The closest thing I could compare such a spectacle to was at Disney World.
“I hate to say it, but this place reminds me of that ride, Pirates of the Caribbean,” I said as we gawked at the sights and sounds.
“You could be on to something, Val,” Berta agreed.
“Replace the pirates with Italian studs,” Tina said.
“Oh! And their swords with glasses of wine,” said Berta.
“And their pantaloons with chinos tight in all the right places,” I added, “and you’ve got Pulignano!”
Friedrich shook his head at our analogy, and led us to a bar abuzz with friendly chatter. Friedrich ordered a bottle of wine, and all four of us sipped it and took in the show. Thousands of candles shone from the tops of stone walls and café tables. Their warm, yellow glow reflected in the eyes of people passing by. An elegant couple strolling arm in arm along the cobblestones caught Friedrich’s attention.
“The men hold the women like that to keep them from falling off their shoes,” he said. “I wonder how much pressure per square millimeter a stiletto heel must bear.”
No one else seemed concerned about such details. I guess that’s one difference between Germans and Italians.
Chapter Ten
Ding dong. DING DONG. Ding Dong!
I woke to the relentless chiming of church bells. They seemed to call to each other from every corner of the city, ringing out a song as old as the city itself. Wake up! Wake up! Get out of bed, you lazy head. Come to me! Come to me!
I checked the clock. It was 7 a.m. One late night out and one too many glasses of wine had been just what I’d needed to finally get in sync with Italy’s time zone. Despite the little demon thumping inside my head, I sat up in bed and smiled. The lovely sights of Pulignano lingered in my mind like a sweet fantasy. I wanted to savor them as long as they lasted. I closed my eyes and vignettes from last night’s trip came into view, set to the soundtrack of the insistent chorus of church bells.
Besides Pulignano, the only thing on my mind this morning had been getting my hands on a cappuccino. I was officially addicted. I slipped into a cute little floral dress and white sandals, then fluffed up my new casual hairdo with my hands. I peeked in the bathroom mirror. For a quick coffee run, that would do. I slipped out the door.
The breakfast area was empty except for my beautiful, Italian cappuccino god. With just an exchange of nods, Giuseppe fetched me my Italian drug of choice. Cappuccino in hand, I crept quietly back up to my room to enjoy it in peace.
I lay in bed and sipped my delicious cup of warm, frothy inspiration and declared Sunday my official day of rest. I stayed tucked away in my room until I was absolutely certain that the van carrying the other WOW volunteers to Lecce had gone. Beautiful silence filled the hotel, and I savored every last drop of it along with my perfect cappuccino. Ah! I was finally giving in to il d
olce far niente – the sweetness of doing nothing.
***
My sunburn had faded without peeling, except for a small spot on my nose. With my face back to normal and clothes in my closet, I was all set to play the role of Italian goddess at large. I changed out of my floral dress and clothed myself all in white; white Capri pants, white halter top, white cotton over-blouse, white headband, white sandals. I felt as giddy as a new-born foal.
I took a peek at my reflection in the mirror. Rock on with your bad self! I grabbed a book and my big Italian sunglasses and pretended I was a filthy-rich movie star. “I must remain incognito,” I told myself. I stuck my head out the door and peeked left and right down the hallway. Empty. I snuck down the back stairwell to the pool area. I hid behind the door as one of my adoring fans passed by. With no other stalkers in sight, I claimed my stake on a beach lounger near the edge of the pool. I looked around for paparazzi. The coast was clear. I pushed my sunglasses up on my nose and dove into my book.
***
I was awoken by the sound of a man’s voice. Through squinted eyes, I could only make out his dark silhouette. His torso blotted out the bright orange sun behind him like a total eclipse.
“Your feet are in goot conditions,” said the black image surrounded by fiery rays from the sun.
“Huh?” I said, still half asleep.
“Your feet are in goot conditions,” he repeated.
My eyes began to focus enough to make out more detail. The silhouette belonged to Friedrich. He leaned over me and whispered in my ear.
“You look like a frog on vacation.”
To my horror, I realized he was right. I was sprawled out in the lounger with one leg straight down, the other one wide open, bent at the knee, like the number four. My prior delusions of movie-star glamour evaporated in the glare. I struggled to sit up into a more lady-like position. Then I realized it didn’t matter. Compared to Friedrich, I looked like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
Like a good German, Friedrich wore black socks, Birkenstocks, a red Speedo and a white Gilligan hat. His nearly hairless chest and potbelly glowed white like the octopi I’d seen Dominik slapping against the rocks. Where was that romance novel cliché when I needed it? I drew my legs together and touched my hand to my chin to cover the drool creeping down the corner of my mouth.
“What did you say…something about my feet?” I pointed a finger at my toes. As soon as Friedrich diverted his eyes, I wiped the drool away with my headband.
“I said your feet are in goot conditions,” he repeated patiently. He looked at my feet way longer than he needed to.
“Well, that’s an original compliment.”
“Ya. You can tell a great portion about a person from their feet,” Friedrich explained. “Someone can have a beautiful face or hairs. Or wear beautiful clothes. But if they do not take care of their feet, they do not respect themselves.”
“I never thought about it like that.” I sat up in the lounger. “How interesting.”
“You take care of what is important – the true foundation of your body,” Friedrich continued. “I can see that you do not focus on the superficial. That is a good sign. That makes me happy.”
“Wow, I didn’t know you cared,” I joked. I always joked when I was nervous. And I always wanted to kick myself afterward.
Friedrich sat down on the edge of my lounger and took my right foot in his hand. A bolt of electricity shot up through my inner thigh. One by one, he massaged my toes, then toyed with the silver ring on my middle toe. It was all I could do not to moan.
“A toe ring,” he said, almost under his breath. “I’ve never touched one before.”
I lay there like an idiot, rendered speechless from his completely unexpected and incredibly intimate touch. Fortunately, he was facing away from me and couldn’t see the mixture of terror and ecstasy on my face. Unfortunately, someone else could.
“Hello, Rick!” Tina called out.
Friedrich cringed, then smiled. Tina sauntered up wearing a dingy-grey bikini top and dark-green boy shorts. A gecko tattoo peeked out above her left hipbone. She shot me an I-told-you-so smirk. “Hello, Val. I see you didn’t make it to Lecce this morning.”
“No. You either. Is Jonny working today?”
Tina glanced in the direction of the poolside cabana café. “Right over there. At ten. I’m going for a coffee. Ciao for the moment, you two.” Tina shot me a wink and padded off.
As Tina left, Friedrich sat up and leaned over me again. I could smell his delicate cologne.
“You owe me,” he whispered. A devilish look flashed in his eyes. “Have dinner with Rick Steves tonight?”
I accepted with a simple nod, then leaned back to savor the warm glow of the sun on my face, and the unfamiliar heat that burned deep inside of me.
***
The woman in a box in Clarice’s garage began beating on my door, big time. She wanted to know what in the hell I thought I was doing, going out with Friedrich. It hadn’t been a year since I left my husband. The ink was barely dry on my divorce papers, for crying out loud! And now I had the audacity to have dinner with a strange man in a strange country. What was I thinking? Maybe Val II was right…maybe I was taking a big risk.
My confidence eroded and washed down the drain as I showered and dressed for the evening. Who was I to dare think I still had a shot at romance?
I thought about Dominik, and wondered what that poor fisherman’s face must have looked like when he came back from buying cigarettes to find nothing but a Road Runner dust trail heading back to my hotel. I cringed. That night I’d proven what a total chicken shit I really was. Better just forget the whole thing, Val.
I wrote a note to Friedrich, calling the whole thing off. I planned to slip it under the door to his room, number 222, then do an encore performance of my disappearing act. I reached for my doorknob and heard voices coming down the hall. I recognized them immediately. They belonged to Frank and Val II.
“I can’t wait to get home and have some real food,” Frank said.
“You and me, both, Frank. They just don’t make it here like they do at The Olive Garden.”
I envisioned the two jerks strolling down the hall, arm in arm, their faces twisted with that smug, morally superior expression of the wantonly ignorant.
Screw that. I’d rather be wrong than be like them. Before I could change my mind, l threw the note in the trash and bolted to the lobby to meet Friedrich.
***
The German greeted me with a nod and a small curl of a smile. Thankfully, he’d taken a fashion note from the Italians tonight and wore tan chinos and a white, cotton dress-shirt rolled up casually to his elbows. I’d put my cute little floral dress back on, along with a pair of glittery silver sandals with chunky heels. We spoke very little, just nervous small talk, as Friedrich led the way toward one of his favorite haunts. It turned out to be a typical, open-air bistro overlooking a small, inlet harbor.
We took our seats at a table for two next to a stone seawall. I noticed a small flotilla of painted wooden boats floating like colorful fishing bobbers in the calm sea below. I wondered if one of the beautiful red-and-blue skiffs belonged to Dominik. The thought made me cringe.
“Are you okay?” asked Friedrich.
“Oh. Yes,” I faltered. “I, uh, I was just admiring all the craftsmanship put into these little boats. They’re only used for catching a few fish and octopi, but they’re painted and decorated with such care.”
“You are observant. In Italy, nothing is designed purely for function. Beauty must also play its part.”
“I like that philosophy. It makes for a life not just lived, but savored. I’d like to adopt that for my own life.”
Friedrich smiled blankly. Perhaps he didn’t understand some of my English words.
“A glass of wine for you?” he asked. Dusk was falling and his Nordic skin glowed pinkish-gold from the fading sunset.
“Of course.”
“Oh. And
dinner is on me, Friedrich. I owe you so much for all the time you’ve spent driving me around.”
“You owe me nothing.” Friedrich said. “But I accept your gift with thanks. You are not like other women.”
When Friedrich didn’t put up a fuss about my offer to pay, a conflicting blend of magnanimity and skepticism washed over me. Was he being gracious – or cheap? Did he think of me as a potential lover – or just a friend? Could I ever shut my brain off – or will I continue to analyze everything to death? Shut up and enjoy the moment!
The waiter approached. “Red or white, Val?”
“After all this time living here, you should know which wine is good. Order what you think I would like.”
“The Primitivo rosso, then,” he instructed the waiter.
“Primitivo?”
“Ya. It is the oldest wine grapes of the Puglia region,” explained Friedrich. “It is the city of Manduria where they grow the grapes and make the wine. The Primitivo grape makes a dark, earthy bouquet. It has a sweet ending, as you say. With a hint of himbeerin – uh, raspberries. It is actually a very traditional wine. Simply made, yet surprisingly complex. Very similar to the woman sitting in front of me.”
If some man back in the States had delivered Friedrich’s last lines, I would have sneered and dismissed him as a fake, womanizing jackass. But there was a blunt honesty about Friedrich that made me believe in his sincerity. I blushed a little at his compliment, and hoped the fading sunset would hide my indiscretion. I’d never thought about myself that way before. Earthy? Maybe. Sweet? Hmmm. Raspberries? Yes. Definitely raspberries.
“Now that’s some pretty smooth talking,” I said before I could stop myself.
I regretted my stupid comment as soon as I heard it come out of my mouth. Typical me. Whenever a man I liked paid me a compliment, I had to spoil the moment. It was as mandatory as it was involuntary. Why do I do this to myself? Why?
Absolute Zero: Misadventures From A Broad (Val & Pals Book 1) Page 9
