Under a Sardinian Sky

by Sara Alexander

  “She’s asking me if I’m your wife.”

  “No, due camere, Signora,” Kavanagh said, holding up two fingers.

  The woman looked down at her book with an almost hidden shake of her head and asked Carmela for her particulars. When she was satisfied she turned to a small hutch of keys hung on the white wall behind her and handed one to each. She launched into a complicated list of directions that Kavanagh struggled to follow.

  “She says we’re on the top floor, Joe.”

  “Didn’t sound like that’s all she said.”

  “I’m not going to translate all that anti-American slander now, am I?”

  “How kind of you.”

  They flashed a smile at one another. Carmela doubted they would leave the hotel before dinner after all.

  They reached the top floor after several flights of steep, uneven steps to find themselves in rooms at the opposite ends of a narrow corridor. An antique credenza stood midway between the rooms, topped with a fine lace doily and a basket with dried maize beside a small vase of dried honesty. They stood, looking in opposite directions.

  “I’d like to take a shower,” Kavanagh said, “then perhaps we can take a stroll? What do you say?”

  “I say I feel alive for the first time in my life.”

  They stopped themselves from kissing and turned toward their separate rooms.

  A few minutes later there was a soft knock at Carmela’s door. She opened it wearing nothing but her silk shift. Kavanagh stood before her, taking her in.

  “Kinda lonely down there,” he said.

  Carmela opened her door a little more. He stepped inside, and she closed it behind him. They moved closer. Their noses touched. She listened to his breath, then ran her fingers down his muscular arm and led him to the bed.

  A May evening in Cagliari was a lively affair. Outside, the boulevards were busy with people in the finest clothes Carmela had ever seen, so much so that she wondered if there was a particular saints day she had let slip from memory. Kavanagh led them down through some alleys so tight she could reach both sides with her hands. Eventually they arrived at the main piazza lined with an array of delectable boutiques: jewelers, lingerie, stationers, pasticcerie, each with window displays packed with abundant displays of luxurious goods. Customers lingered at each of them. Women walked by Carmela with tiny boxes tied with colored ribbons, stacked upon one another. Others stepped out from the pasticerrie with pink cardboard trays laden with tiny fruit pastries. Owners walked their diminutive dogs. Children darted across the square, dressed in expensive cotton knit sweaters and leather shoes.

  Carmela had to stop herself from gawping several times at the ladies’ hats and the elegant cut of their dresses. Her heart ached when she thought back to the dusty cobbles of Simius, of the shoeless children of nearby villages. She felt the painful realization that her town was stuck somewhere in a depressed past. Though they tried to convince themselves that they were unshackled from the austerity of the war, it now seemed they were still victims of it.

  But here, among the splendor, the wealth, the sheer abundance of life, Carmela was filled with hope, sadness, and a fiery ambition, unsettling in its ferocity. There was no life in Simius for her. Not the one she would scarce dream of. She thought about snide Agnes, the sideways glances of the others that she had ignored, the petty jealousies for having been chosen to work alongside Kavanagh. So many things she had chosen to brush away. But here, among this genteel version of Sardinia, they careened through her mind with a vengeance. The sooner she could leave Simius, the better. And go where? Munich? She scarce think about it. This wasn’t the time to talk of any possible future with Kavanagh. It would break the spell and bring the fairy tale to a crashing halt.

  They stopped into a narrow bar for an aperitif. Kavanagh ordered two aperol spritzers, and they each took a stool upon the bar. The starched, white-coated waiter laid out several small glass bowls of marinated olives, salted peanuts, and a flat square plate of stuzzichini—six or seven thin slices of crisp bread topped with delicate cubes of tomato and mozzarella, drizzled with olive oil and parsley. Others were spread with a coarse olive pâté. There were several stems of creamy pecorino.

  Carmela had never tasted food in the way she did at this moment. Every sense was heightened, wolflike. A great surge of energy shot through her, this time without admonishment, guilt, or fear. They clinked their glasses, then raised them to their lips, each reliving their lovemaking inside Carmela’s shuttered room, the taste of one another, the sweat on their bodies, the tingling in their toes, their backs, their hips. The crumpled linen they left behind, still warm with their scent. Sharing this food was the closest thing to making love in public.

  Signor Corosu was waiting for them by the fountain as planned, at eight o’clock on the dot, something that surprised Carmela, unaccustomed to having appointments with any Simiun ever run on time. He was a small, round, sweaty man who made up in girth what he lacked in hair. His eyes scissored all over Carmela’s body before he presented himself to Kavanagh. “Dear Americano, I would have picked you up myself! I do hope the travel was easy!”

  “Sì,” Kavanagh responded with a smile. “This is Carmela, our interpreter.”

  “Is that what they’re calling it these days!” He chuckled, and Kavanagh took the cue to sigh a halfhearted laugh.

  “What he say?” he whispered.

  “I’m a whore.”

  Kavanagh beamed past gritted teeth. “So, Signor Corosu, lead the way.”

  “What he say?” the consul puffed.

  “Signore, the lieutenant invites you to show us the way,” Carmela replied, impressed by her impassive performance.

  The three walked along a maze of narrow viccoli until they came to a quiet street. Signor Corosu knocked on a door at the center of a plastered wall. Its pale blue paint was peeling. After a short wait, it opened. A hearty man with a booming voice shook Signor Corosu’s arm almost free of its socket and welcomed the group in. He bowed his head in between sentences. Then he led them through a candlelit courtyard into a small dining room that seated a handful of customers. Each table was antique, with a silver candelabrum at its center. The fire was roaring inside an ornate mantel at one end. At the opposite end was a long table with a fine white tablecloth upon it, laden with a rainbow of seafood antipasti. Carmela’s eyes swept along the delicacies, spying grilled urchins, steamed mussels, a basket of crispy calamari, and a long porcelain dish of grilled whitebait. The maître d’ led them to their table, a little way from the fire. Several diners looked up at Signor Corosu and gave respectful nods as he passed.

  “Bring us your best, Daniele!” Signor Corosu said. “We’ll begin with a vermentino, yes? Save the Cannonau for the meat course.”

  Carmela whispered to Kavanagh. “Pace yourself, this man is a drinker and knows the chef by first name.”

  Something flickered across Corosu’s face, which left Carmela wondering whether he didn’t speak better English than was supposed. “What’s that?”

  “Signore, I’m explaining to the lieutenant how to eat. As you know, little can compare to the cuisine of Cagliari.” She met his eyes with a polite smile, feeling her nerves strengthen their grip. How was she expected to behave at this business meal? How would she survive a dinner sitting opposite a man who had decided she was nothing more than a local floozy? After all, this evening, she couldn’t win the argument against the fact.

  “Where are you from?” he asked.

  “Simius.”

  “I’ve heard of it. Not too far from bandit country, yes?”

  Carmela bristled. “Close enough to intimidate the wrong sort, far enough to be safe.”

  “Yes. They only chase the rich, those mud-heads.”

  “What’s that?” Kavanagh asked, off Carmela’s iron body language.

  “Pleasantries,” she replied. “He is a bigot.”

  “Mio Italiano, poco . . .” Kavanagh offered with his winning smile.

  “Sì. But pr
etty ladies always help, yes?”

  Daniele saved the moment with a wine flourish.

  Corosu sniffed, sipped, and nodded. “Please, help yourselves!” he said, gesturing toward the table.

  Kavanagh and Carmela stood up to sample the delights.

  “I don’t know what I’m doing here, Joe! He sees right through us,” Carmela spat under her breath.

  “He’s a peacock.”

  “What if he knows someone in Simius? Did you think of that?” She looked down at her hands, giving an anxious stir of a bowl of steamed octopus with potatoes.

  “What could he tell them? He met my beautiful interpreter?”

  The colorful selection of grilled shrimp, charred zucchini, sunblushed tomatoes, and marinated anchovies in a light vinegar dressing were no longer tempting. Aside from masquerading as a professional, she was now posing as someone who had the right to eat with the wealthy southern elite. Amongst the dishes were baskets of pane carusau, heated in the oven and brushed with garlic and rosemary-infused olive oil. The immeasurable pleasure of eating the finest food would elude her, however, because she was in the wrong place sitting next to the wrong man.

  Fresh pasta with a rich lobster cream followed. Then a huge sea bass baked in several inches of rock salt was wheeled to the table-side and forked apart by the skilled waiter, who fileted every piece before serving it, alongside charred radicchio and a fresh salad. Just when they thought the marathon was over, a grilled platter of more seafood and mixed fish found its way to the table, followed by a plate of grilled porceddu, suckling pig. What should have been sheer abandon to the delights of great food became a kind of punishment. Was this Corosu’s intention? Keep them with him long enough to figure out what they were really doing here? When a bottle of aqua vitae and mirto was placed upon the table, Kavanagh looked relieved that he didn’t have to eat anything more.

  “Signor Corosu, I can’t thank you enough for your hospitality,” Kavanagh said.

  “The lieutenant thanks you.”

  “It’s the least I can do,” Corosu replied. “These are but the tip of the iceberg. Cagliari has much to offer you. The region is vast, with many untouched areas, as you know. Nothing stands between your needs and our space.”

  “Signor Corosu is happy to help,” Carmela said.

  “Is that all?” Signor Corosu asked her.

  “Sorry?”

  “I spoke for longer than that.”

  “Yes, Signore. The Americans have a very simple way of talking. I told him that you and your region would be happy to offer the Americans whatever they need.”

  “Let us not go so far as that, Signorina. ‘Whatever’ always seems a little vague, does it not? In your line of work I’m sure you can appreciate this.” His eyes flashed a mischievous spark that made Carmela sick to her stomach.

  She turned to Kavanagh. “Lieutenant, is there anything more you’d like me to add?”

  “You see, Signor,” Kavanagh began, all business, “my captain has sent me here to explore our possibilities. We are looking for a sizeable area. Somewhere to perform military exercises, an uninhabited space where we can experiment with some exciting advancements in equipment.”

  “Signor Corosu, the Americans need much space to test new weapons. Kavanagh would like you to understand the risks involved,” Carmela said.

  “Well, of course there are risks, but the financial benefit would outweigh any of these.”

  He produced a paper file from his suitcase and pushed it across the table. “Please, take this to your captain. I had hoped to meet him this evening. There are photos of various places we could offer you, and I’m sure we could come to some arrangement to benefit us all.”

  Carmela turned to Kavanagh to translate, but Corosu plowed on. “It is impolite to talk of money when there is mirto to drink, no?” He chuckled, and Kavanagh mirrored him. They clinked, and Corosu sipped from his glass without taking his eyes off Carmela.

  “Is he talking about money, Carmela?” Kavanagh asked.

  “Joe, we don’t speak of money right away. It’s not the Sardinian way.”

  “No, it’s not,” Kavanagh replied under his breath. “Rather I get to sit and watch you eat, knowing how soft your skin feels at the top of your thigh . . .”

  “Signorina?”

  “Yes, Signor Corosu?” Carmela replied, hoping she wasn’t blushing as much as she thought.

  “Tell your friend that I will send a colleague to talk of these matters with care. I find it crass to sully your pretty little head with facts and figures. Let us speak no more of business, yes?”

  Carmela turned to Kavanagh. “He will send a colleague up to you at the base. Figures are not for women. What did I tell you, Joe? Everyone’s going to find out it was only the two of us here.”

  “Thank you for this fantastic welcome, Consul.” He cleared his throat before launching into his well-rehearsed Italian. “I hope to return your hospitality at our base, Signore.”

  “And so do I. Your captain and I have corresponded. I look forward to putting a face to the name. It’s getting late. I have a wife at home who does not like to wait up for me! May I call a taxi for you?”

  “He asks if we need a car to take us back.”

  “No, thank you, no, grazie.”

  “Very well,” Signor Corosu said, shaking Kavanagh’s hand with both of his. “Thank you for allowing me to share the cuisine of Cagliari. Tell him, Signorina, that I look forward to seeing him soon.”

  Kavanagh smiled and turned toward the courtyard. As he stepped out, Corosu pulled Carmela around to him. “My English is not so bad, but only to talk business. Don’t go to any trouble when I meet him next,” he said, in the closest thing to an English accent she had heard from anyone in Sardinia. Her heart gave a thud. “From what I can gather, I’m sure you will enjoy the rest of your evening.” Then he turned with a crooked half smile and headed back to the dining room.

  Carmela walked across the courtyard past Kavanagh, opened the door, and marched down the street. The shadows from sporadic streetlights flickered across her face as she pounded by the closed wooden doors of the narrow stone homes without knowing or caring if she was headed in the right direction for their hotel. Kavanagh caught up to her.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I’m a cheap whore after all!”

  “What?” he yelled, stopping her and turning her to face him.

  Carmela’s eyes stung with angry tears. “This is wrong. All wrong! Take me home, now!”

  “What did he say to you?”

  “He speaks English, Joe, he heard everything. Do you understand? Everything! This is not how it should be. This is all wrong! I knew it!”

  Kavanagh’s expression fell.

  “Take me home. Now, Joe!”

  Carmela watched Kavanagh stream through scenarios in his mind, then straighten with military calm. “What of it, Carmela? I have no intention of doing business with him. We will never see him again. I can promise you that.”

  “Stop offering empty promises! To love is to give more than air!” As the words escaped she felt the pang of regret. What on earth was she doing, standing here, screaming in the street, making demands? This wasn’t the woman she wanted to be.

  He took her hand in his. “It was the only way I knew I could be with you.”

  “So I am a cheap whore? You’ve paid me to make love to you, haven’t you? You going to pay interpreters wherever you end up, to keep your bed hot at night?”

  The words flew out before she could stop. This wasn’t the evening she wanted. Her pretend world began to warp.

  Kavanagh’s expression turned stony and solemn. “If you for one moment think all this is nothing more than an adolescent’s scam for sex, then we will return to Simius tomorrow and never see one another again.”

  Carmela looked at him, stunned.

  “Do you think I would lure you into all of this,” he started before she could reply, “knowing the risks involved, understanding the typ
e of man you have promised yourself to? Finding myself each day more fond of your family?”

  “Joe, I—”

  His studied calm was ebbing now. “Please don’t ever mistake my actions again, Carmela. I am no Franco. I have spoken my heart. I want you, Carmela. All of you. But I don’t want to pressure you the way Franco has. I don’t want you running back to the Simius valley without a second glance. What we have is precious. At least I thought it was. Perhaps I misunderstood.”

  It was all the proof she needed. She wouldn’t waste his love by testing it. Now was the time to allow herself to express her feelings with the same ardent passion he felt for her. Deceit would damage their love quicker than a tarnished reputation. “I have never loved anyone the way I love you,” she said, feeling as if she were both barefoot on the naked earth and soaring above it.

  He took her hand. “This isn’t easy for either of us, Carmela.”

  Carmela looked up at him. His eyes sparkled in the orange light. She couldn’t imagine not gazing into them.

  “I know a place,” he began, his tone caressing them both back toward calm. “It’s not too far from here. We’ll set out early tomorrow before we start back. I want this to be perfect.”

  Perfection could not be planned. It wasn’t under candlelight or at sumptuous feasts or any orchestrated outing. Perfection was no place but here, in this very moment. “It is already.”

  “I don’t want to scare you, Carmela”—his eyes fixed to hers—“but I can’t imagine not being able to feel you beside me.”

  The cool of her tears began to dry on her cheeks. She slipped her hand into the cradle of his. They walked back to the hotel in silence. In the hushed quiet of Carmela’s room they made love. Their bodies knotted together and then gave in to sleep.

  CHAPTER 25

  They rose just before dawn, packed their bags, ruffled the sheets on his untouched bed, and left money upon their dressers with a written apology for not waiting to check out after breakfast. Then they headed out into the star-studded sky wrapped over Cagliari.