That Summer in Ischia

by Penny Feeny

  At midnight, there was talk of going down to the beach to swim in the sea, an activity for which the men were game, the girls less so. They complained the twisting path down the cliff would be dangerous, they might lose their footing in the dark or cut themselves on the rocks. The notion appealed to Allie – the inky, diamond-studded water – but after half an hour of argument, they were no closer to getting there. To settle the matter, Bobby declared, ‘Che cazzo me ne frega!’ ripped off all his clothes and plunged completely naked into the pool. Giulia followed him, untying the ribbon of her halter-neck dress and letting it shimmy into a heap. Giggling, the two other couples undressed in the shadows and jumped.

  Max and Allie were the only ones left standing, fully clothed, at the edge. It was at moments like these, she thought, watching a group of friends relaxing their inhibitions and having a grand time, that you remembered, yeah, that was me not so long ago. In the middle of things. Not a bloody wallflower.

  They were calling for her and Max to join them. Well, why not? She wasn’t going to repeat that earlier humiliating scene. The pool was too crowded for swimming anyhow: it was a porpoises’ playground. She wasn’t going to be stuffy about this. She imagined phoning Liddy and hearing her gasp of incredulity when she told her: ‘That little boy you used to look after, the one called Bobo? Well, I spent last night skinny dipping with him and his friends.’

  Last night . . . Last night . . . The lyrics hummed in her brain like an anthem, although the music had ceased a while ago. She tossed her clothes aside and plummeted into a forest of scything legs and ghostly white buttocks. She surfaced to cheering and Bobby flung a friendly wet arm around her neck.

  Alone on the terrace, Max gathered up the glasses and empty plates, tipped the contents of ashtrays into the plant pots. ‘Lasciali,’ commanded Bobby. ‘Vieni con noi.’

  ‘Dopo,’ he called back, continuing his operations with the same steady attention to detail as this morning, when she’d thought him a handyman topping up the water levels. His demeanour was that of an older brother, responsible for controlling his younger, hare-brained siblings (even if he had cocked up his shopping list). Then he went indoors for a long time and when he re-emerged the swimming had lost its charm and everyone had clambered out.

  Allie was sheltering within her towel when Bobby came over to her. ‘I think he was calling his girlfriend back home,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘It doesn’t bother you?’

  ‘Bother me? Of course not.’

  ‘It’s best,’ said Bobby, ‘to be upfront, yes?’

  ‘Yes. Absolutely.’

  So they took her to be a temporary replacement – well, that was okay; not true, but okay. They also took it for granted she would share his sleeping quarters.

  At one end of their room, facing the double bed, a small balcony jutted over a precipitous drop. Allie stood on it, inhaling the warm scent, the dreamlike quality of the night. ‘You must think I’m dead cheeky, leeching on to you like this,’ she said. ‘I should have fucked off and found a hotel.’

  ‘But you wanted to stay?’

  ‘I was having a good time, yes.’

  ‘Well then.’

  ‘I could always go and crash on the sofa.’

  ‘Bobby’d never let me live it down. Quit stalling.’

  She leaned forward to fasten the shutters. She’d feel more comfortable undressing in the dark, even if he had already seen her strip naked.

  ‘Don’t,’ he said.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You’ll shut out the stars. You can never see them in a city, there’s too much light pollution. It’s another thing I like about coming back here.’

  Either he had a romantic streak or he wanted her to think he did. She moved away from the balcony and pulled on the extra-large T-shirt she wore to sleep in, conscious that the words ‘Too Hot to Handle’ were branded in dashing colours across her bust.

  ‘Come on, get in.’ He’d already dived under the duvet. All she could see of him was his hair curling on the pillow, the prow of his nose and the angle of his collarbone. His hands, his ribcage, his slim hips, the jagged white scar she had noticed on his shin, were hidden. When she joined him he rested a hand on her cheek. ‘Allora Allegra,’ he said.

  ‘Allora Allegra, what?’

  He moved his head forward as if to kiss her. She could smell the wine on his breath and taste it on her own: a dose of heavy red tannin mixed with garlic and chillies and the tart acidity of olives. She closed her eyes and felt his kisses grazing her cheek. She wriggled a little closer until her thigh was in contact with his. His left hand lifted her shirt and ran up her hips and over her waist until it settled and curved cup-like around her right breast. His mouth moved down and fixed on hers. His tongue foraged between her lips in much the same way as his knee pushed between her legs, encouraging them to part.

  It was so easy, so pleasant, so downright enjoyable, the sensation of being aroused. Responsive. Desirable. And so hard to know what part was played by alcohol or inertia, or sheer desperation: the result of too many weeks – no, months – of celibacy. She extricated herself and pushed him away. ‘What about your girlfriend?’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘Is it serious? Did you agree it was okay to play around?’

  He rolled on to his back, raising his arms behind his head. ‘She’s the other side of the ocean.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So I don’t know when I’m going to see her again.’

  ‘Aren’t you going back home?’

  ‘Not for some time.’

  ‘Oh.’

  He turned his head to catch her eye. ‘And she could have come out here but it didn’t suit her, so you see, it’s not me who’s the deserter. We’re in what you could call a state of hiatus.’

  ‘Does she call it that too?’

  ‘What’s with the ffth degree?’

  ‘I thought Americans took cheating on partners really seriously.’

  ‘You keep forgetting, Allie, I’m Italian.’ He laid a hand on her stomach, where there was all kinds of turbulent activity. ‘If we didn’t go around seducing women, we’d be letting the side down.’

  ‘I didn’t think you were such a walking cliché.’ Perhaps that was going too far. Perhaps she should be grateful a man was taking an interest in her again. No: her confidence was not at such a low ebb she needed her ego stoking.

  ‘Point taken,’ said Max. ‘But you know, since we’ve ended up in bed together I was only doing what came naturally to me. For you, could be it’s different.’

  ‘I never do it on first meeting,’ said Allie.

  ‘What, never ever? Not even if you’ve been to the wildest party and thrown back, I don’t know, a quart of champagne, and met a guy who’s a total turn-on, whose path you might not cross again so it’s like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity . . .’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What the hell, it’s only sex. No big deal.’

  His hands roamed, his touch tantalized. But in the morning, when they woke with hangovers and dry mouths and matted hair, in sheets smelling of garlic, it might not seem so much passionate encounter as pitiful balls-up. A one-night stand that shouldn’t have happened.

  ‘It’s a good rule,’ she said, as much to herself as to Max. ‘Abstaining, I mean. This time yesterday I didn’t even know you existed.’

  ‘If that’s the way you want to play it . . .’ He climbed out of bed and she saw his erection slump. ‘I’m going to take a piss,’ he said. ‘And then we’re going to sleep, right, like babes in the wood?’

  She drew the T-shirt over her hips and crossed her wrists and her legs. ‘Yes.’

  ‘But tomorrow’s another day and we’ll take it as it comes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  18

  Saturday. This will be a day to remember, Allie thought at the start of it, embracing the boat, the beach, the thermal springs and the chance to get to know Max better: discussing bands and books
, exchanging confidences, spilling dreams and ambitions. And at the back of her mind lay the tentative thrill of spending another night with him; the possibility of saying yes. She didn’t expect the happy equilibrium of the day to be disrupted so completely by a casual conversation with Bobby.

  Sated with sunshine, fresh air and good food, they were sprawled around the restaurant table, waiting for the bill. Max had gone outside to take a phone call; Allie was pretending it wasn’t important. Bobby leaned towards her, ‘You are okay?’

  ‘Yes, I’m good.’

  ‘She should accustom herself to his absence I think.’

  ‘Well, I suppose if it’s just for the summer months . . .’

  ‘No, no, for the year.’

  ‘A year!’ This was something she hadn’t appreciated, but why should it make any difference? Her own ticket would soon expire.

  ‘Yes, he will work in his father’s practice.’

  ‘Oh, I hadn’t realized. Doing what?’

  ‘He didn’t tell you?’

  ‘Well, you know, we covered a lot of things, but we didn’t talk much about boring stuff like work. I mean, he mentioned labouring on construction sites but I thought those were holiday jobs.’ She’d also suspected, with amusement, that he was trying to impress her with fake blue-collar credentials. ‘He said he’d been a student for ever.’

  ‘Yes, is true. But soon he will qualify.’

  ‘As?’

  ‘As architect. This is why he is coming to work with his father to, how do you say, widen the experience?’

  ‘Right.’

  The bill arrived on a saucer and was passed to Bobby. Allie rooted in her purse; she would not be beholden. She handed over a pile of euros.

  ‘No, you are guest.’

  ‘Everyone else is paying,’ she said, looking around the table.

  ‘Massimo wishes to pay for you, he has told me.’

  ‘Well, I’d prefer to pay for myself.’

  ‘Then have your fight with him.’

  ‘No, Bobby, I’m having it with you.’ She placed her notes squarely in front of him.

  He raised his hands in a show of helplessness. ‘So, you win. What can I do?’ He took the money with a mock sigh and flicked his credit card on to the saucer. (Being Bobby, the flick was more of a spinning double somersault; he didn’t do anything unobtrusively.)

  ‘I thought Max’s parents lived in New York,’ said Allie.

  ‘His mother yes, and his stepfather. My uncle has always lived in Rome.’

  ‘You two are cousins!’

  ‘Yes, you didn’t know? That’s why we often had holidays together. Fabrizio is my mother’s brother. He used to own the villa close to ours and it was he who designed Casa Colonnata. There were some arguments about that in the family, as you may imagine, but at least the development is legal. Some builders are not so scrupulous.’

  ‘You are joking?’

  Bobby was probing the inside of his mouth with a toothpick. He set it down, puzzled. ‘Why do you think this is joke?’

  ‘Are you telling me Max’s father is the architect who designed that whole new development?’

  ‘Sì.’

  ‘And his name is Fabrizio?’

  ‘The practice, they use another name, but yes, he is Fabrizio Verducci.’

  The group was rising from the table, ready for the next stage in their evening’s entertainment. The table itself appeared to Allie in hyper-real detail: every wineglass, tumbler, bottle, napkin, knife, spoon, pepper pot, dispenser of oil or vinegar etched with fine distinction against the white linen cloth. Her shoulder bag was beside her chair but she couldn’t trust herself to reach for it. She shivered.

  ‘You have cold?’ said Bobby. ‘You spend too much time in water today, I think.’

  She forced herself to stoop for her bag. ‘I have to make a phone call.’

  ‘You also?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve just remembered. It’s quite important. Quite urgent. I’ll catch up with you later.’

  ‘Is no problem. We can wait.’

  ‘No, please don’t. You showed me where you’re going. I’ll meet you there soon. I promise.’

  She took out her phone and pretended to dally behind as they left the restaurant. At the last moment she dashed downstairs to the ladies’ toilet and locked herself in a cubicle, where she forced her head between her knees and gulped stale air. But she couldn’t confine herself there indefinitely and, below ground, there was no mobile signal. She had to speak to Liddy. For most of the day she’d been looking forward to making such a call, relating the effortless way she’d gained access to the Baldini household, comparing notes, analysing the differences between past and present. She’d been going to boast, she’d thought herself so clever – how wrong could a person be?

  She splashed cold water on her face without looking in the mirror. As she picked her way between the tables of the trattoria she was convinced everyone was watching her. She imagined their heads swivelling and the word incest spurting through their grim lips. Guilt made you see things that weren’t there – but she was not guilty. Nothing had happened. A waiter opened the door for her, bowing slightly from the waist as she left.

  None of the others was in view, not even Max. They had taken her word and assumed she’d be following close behind. When they found out she wasn’t, they might come searching for her. Needing time and distance she turned in the opposite direction and took a side street. Beneath a lamp illuminating an advert for Aperol – the Low-Alcohol Drink! – she scrolled through her address list. A thousand miles away Liddy’s mobile warbled but wasn’t answered. She could try her home number. She would not, dared not, contact her mother.

  While she was considering the next move, her phone jumped excitedly in her hand: Liddy was ringing back. She pressed the answer button.

  ‘Allie? Did you just try to call me?’

  ‘Yes . . . I . . .’

  ‘How are you? How’s it going?’

  ‘Well, I’ve made it to Ischia . . .’

  ‘You have? Oh!’ A short silence. ‘It’s spectacular, isn’t it? Are you . . .?’ Another pause, an edge of nervous caution when she spoke again. ‘Did you, um, find the villas?’

  ‘I’ve met Bobo,’ said Allie.

  ‘Oh my God! How extraordinary. I never thought . . . So the family still goes there after all these years? And did you meet Sara, his sister?’

  ‘No. I think she’s married. Lives in . . . actually I’ve forgotten where she lives; it’s not what matters right now. Listen, I need to know, the other child, the little boy Mum looked after, the one who got kidnapped –’

  ‘That was such a mystery,’ said Liddy. ‘And so absolutely horrendous at the time.’

  Allie wanted to scream. There was only one piece of information that was relevant to her. ‘What was his name?’

  ‘Who? Mimmo?’

  ‘Mimmo? You’re sure?’

  ‘Well, that’s what everyone called him, but it was a child’s nickname, like Bobo. He was Massimo really.’

  ‘Massimo,’ repeated Allie.

  ‘Allie,’ said Liddy. ‘I can’t hear you. Are you there?’

  Distracted by her own powerful emotions, Allie was unaware of a shadow encroaching. She was standing in the circle of light with her new phone in her hand. The shoes of the youth closing in on her were rubber-soled and silent. In a second he had whipped away the phone to the sound of Liddy’s plaintive: ‘Allie, Allie? What’s going on?’ Then he grabbed the strap of her shoulder bag. No! she thought in fury, remembering Char. This would not happen to her. She refused to let go, yanking it back so fiercely she stumbled, twisting her ankle. A sharp pain shot up her left leg and she fell in the roadway, an easy target. The deserted street which had seemed a good idea five minutes ago had become a terrifying trap.

  Perhaps Max and Bobby had noticed her absence, were even now turning back to look for her – but she couldn’t afford to wait passively. Although one leg felt numb and useless she had plen
ty of strength in the other. She aimed a powerful kick at the figure lurching over her and connected with his groin. She hoped that if she was troublesome enough he’d give up and slope off. But after a yelp and a stagger he was back in the fray, raising his own foot as if to stamp her into the gutter. Allie, swinging her right arm forward to protect her face, made contact with a cold metal object. For a second she thought he’d dropped a knife and she could use it to defend herself. But the object had fallen from the bag she was still clutching and was round and stubby: Meg’s whistle. She blew it at such an ear-splitting pitch that he wobbled on his single leg and had to lower his toe to recover his balance. Allie used this reprieve to roll on to her front but she didn’t stop blowing.

  There was a pounding in her ears, the vibration of oncoming footsteps. Then a touch on her shoulder, the crackle of a walkie-talkie. Rescue came too late for her phone or to catch her assailant, but she’d saved her battered bag with wallet and passport intact. She sat up by degrees. Her back was bruised, her elbow and knee skinned, and God only knew what she’d done to her ankle.

  The response to her whistle had come not from Max and Bobby but from men in uniform, carabinieri. One had a bald head that gleamed like an acorn in the lamplight. The other was younger, hollow-cheeked, his jaw in constant motion as he chewed successive pieces of Nicorette gum. Neither spoke much English, but the older one managed to explain she would need to complete a denuncia. She tried to object, to insist it wasn’t necessary, she had no charges to press (she’d had a bellyful of bureaucracy in Nice), but the younger one took the whistle off her and rolled it between his palms. He held it under the light and showed her the words Comune di Firenze stamped on the barrel. She understood him to be telling her this was state property, it belonged to some civic official in Florence.

  Allie marvelled. It wasn’t only Liddy Rawlings who could trip her up at such a distance, but complacent, self-righteous Meg too.

  ‘I don’t know where it came from. Someone gave it to me,’ she said, fixing her shoes and wincing. She couldn’t straighten her back or put weight on her left foot.

  The older carabiniere settled her into their patrol car, tutting at the state of her clothes streaked with dirt and the blood dripping from her knee. At the police station she was allowed to wash the grit from her injuries and then taken, hobbling, to complete the forms describing the theft.