Youths loitered in doorways, their sharp eyes flickering towards her like feral cats. Breathless, she caught up to the misshapen body, aware it offered scant protection against their youthful physique. She could deal with taunting bullies and crude gestures but physical attacks were something else. She gritted her teeth. What options did she have?
Ancient stone walls retained heat absorbed from the sun, soon her face and cotton top were damp with perspiration. Dizzy after dashing down alleys she almost fell into Alfredo when he stopped in a patch of darkness. ‘E lontana? – is it far?’ Her voice trailed off. Vile odours gagged her throat from piles of rubbish heaped on either side.
Alfredo shook his head and pointed somewhere out of sight, urging her on.
She followed across a narrow foot bridge over the railway and they arrived at a high wire fence. It blocked their route ahead. Joanne halted to regain her breath and flinched as the mournful toot of a siren preceded a train that hurtled past within a few feet of the barrier. Sooty smells filled her lungs as the massive goods wagons disappeared in a shower of sparks. Her heart began to pump erratically. Had she been tricked? ‘E diretto alla Statione? Is this the direction to the Station,’ she demanded.
‘Si, si. Non e problemma,’ Alfredo chuckled.
In the silence which followed the vanished train into the night, he cocked his large head and listened intently. Apparently satisfied he beckoned her on. It was no use; she didn’t like this at all. Where was she being led? Even as waves of unease rose in her throat, Joanne knew she would have to trust him.
Everything lacked reality as in a weird dream. Joanne pulled her thoughts together, braced for any eventuality. One day, she told herself this would seem an exciting adventure. Isn’t that what she always craved?
‘Baggage O.K.’ Alfredo croaked. With catlike stealth he crept through a gaping hole in the wire fence and urged her to follow.
A surge of anxiety swept in as she took the dwarf’s gnarled hand and was guided through the gap and across the steel rails. Conscious of the electrified track, she stepped in fear until reassured by the warmth of his hand, she placed her feet with growing confidence where he pointed onto each safe rail.
‘Lo!’ Alfredo released her hand and waved ahead.
Joanne balanced on the wooden sleepers and looked up, bewildered by a surreal image. Out of the dense black of night a table appeared to float high above them. In the glare of arc lights it mesmerised her like a scene from a Victorian séance. Then as her sight adjusted, the scene dissolved to show four figures seated around a table playing a game of cards.
‘Oya!’ croaked the dwarf.
She stared as men in dark overalls stood shading their eyes from the dazzling glare. Dear god! Were they the Camorra gang? Her heart did a jerk.
‘Alfredo! Buonsera!’ the men called out cheerfully.
Joanne lurked in the shadows and strained her ears. One of the men spoke rapidly to Alfredo and she twitched, certain they mentioned the name Balzarin.
Alfredo turned to her and gesticulated with his large hands until Joanne twigged he needed her baggage ticket. Relief swept in and she moved into the light, opened her satchel and fingers fumbling, extracted it.
With surprising agility Alfredo leapt up onto the platform. The men clapped him on the back and then several pairs of arms reached down to haul her up. A chair was dusted and with friendly gestures they invited Joanne to sit whilst two of the men hurried off, muttering the ticket number.
‘Non, grazie.’ She shook her head at an offer of wine and sat down, easing her feet in the tight city shoes. Dust drifted up and around the powerful arc lights, a buzz with flying insects. She heard a low exchange taking place between Alfredo and the men and it lulled her into a doze. It had been a long, eventful day.
Joanne came to as loud voices broke in with ‘Ecco!’ and like a magic trick, her two lost cases were set down beside her with a flourish.
‘Grazie, grazie mille!’ Joanne exclaimed, getting to her feet, scarcely able to believe what she saw. There was her luggage looking just like it had been when last in Rome.
Relief washed over her as she reached for her satchel to repay their kindness. Alfredo tapped his forehead for the number of euros to give while the men averted their eyes. Then she thrust a wodge of notes into the dwarf’s hand, ‘Grazie mille Alfredo,’ while hoping his pockets weren’t holed. With a rush of gratitude she planted a kiss on his leathery cheek and grinned when the men whistled.
Alfredo swung her luggage as if they were filled with air. Clearly his arms had enormous strength. Joanne was hardly aware of Alfredo guiding her back along the hazardous route; she was almost asleep on her feet when they arrived at the hotel and forced herself awake when Antonovich insisted,
‘Please complete this official form. The porter - he take the luggage to your room.’
At last in her room, Joanne locked the door and flopped down onto the bed. There was a vague impression of opening her brown case to get her toilet bag. Even in her sleepy state Joanne was positive she’d packed this there. In her other case, the blue one she’d packed her sailing gear, shoes and books not needed until her arrival in Ischia. After a moments panic she unlocked her blue case and there it was, resting on top of her canvas sailing jacket. How the hell?
Soon, after a quick shower she fell into bed and despite her disbelief, her eyes closed in sleep of their own accord.
Chapter 2
Early the following day, Joanne leaned over the rail on the ferry as it headed for the Island of Ischia. Most other passengers seemed content to recline on seats to catch up on sleep and took no notice of the view. She had spent a restless night wishing to enjoy this sea crossing. Her ears had been buffeted by a deafening yowling and grinding noise which came from the direction of the harbour, as if some poor beasts were in agony, but a different receptionist this morning had explained, ‘mi dispiace - they dredge the harbour of silt.’
Joanne squeezed her eyes, and blinked several times to rid memories of the previous night. Soft early sunlight draped sensuously over her face as she gazed out over the calm sea. Ischia appeared on the horizon, a blurred print against the pale morning sky. Instantly her spirits rose. Now the scary events the previous night submerged in this sublime seascape. The sun still low in the sky filtered through the mist to cast glittering luminosity over a silvered blue sea so that it shimmered like mercury.
Anticipation curled about Joanne’s mind. She could feel the deck sway gently beneath her feet and drew deep, reviving breaths of salty air as Naples vanished behind them in the morning mist. Annoyingly, she couldn’t prevent uncertainties gaining control of her mind.
Apart from the mystery of her toilet bag, it was odd that her cases had been deposited by the night porter in a vastly superior room to the one she’d previously booked. With a tinge of annoyance she surmised Renzo must have phoned to check if she’d arrived and had upgraded her room.
An incident flooded back. It was that time Renzo escorted her to dinner. He’d taken a phone call and she’d heard his vehement tone when he spoke,
‘It’ll work fine; no trouble, Fabio. Don’t let it concern you - there’s a back- up plan this time...’
Afterwards, he’d given her a kind of conspirator smile. ‘My cousin Fabio sometimes takes a lot of persuading.’ The remark came with a shrug and she was none the wiser to what he referred since this first mention of a relative came as a surprise.
Perhaps she could have asked about his family but had no wish to give him an excuse to delve into her own. Apart from the fact he’d said he was unmarried, Renzo’s private life was hidden behind by a barrier; one that warned; Do not proceed beyond this point.
The veil of mist slowly lifted. Joanne stared up into the blue bowl of sky and felt warm sunshine flood her face. Seagulls screeched and dived and their energy seemed to reflect her eagerness for three weeks holiday in Ischia with the chance to crew. Even the fact she had hardly any sailing experience failed to concern her. She�
�d cope just as she always had in difficult situations.
Flossy white bow waves drifted alongside the ferry as it ploughed on towards Porto d’Ischia. Everything was perfect. Sentimental Italian songs that relayed over the speakers rose and fell over the throbbing engine noise and swish of the waves. Would Renzo Balzarin keep to a working relationship? Why else his generosity? If the offer to crew came with a hidden agenda she’d soon opt out. Despite her meagre funds, she determined to pay her way.
‘My dear Joanne,’ He’d said, heaving a sigh. ‘If you must...’
How she disliked his patronising tone. Surely he’d expect something in return for the sailing instruction? Tentative questions about his life were always side stepped. She learned only that his English mother and Italian father were no longer alive and that he’d been brought up on the Island, that was all. He never spoke of family or his personal life.
However, she’d felt it necessary to level with him and make it absolutely clear. ‘You may have been misled; I’m keen on sailing but not done as much as I’d like – could be a rotten crew.’ His ready laugh caught her by surprise.
‘No problem Joanne. As I told you - it will be my pleasure to teach you the ropes. I’m happy I shan’t be in danger from those ‘know it all’ crew I’ve used in the past.’
A dart of mistrust widened her eyes at the word ‘used’ but he qualified his remark.
‘Incidentally my offer is not entirely altruistic.’ He’d given her a searching look. Who knows,’ he’d added with a crooked smile, ‘I could need someone keen to promote my sailing courses, conversant with Italian and English.’
Had he already marked her as a young English woman, a free spirit with no apparent commitments for some purpose? She frowned, annoyed with herself but unwilling to seem churlish replied, ‘that’s quite a proposal to think about. I enjoy living in Rome you know, so a move to Ischia would be a huge decision.’
Years ago her impoverished background had fuelled her need for independence. She did not intend to lose that. Her thoughts scattered as out of the corner of her eye a young man approached the boat rail.
‘Wonderful isn’t it, eh?’ He stood a few feet away and nodded at the view. ‘Forgive me, but it’s too good not to share this with someone.’
‘Yes, it’s great.’ Joanne followed his gaze and watched how the waves danced like ruffled lace on the cobalt blue sea.
‘Tom Saunders.’ He turned and extended his hand. Joanne noted a Northern English accent and boyish looks complimented by alert grey eyes and an open, cheerful look.
‘Joanne Holt,’ she returned his smile. ‘Are you on holiday?’ the question was one of courtesy while she quickly assessed him. A pink cheeked young man who’d probably barely finished his education, she thought. He couldn’t be more than nineteen or twenty years of age. His pale sandy hair was neatly cut and edged as if recently groomed by a barber.
‘Yes, and no,’ he replied. ‘I’m doing environmental studies at college. I thought it would be interesting to combine a holiday with researching various aspects here on the Island. What about you - on holiday?’ He clearly hoped for more than her brief response of,
‘Yes, that’s right.’
Joanne noted he wore a navy blouson jacket with well- cut jeans and carried a large expensive looking pack on his back and her impression was of a well- heeled student, quite unlike the scruffy ones she normally encountered in Italy. In different circumstances, she might have furthered their conversation.
After that they had little to say to one another. Tom Saunders produced a pair of binoculars and moved away. She shrugged; a rather pleasant young man much younger than her own twenty six years. But she had enough to think about and soon dismissed him from her mind. Spiked with anticipation she looked forward to seeing a part of Italy she’d not yet explored.
As the Island grew distinct, Joanne made out little sandy coves, pastel washed buildings with terra cotta roofs rising up on tree covered hills. Sunlight, an orange glow in the sky lit the peak of Monte Epomeo the extinct volcano which towered above the Island and the haunting beauty fetched a catch in her throat. Joanne watched as the quayside drew closer while the engine merely ticked over as the ferry slowed to manoeuvre onto its berth.
At first distracted by all the quayside activity as barefoot boys darted up the gang plank to carry the passenger’s luggage, it was moments before a figure drew her attention. This man stood alone, his gaze fixed on the passengers. Joanne gave a start and tightened her grip on the rail. Renzo! But he wasn’t supposed to arrive for a few days. Dismayed, she shielded her eyes and stared but a flash of sunshine reflected in a window briefly blinded her sight.
When she looked again and slowly took in the figure she realized her mistake. Who could he be? Although this man bore an uncanny resemblance to Renzo, she saw he was not as tall and a little heavier, his face broader and deeply tanned. He was dressed casually in a white T shirt and faded blue jeans, a jazzy scarf tied around his neck. Joanne smiled, intrigued. With his sunglasses atop his head and dark hair caught back in a ponytail, this man exuded a carefree personality as he scanned the passengers descending the gangplank.
She tossed her green silk scarf about the shoulders of her pale linen sheath and stepped onto the quay feeling quite chic and Italian with her dark bobbed hair. But this particular man had singled her out and came towards her. Although still perturbed by his likeness to Renzo she could see at once that this man’s features were moulded as if by a kindly, generous spirit with none of Renzo’s guarded arrogance. His mouth moved in a warm smile of welcome and she found herself taking his outstretched hand, still puzzled who he might be. His manner was engaging and her smile of response came spontaneously.
‘I’m Fabio,’ he said in explanation. ‘You must be Joanne.’ He nodded, noting her bewildered look. ‘Renzo asked me to meet you and naturally I am delighted to be the one to welcome you to Ischia!’ And still noting the puzzlement in her wide grey eyes, he offered, ‘Fabio Rosso, Renzo’s cousin – did not Renzo mention...?’
Joanne rallied quickly. ‘But you are so alike it’s taken me a few moments to see you aren’t actually Renzo,’ She spoke brightly; cross that Renzo had not divulged this cousin of his who’d meet her off the ferry.
‘Have you had a pleasant journey?’
Joanne hesitated, thinking it would hardly do to let Renzo down by revealing her plight on arrival at the hotel. ‘Yes, thank you.’ And then as it all rushed back with awful clarity, she added with a little laugh, ‘there was a mishap. It meant going to fetch my luggage from Naples railway depot last night. It was supposed to be delivered to my hotel.’
Fabio Russo frowned and his face registered concern as he shook his head. ‘Then you have not gained a good impression of Italy, I fear.’
‘Oh, but I love everything about Italy!’ Joanne hastened to assure him.
‘Good! I hope you will allow me to further your enjoyment when you are not sailing with my cousin.’
Joanne instantly sensed sincerity in his pleasant manner, delighted to find Renzo had this cousin.
‘Renzo is the eldest by several years and always the clever one, tied up with business,’ Fabio volunteered. He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I am a mere artist trying to keep the - how do you say - wolf from the door? Come. May I call you Joanne? I understand Renzo has been delayed for a day or so and my sister Angelino and her children are eager to meet you.’
More relatives then, she puzzled.
He called to a young lad hovering nearby with Joanne’s cases. ‘Here,’ he handed over some coins. Fabio placed a hand lightly on Joanne’s shoulder and pointed to a small car parked alongside the harbour wall before he bent to pick up her cases.
She followed as Fabio opened the door of a vintage two seat little car with its canvas roof rolled back. As she slid onto the leather passenger seat, she was bewildered. So, there are two cousins here – Fabio and Angelina as well as her children all showing a wish to meet her. What else was there to
discover? Firmly setting her queries aside she glanced behind to check her cases, wondering if Fabio had his own family and how they would fit into the tiny space where he’d stowed them.
Fabio chuckled as he took in her glance and his eyes sparkled with fun. ‘This little Morgan,’ he declared with casual, male propriety as he stroked the wood dashboard, ‘is my toy! A family car is somewhat more...’ he searched for a word; ‘a work horse?’ Joanne raised her eyebrows as she offered, ‘A Jack-of-all-trades perhaps?’ Clichés could clunk like a ballerina in clogs but from Fabio they merely seemed quixotic.
‘Ah! Excellent English play on words. Yes,’ he confirmed, thrusting the car into gear. ‘I like that. You are clever with words, I suspect Joanne.’
As they moved off, she took a peek at his profile, at his firm chin and cheerful expression and reflected – and you I think Fabio, are delightful company and far from simple.
***
Seated on the flagstone terrace of the Villa Serena surrounded by trees, Joanne felt she could live in this place forever. Large pots containing sub- tropical plants had been freshly watered and their heady scents drifted on the gentle breeze. Turning, she saw tall Pine trees framed the view of an azure sea which merged with the sky on the horizon. Fabio’s sister, Angelina, proved a charming host who’d insisted Joanne must stay here that night. Having been introduced, her three children aged between five and ten years had run off to play.
Joanne was nobody’s fool. The hospitality she received seemed out of proportion set against the mere task to crew Angelina’s cousin’s yacht. She took a deep breath and as her lungs filled with the lemony tang of pine she pushed her growing doubts away.
‘This was our family home,’ Angelina explained fondly. ‘My parents and Renzo’s all shared the place so we three children grew up like brothers and sister.’ Her shoulders heaved in a sigh. ‘Yes, such happy times...’
Except Angelina hadn’t mentioned her husband. Fabio had introduced his sister as Angelina Pardi. Perhaps they’d separated, or maybe he’d died?
Beyond The Island Page 2
