Four Hundred and Forty Steps to the Sea

by Sara Alexander

  “I need to get back, Paolino.”

  “Are you alright? You look gray.”

  His acute observation caught me off guard.

  “I feel gray.”

  His expression fell.

  “I want to make you the happiest woman in town, Santina.”

  Conversational quicksand pulled at me.

  “I need time, Paolino. I’ve promised the major to stay until Elizabeth leaves for England.”

  “He doesn’t own you, Santina.”

  The words were a stone dropping to a pond’s muddy bed. He did. A part of me was already his. And the feeling was woven golden threads that stretched out over the hills toward wherever he now sat beside Adeline, or lost in his thoughts, of us perhaps, or delving deep into his favorite book of poetry, lines that skimmed the luminous tip of what we had shared. Surrendering to the sensation was the cusp of liberation, not imprisonment.

  “You are a beautiful man, Paolino. I don’t know if I am ready to be a wife.”

  “Not any wife, Santina. Mine.”

  “And what kind of wife can I be to you now? With someone else’s child on my hip, living up at the house? You’re asking me to leave everything that has given me the chance to follow my dreams, beyond this town.”

  “To chase what, Santina? Imagined lives? You don’t hear what life is really like for us over there? You think these rich americani, all smiles here, treat us fishing folk like equals back home? You’re living a daydream if you do.”

  I could feel his feathers of pride start to ruffle, but I wasn’t ready to walk away.

  “I’m saying I didn’t picture becoming a wife.”

  “So you want a life of loneliness? You expect me to believe that with all my heart? Look at yourself—you look after this girl like she’s your own. You’re born to care. It comes naturally. It shines out of you like a sun. And I love this about you. I can’t believe that that’s the same person who wants to live alone in a stranger’s city.”

  And just like that, a gulf widened between us. The delicacy of a minute gesture described the truth of our friendship. Standing there that late afternoon, it felt like Paolino would always keep me in this cozy mold; the dutiful caretaker, an obedient worker, qualities that would make a perfect wife to him indeed. The flicker of apparent compliments left me empty. He described the woman he wanted beside him. I wanted to have light shone on who I could become.

  “That sounds like an ultimatum, Paolino.”

  “Do you love me, Santina?”

  His cheeks were flushed. I couldn’t decide whether it was because the conversation was steering out of his control or because he was indeed laying himself bare before me. My heartbeat thudded in my ears. I longed for the words to come to my rescue, but I was giving in to panic, splashing around in the deep, hoping a passing ship would throw me a buoy. He registered my indecision before I could mask it.

  “I thought you felt the same way, Santina.”

  He held my gaze, searching me for truths.

  “I’m scared, Paolino.”

  A nib of honesty, at last.

  He wrapped his arms around me, then lifted my chin and pressed his lips against mine. His eyes softened. “There is no hurry. But if you are telling me that the idea makes you want to jump on the next boat to New York, we stop this right now. And if you’re telling me that you need more time to get used to the idea of the life I want to gift you, then I will wait as long as it takes. I don’t want you to be a picture frame next to me, Santina. You understand that, don’t you?”

  I wanted to. I had come from poverty, that much we both knew, but I longed for a different wealth than what he laid before me. I didn’t have the means to articulate this. Not then, not there in the softening hum of the early evening, with the streams of people passing before the shop, holiday chatter frothing like a cloud above them, marveling at our picturesque nook of the world. I didn’t want to be the dutiful wife in a photographed delicatessen, stilted clicks of another life to be gawked at by strangers, trophies of a foray to Positano to savor for years to come, for the neighbors to salivate after, envy even. What ached was the sensation that I ought to want it, that I ought to be satisfied. The thoughts filled my mind like smoke.

  The beads clicked open and a family shuffled in, committing every nook of his shop to memory. The children ran to the baskets heaving with bags of gianduia, the mother hovering close behind, snapping their hands away whilst drinking in the details of the appetizing display of ceramic bowls laden with charred vegetables, swimming in olive oil. The father lifted a bottle of wine from the shelf, studying the label with a scientific eye.

  “We’ll talk another time,” I said, feeling I was leaving the conversation unstitched, frays of thoughts in a messy pile.

  He nodded, his smile papering disappointment.

  Elizabeth and I stepped out into the dusky atmosphere. I squeezed her little hand in mine, hoping the feel of her skin would ground me. We climbed the steps with unhurried feet, visitors wading through the start of the evening beside us, tumbled conversations of where they would dine. It was like strolling through the warped memory of a dream whose ending I sensed but couldn’t picture.

  As Elizabeth and I reached the final curve of alleyway that led to the last set of steps toward the villa, a familiar silhouette stopped me dead. I squeezed Elizabeth’s hand, thought about slinking back into the doorway of the house nearest us till the person I wanted to meet least in the world got tired of waiting for me and left.

  “Too late to hide,” my father called down to me. He looked more haggard than the last time and the dipping sun cast streaks of shadows across his stubble.

  “What do you want?” I called up, as loud as I could, hoping someone in the near houses might come out and witness our conversation. I hated the wry grimace creasing over his face as he stared down at us, several steps below.

  “I want to know why my daughter is hanging around her loser brother.”

  I held a defiant silence.

  “Santina—what a fitting name your mother chose—‘little saint’ indeed. Hears no evil, speaks none either. Least that’s what she thinks.”

  “I don’t need to stand here listening to you.”

  “No, you don’t. But you should. Because your darling brother is keeping a lot of dirty secrets from you, little saint. Ever ask him what he’s been getting up to while you were swanning around town, around London?”

  “This is your son you’re talking about. The boy you’re supposed to love. What would you know about that?”

  “Raise your little voice all you like, Santina, no one will come to your rescue. Nor his. Just you wait.”

  He shuffled down several steps toward us so that the stale whisper of alcohol and garlic reached me. I lifted Elizabeth up and clasped her to me.

  “And when you’ve found out, and you refuse to believe it, and you can’t decide what to do, I’ll be there, receiving kind donations from the servant girl to make sure Marco stays a free man.”

  He nodded his head with a raspy cackle. I wanted to hear the smack of my hand across his face, but it closed into an involuntary clammy fist.

  “Go now, get to work, little saint. And don’t forget to ask your brother to tell you some bedtime stories about the docks.”

  And with that he shifted by me. I watched him zigzag down the alley, inebriated footsteps leaving the whisper of doubts obscuring my better judgment. Though the dying sun warmed our faces, I felt an icy shiver scissor down my spine.

  * * *

  An eerie quiet greeted us inside the villa. I had the awful sensation of being watched. My father creeping up on me left me vulnerable, and I hated myself for it. I tried to focus on Elizabeth, hoping her blissful lack of awareness of my feelings might shift my own preoccupation with them. I tried to dream up something special for dinner, for when Marco would return, but I couldn’t bear to be inside, I felt insecure leaving Elizabeth wandering the garden like she always did. I looked up at the crescent outline o
f the moon, only the fading glow of the sun remaining now, bronzed streaks across the horizon. I stayed by Elizabeth until the creeping dusk dipped us toward darkness. I led us inside with reluctance, all appetite diminished.

  A knock at the door. Elizabeth ran toward it.

  Marco called out from the other side. A great wave of relief swept over me.

  “You been looking for ghosts again, Santina? You look like a sheet!” He laughed, stepping in past me with dirt-encrusted boots.

  “What took you so long?”

  “This how lover boy is teaching you to be the dutiful wife? Interrogation by the door?”

  I brushed off his remarks with a shake of my head and stormed toward the kitchen.

  “Santina! Don’t be like that—has something happened?”

  “No!”

  He pinned me with that razor stare from the far side of the terrace.

  “Yes.”

  He walked toward me.

  “Papà. He was outside waiting for me.”

  That’s when I let the angry tears fall. I didn’t want them to eat at me any longer. He wrapped me into his arms.

  “Look what he does!” I sobbed, fighting for breath, for calm. “I want to be free of him, Marco. He is a disgusting person. And look at me. Crying like a little girl. I hate how he makes me do that.”

  Marco lifted my chin and wiped my tears away with his thumb.

  “So don’t let him.”

  “It’s not that easy. Has he come to see you at the cemetery?”

  Marco’s expression wavered in that familiar studied control, though if I searched a little deeper, I could see where the edges of the performance frayed, minuscule lifting furls revealing a mild panic beneath, a bit like tipping the lid of a boiling pot and watching steam fight out through the gap.

  “He knows best to stay away from me,” he answered, his voice metallic.

  “He was speaking nonsense about you this time. Asking me to ask you to tell your stories from the docks.”

  “He’s a sad old man, Santina. He’s got word we’ve landed on our feet. Can’t stand to see anyone happy. God knows he did his best to ruin our lives, no?”

  A faint smile painted over my frown, a watercolor washed away before it dries.

  “Come on now, Santina. Leave him to his misery. You ever heard of a drunk knowing how to look after his children?”

  “Not ours.”

  “You’re shaken. Let me clean up and I’ll make dinner tonight, yes? Pay my way somehow, no? Why don’t you take a bath or something, relax?”

  The idea was alluring, however impossible. A hungry Elizabeth was starting to trace circles around my legs.

  “Let me give her some dinner and then get her to bed. A bath would be wonderful—if you don’t mind?”

  “It’s the least I can do to thank my sister.”

  He kissed my forehead and crouched down to pinch Elizabeth’s cheek between a couple of gentle fingers. She giggled. I watched him go inside. The darkness swallowed his silhouette.

  After a simple broth for Elizabeth and some warmed milk with bread, she looked ready for bed. It wasn’t hard to convince her to head upstairs. I turned on the lights of the dining room to reach the stairs.

  That’s when I noticed the walls.

  Several paintings were missing.

  My eyes darted across the space in panic.

  They landed on the large Jacobean dresser in the corner. Half the silver was missing and the doors swung open on their hinges. I looked back toward the library, noticing the door ajar.

  “Marco!” I yelled.

  No reply.

  I lifted Elizabeth. I called him again. Still no answer.

  The library lay dark. Light from the dining room bulbs spilled inside. From where I stood glued to the spot, I noticed that several piles of books were overturned.

  My heart pounded.

  I didn’t hear Marco come down the stairs.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  I jumped.

  “Look!” I signaled toward the library. “The pictures, Marco! The silver! It’s gone!”

  Marco followed my gaze toward the library. He stepped inside and flicked the light on. A mess of the major’s prized books tumbled across the floor. The desk drawers were pulled open. Papers were strewn across it.

  “Who’s done this, Marco?”

  He shook his head in horror.

  “What do we do? This is all my fault! I should never have left the house empty. We never do that. That’s why he asked you to stay. I can’t believe I’d be so stupid.”

  I was starting to babble now. Elizabeth rubbed her eyes and fidgeted.

  “Santina, calm down. Get the child to sleep and I’ll clear up here, alright?”

  “No, Marco, the major likes everything a certain way, let me.”

  “You are in no state, Santina. Please. Look to the child. Leave this to me.”

  On any other day I might have insisted, delayed bedtime, but my panic was roiling, and the horrid sensation of a stranger trawling through the home sent nausea through me, rancid regret. If I hadn’t gone to see Paolino, this would never have happened. I would have been spared my father’s creeping visit, I would not have left the house vulnerable. It wouldn’t have taken long for it to get around town that I was there alone. I knew better. I could have stalled my meeting with Paolino. I might have spared us that awkward conversation. My duty was to the major first and foremost. I had let him down.

  Marco caught me standing frozen in panic.

  He placed a gentle hand on either shoulder.

  “Clear heads, Santina. You’ve had a difficult afternoon. And I think I’m in part to blame, especially for how I spoke to Paolino over lunch. Now this! We get one thing straight, yes? This is not our fault.”

  I wouldn’t have assumed him to take any blame. That much was obvious. Why would he have even entertained the idea of me considering him at fault? Was I that hard on him?

  “The child is exhausted,” he soothed. “You’re in shock. Go. Let her rest. I’ll make some chamomile tea. We’ll tidy up.”

  I nodded, a marionette at the will of the puppeteer.

  “Is everything alright upstairs, Marco?”

  “Yes—no one is here, Santina”—he looked into me—“you want me to come with you?”

  I did and was disappointed in myself for it.

  He took my hand in his and led us upstairs. He stayed with me while I settled Elizabeth. He even sat next to me on my bed as we waited for her to drift into sleep. In the quiet of the shadows, he whispered in my ear, “You’re doing such a wonderful job here, Santina. Promise me you won’t tell yourself this is your fault.”

  “I want to promise you. But I can’t.”

  “Santina, this town is full of poor people. I hear about these things happening on all these villas. Count yourselves lucky it hasn’t happened before now. A few things go missing, it won’t harm this family, not in the long run.”

  “But it’s my job to look after this place!”

  His expression was impassive. Why wasn’t he as surprised as me? Something about his demeanor intimated that he considered this a rite of passage, bound to happen to the rich foreigners. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he gleaned a warped sense of justice from it.

  “And it’s mine to look after you.” And with that, my doubts flickered out, snuffed candlelight in the dark.

  We stepped out into the light of the hallway and wound down the stone steps, our shadows creeping along the walls before us. At the bottom, we reached the now bare walls. My favorite painting of Malabar had been taken. I walked into the library to survey the debris. That’s when I noticed the small safe inside a far dresser had been tampered with. It looked like a crowbar had been used to try to prize it open but without success. Some respite. But there were people at large who now knew of the major’s secret hiding spots. Terror crackled through me. A stranger had fingered this room, the major’s beloved possessions. I watched Marco reach
down and start to replace the books into their haphazard towers, some onto the shelves. He stacked the papers into neat piles. I watched him take control of the situation, envying his clear head, stifling my disappointment and dreading delivering news of this to the major on his return.

  I would do well to mimic my brother’s behavior. At the bottom of the hill was a kind man who loved me. Beyond our surrounding hills was a man who was my lover for one unforgettable night. A shadow; the brighter Paolino’s sun shone, the more distorted the major’s silhouette grew. I didn’t want to dance alone in the dark.

  Chapter 20

  I watched the water trickle down from my watering can onto the toasted earth, soaking into the thirsty ground. I willed the dawn birds’ chatter to etch me into the garden, to root me in the task at hand, but my mind was a tumble of weeds. Marco wouldn’t hear of me going to the police this morning. He’d insisted I stay at home with Elizabeth rather than leave the home empty once again. I stood in the white haze of the morning, listening to the droplets rain down onto the roots of the major’s beloved vegetable patch. I pictured his face on hearing the news. I imagined the scalding brunt of his disappointment.

  I crouched down toward the base of a pepper plant, twisted off several fruits, and placed them inside a basket. The house felt empty. The garden swelled toward the height of summer harvest but an air of abandonment hung like a mist. The major was this place’s sun and everything and everyone within orbited around him, attracted and repelled by his unseen magnetic pull. It ached to admit it, but the tangle of these past few days made me feel like I was spinning on a shifted axis.

  “You never give yourself time to sleep, woman?”

  I lifted my face up to the house, where Marco was shuffling across the terrace in a fresh white shirt, his hair still dripping from a shower.

  “There’s a pot of coffee ready to light,” I called back up to him, “the box beside it has some lemon cake inside.”

  “Of course it does!” He smiled down at me, a man without a care in the world. I was glad of his breezy mood, for once, but irked that he seemed so ready to move on from the robbery. It was his way of steering my own sense of shame, but it felt clumsy, bombastic even, as intrusive as his sarcasm somehow. I stayed in the garden a little longer, reaching in to pick off some tomato flowers. Their scent earthed me. A grapple of cherry tomatoes caught a crescent of sun along their lustrous skin. I picked them off the stem and laid them on top of the peppers.