Four Hundred and Forty Steps to the Sea

by Sara Alexander

  When I reached the kitchen, Marco was already pouring both of us a cup of coffee.

  “When in doubt, murder a pepper?”

  I slit my eyes toward him.

  “Don’t play the big sister with me, Santi’, you’re glad I’m here talking pig shit and you know it. Don’t tell me you’d prefer the convent atmosphere?”

  “I’m just amazed at your ability to switch polarity at a whim.”

  “Big words for a small woman.”

  “Nothing a cup of caffe won’t cure—for you, I mean. Perhaps you’ll understand me with a bit of caffeine in your blood.”

  He cackled at that and cut himself a brick of lemon cake. “This smells like a grove! All is well in the world. And seriously, once I’ve reported this at the station you can put the whole episode to bed, yes? Stop walking around with that sour look.”

  “Your reassurance sounds like mocking. Besides, I’ve been thinking, I’ll go down and speak with them directly.”

  “You’ve never seen how police listen to women? You want that for yourself? Honestly, if it comes from me, they’re going to take it a lot more serious. Sad, but true.”

  He picked up his cup, slab of cake in the other hand, and headed back out to the table on the terrace. He sat and took a deep breath, looking out toward the sea.

  “Still, this hovel has proven to be the perfect weekend ‘away’ for me, all said and done.”

  “Too much said, not enough done,” I barked back, bringing a chopping board out to join him and begin the dissection of the peppers.

  “You know how to handle a knife, sorella mia.”

  “Not just for boys after all, no?”

  My flyaway remark seemed to zip around my brother like an unwanted mosquito. The sooner he got to the police, the better. He stood up and wiped his mouth.

  “You’ll tell me what the police say, yes?” I asked, laying down the knife and scooping the seeds into a smaller enamel bowl.

  “I know what they’ll say—list what’s gone missing and let them do the rest. What they say to all the sons-of-whores who have too much money around here.”

  Off my look, he beat a jagged retreat. “You’re gray, Santi’, can’t blame me for trying to be the clown, no? Anything to see the sister I know.”

  Elizabeth called down to me. I jumped up from my chair.

  “No rest for the wicked!” he called back to me as he heaved the heavy main door open and disappeared onto the steps outside.

  Elizabeth and I filled our morning with chores; she swept and dusted in my shadow. I propped her up on a small stool beside me, and she watched me with an eagle’s eye as I stirred the thin slices of pepper around shaved, softened onions and garlic in warmed olive oil. I let her pour in a little of the vinegar to make them easier to digest, sending tangy steam that smudged into their sweet scent. She liked throwing in a pinch or two of coarse salt too, then ripping basil leaves between her chubby fingers and launching them into the wide pan to wilt off the heat. Her utter absorption in the task at hand was a comfort. I pretended to ignore the clock but each time I passed the tall pendulum on the opposite wall of the missing pictures I couldn’t help but count down to when Marco might return for lunch with news; they’d found the loot abandoned somewhere, return it even, the major needn’t know, perhaps.

  A knock at the door. I raced over to let Marco in. Rosalia greeted me.

  “You don’t look as happy to see me as I’d like!” She beamed, the lunchtime sun tracing her thick black locks with a sheen.

  “I’m sorry, Rosali’, I’ve been like this all night, please, come in.”

  “Where’s the boss?”

  “Gone to the hospital to see his wife.”

  “He finally committed her? Thank God.”

  Off my look, she pivoted. “I don’t mean to be so cruel, but the woman needs full-time help.”

  “What am I? A salted anchovy?”

  She giggled at that and took a few steps into the terrace.

  Then she switched round to me and reached for my hand. “It’s happened!”

  I searched her eyes for the explanation and saw the answer streaming out in rays. “Pasquale?”

  I didn’t hear her yes. I just felt her arms wrap themselves around me, squeezing her excitement through me. I pulled away and placed my hands either side of her face.

  “You are beautiful, Rosalia. You deserve this. Now, more than ever!”

  She nodded, tears catching the light dappling in through the vines overhead, burnishing her brown eyes a deeper ochre. I wiped her cheek.

  “Will you walk with me? On Sunday?” she asked, her voice a tarantella. “Will you come with me up into the hills? Everything is happening so fast, in a way, I want to go up high so I can look down at our little lives and keep it all in perspective! Do I sound crazy to you?”

  “I miss my hills every day. I’ll bring food, yes?”

  “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  Her face dimpled into a grin, and, after crushing me in her arms several more times, she left for home.

  * * *

  I laid Elizabeth down for her afternoon nap, pretending I wasn’t disappointed Marco hadn’t shown up by lunch. I took longer than usual clearing our plates away, mine untouched, Elizabeth’s pastina inhaled, only a smidge of butter and parmesan licked the plate.

  The heat beat down, a dazzling silence percussed by the rhythmic drone of the cicadas. I made to retreat to the cool of my bedroom, pretending the idea of surrendering to sleep didn’t make me feel uneasy. I tried my best all morning to resist these threads of panic, but they kept twisting around my middle like tentacles of minuscule translucent jellyfish, tugging at last night, of what Marco might be telling the police, of what they might think of me.

  I heard movement at the door. It creaked open.

  The major and Adeline stepped inside.

  She was whiter, wan, gazing in watchful wonder at the terrace, as if it were the first time she’d set foot inside the space. I knew that expression from the occasional delivery porters who’d stopped by. Her eyes raised toward the vine.

  The major looked at me. His polished calm shone, as always. “Good afternoon, Santina. The travelers return. I will see Adeline to her room.”

  It wasn’t the time for me to begin an explanation. Adeline was a paper cutout beside him, delicate, intricate, expertly modeled. I was thankful of the windless air. I watched him lead her inside.

  They were swallowed into the darkened quiet.

  A little while later he appeared at the doorway onto the terrace. I sat at the table with a pile of freshly picked beans before me, topping and tailing ahead of dinner.

  “Hello, Santina.”

  His eyes were steel blue.

  “Hello.”

  His expression softened into the memory of a smile. Our night together felt at once like a book, delved into, adored, then shelved.

  “I have some bad news,” I began, my stomach a tight knot, “there’s been a robbery.”

  “I gathered. Either that or you had taken it upon yourself to remove the pictures to clean beneath them.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “I hear this is something happening all over town. I’ve already checked carefully. Nothing irreplaceable has been taken.”

  “But your favorite picture—”

  “Just that. A picture. I’ll carry it with me whether the canvas follows or no. There’s the beauty of memory, you can commit as much or as little to it as you choose.”

  He looked through me, but his gaze didn’t feel invasive—quite the opposite. “I’m sure you’ve had an awful time of it. I hope you’ve managed to sleep. You look white.”

  I felt it.

  “What did the police have to say?”

  “Marco went on my behalf this morning. He didn’t think they would be as good recording the information from a young woman as they would him. I wondered that it might not be the best place for Elizabeth either. I hope you don’t mind. He hasn’t been back
yet.”

  He nodded. I registered ordered thoughts tripping through his mind.

  “I see. It won’t do me any harm to stop by there myself. I’ll go a little later.”

  Relief washed over me. I wondered why I’d expected an emotional outburst after all. We followed an improvised script to perfection. Between us, in the honeyed height of afternoon rays, deepening the heat and red undertones of the brushed pink of the villa’s façade, we upheld the weighty silence of unspokens. I yearned to close the chapter of our confusing, delicious dance but lacked the expertise; a dancer pushed out onto the stage without a whisper of a lesson beforehand. A garish dream. One that only stopped if you woke up with a start.

  He stepped toward me.

  “Thank you,” he said, in the amber tones I’d committed to memory, “for everything we shared.”

  I felt my cheeks crimson.

  “I want you to know that things can and will return to how they were. We’ve shared something exquisite. My feelings remain unchanged. And will always be so. But you have a life to live, and so do I. We each have our responsibilities. Let us be kind to one another?”

  I looked at him now, allowing myself to be seen. I felt a thorn of fear but stepped forward regardless. “I value your friendship beyond anything.”

  “Then stand here, now, and tell me we can carry on here. Together. As we were.”

  I took him in with courageous eyes. I found the strength to enjoy his élan, the effortless way he delivered his honest confession. I read his posture, poised, lengthened, void of fear. I allowed myself to fall deep into the gentle expression washing over his face, a glassy sea at dawn, his eyes alight with the initial timid rays of sun.

  He was beautiful.

  “The thought of losing you now shreds my heart,” he said, his voice simple and clear, the peaceful private of a wave curling up to the shore without a fight to return to the deep.

  “Mine also. That truth is terrifying. It’s freedom and prison.”

  His smile was contagious. We stood a table length apart, but inside we were upon a precipice, his hand wrapped around mine. Neither would jump first. We hovered, the will powerful to leap in unison toward our new unknown.

  “Your courage astounds me, Santina. Fearless and clear headed. I feel like I have so much more to lose if I don’t assure you there is space for you to live your own life here. For us to fulfill our duties as we must.”

  “Thank you. I feel I’ve let you down.”

  I saw him hold back his impulse to touch me. I was looking down at him lying on the bed of the shore, a watery reflection, rippled into fragments.

  “If you’re speaking about the robbery, I can assure you it is no one’s fault. Unless you’re telling me you let the thieves in the front door!” He laughed then but his eyes were clouded.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t want you to be.”

  I let his words eclipse my own. It could have felt like an ending. But as we stood there, for that moment equals in the unknown, we made an unspoken promise: freedom and friendship.

  “I’m so grateful for that dismal day in London when our friends introduced us to you,” he began, “it has changed my life. But I refuse to let it strangle yours. Do you hear me, Santina? Do you accept that I honor what passed between us? And that we must move through the traps of doubt, embarrassment, recrimination, suspicion? Can we do that?”

  It was a true question. No rhetoric here. He wasn’t my lover, ushering me toward an answer or an insight he’d already had and wanted to share.

  “It’s what I want. More than anything.” My voice came out clear, warm, free. It surprised me. Him also.

  I heard Elizabeth calling.

  “Let me see to her,” he said. “Take a little while to rest. I’ll prepare to walk down to the police, yes? Today is a new day, Santina. They can take all the things they want. I have everything I need. Always.”

  We drank each other for a breath, inhaling the peaceful moment for one more stretched second.

  Then he was gone.

  * * *

  Paolino met me as I stepped out of church. Our Sundays had become as sacred as the rosary I’d just intoned myself away with.

  “There she is. La bella Santina. I’m full of sun and song today, my love!”

  “You always are.”

  “No, today is different.”

  “Your mother gone out?”

  He kissed my cheek then with a giggle. “My lover is funny too. I need to tell everyone.”

  He swung his arm out, heaven bound. I feared he might start yelling across to the rest of the congregation streaming out of the tiny church.

  I slipped my hand in his and felt his fingers reach around mine. We strolled in silence for a moment, down the narrow alley toward the beach of Fornillo. Our feet scuffed along the stairs that led down to the water. The blackened stones crunched underfoot till we reached the shore. The morning was luminous. The villas perched on the verticals had terraces blooming with geraniums and hibiscus, bold bursts of oranges and deep pinks. The sea was a swirl of cerulean and emerald, sparkling in the hopeful rays. I turned my back against the sun. His face was spotlit, the mischievous dimples deepening as he gazed down at me; behind, the vast jagged rocks loomed.

  “I want to be your wife, Paolino.”

  He looked at me, at once wordless.

  The sudden simplicity of my decision caught me off guard. A crisp clarity drew everything around me into sharp focus. Before me, the person who would make a life alongside me of which I knew I could be proud. His verve was a force to be reckoned with, his insatiable optimism infectious, however long I’d tried to be unaffected by it. As I took in his beautiful face, suntoasted on the salty breeze, I knew this was where I wanted to be, at last.

  “Unless you’ve changed your mind, of course,” I added, bristling with something I wished was further from doubt. “Since the letter, I mean.”

  I didn’t finish my sentence. His wet eyes were laughing and crying. My feet left the ground as he swirled me in his arms. We landed. His hands wrapped around my face. I felt the reassuring heat of them. The tip of his nose rested on mine.

  “No man can ever know happiness but me,” he whispered. His lips traced along mine. Then his kiss pressed deeply onto them. I let the sound of the water, the budding babble of the tourists arriving for their sea day, the thick silence of the mountains around us, ease into the distance. My mouth opened a little and he wound himself inside. Our tongues danced. Then our laughter erupted. His forehead pressed against mine, our voices mingling, crisscross currents of my mountain creeks trickling their way to the ocean. I surrendered to the promise, to the belief in a future that had always lain beneath my feet but which I’d been too fretful to admit.

  Now, by the water’s edge, it all made me want to cry with relief, hope, and gratitude. My hot tears traced a thick line down my cheeks. He kissed them dry, then knelt down before me.

  “Santina Angela Guida. I, Paolino Cavaldi, promise to be the best man I can be to you. Today, tomorrow, and always.”

  “You practicing for the service already?”

  He smiled, squinting in the light. “I’m loving you. With every fiber.”

  I looked down at him, his body so open, his wide chest filled with happiness that he’d never be scared to share, entice, elicit. I filled up with sunshine and brined air.

  “And so am I, Paolino.”

  Chapter 21

  Rosalia clanged the villa’s bell just as I filled our picnic basket with one final peach wrapped in brown paper. Her expression was muted, in shadow somehow. We began our climb up the first set of steps from the villa, winding through the narrow stone stairs toward Nocelle, passing the cemetery first and then turning into the ravine between the mountains. We stopped for a moment at the lowest point, and let the shade of the olive trees dapple over us. The cicadas were at their height of celebration at this time of the afternoon.

  “Are you alright, Rosali’, you seem quie
t.”

  She shrugged. Her jerky movement unsettled me.

  “You feel dizzy? Need something to drink maybe?”

  Her back bristled with my prodding, a whispered ripple along the skin. Imperceptible almost.

  “Come on, let’s get up onto the path,” she replied, “we can picnic like tourists.”

  The trickle of her usual humor set me back at ease. We walked in soft silence for the next leg of the climb. The percussive scuff-taps of our feet underscored the thick stillness of brush to either side of us. Beyond the cluster of Nocelle, we joined the Path of the Gods. I knew the trail like the back of my hand. Sharing it with my friend was like reading a diary entry out loud to her. The narrow pass curved in toward the rock, and led us under the shade of thicker forest. The familiar damp air cooled me. I dodged the sharp rocks underfoot with lithe steps, pictures of my mother lifting into focus like they always would when I passed through these old routes, slipping my child’s feet into her adult shoes.

  The rumble of running water rose as we followed the bend. Beside us, a small waterfall gushed down the boulders, weaving underfoot and down the sheer rock face on the other side of the trail. I stopped in front of the water, welcoming the cleansing white noise as it obliterated any thought. Standing here at the mouth of its energy, we disappeared into stillness. I looked over at my friend. Sadness misted over her. She was a portrait of the woman I knew that had been blanched for being left in the sun for too long. Her eyes met mine. A wan smile began to unfurl, then faded; a fern wound shut in the shade.

  She tore herself away. I followed. The path grew steep now; we took turns to carry the basket until, at last, we reached my favorite spot to picnic. I followed Rosalia up the grassy verge to a flattened patch. She sat and let her whole body sink back onto the earth. Her arms spread wide. Her eyelids closed.