by C.J Duggan
‘Bonjour, Hotel Trocadero, how can I help you?’
I smiled, feeling better already at hearing Cecile’s friendly voice.
‘Bonjour, Cecile, it’s Sammi.’
‘Ah, oui, Sammi, but of course, I would know that voice anywhere.’
‘What gave it away? The hideous Aussie accent?’
‘Oh, Sammi, your voice could never be hideous.’
I breathed out a laugh, loving the way she pronounced hideous with her accent.
Idious.
‘How can I help you?’
‘I am trying to track down my sister. Is she with you guys today?’
There was a pause at the other end of the line, so long that I wondered if I had been cut off.
‘Hello?’
‘Oh, sorry, Sammi, I am here.’ Cecile sounded a little panicked.
‘Oh, so is Claire there? It’s kind of important I speak with her.’
‘Is it an emergency?’ Cecile sounded cagey. I half expected her to ask for a secret password next.
‘Very much so. I am in Rome at the moment and I just really need to speak to her.’
‘Oh, Sammi, don’t you know? Well, of course not—she told me not to say anything. It was meant to be a surprise. Oh, I am confused.’ Cecile definitely sounded panicked, which only made my heart beat faster.
‘Told you what?’
‘It was meant to be a surprise.’
‘Cecile, please, I’m about two seconds away from booking a plane ticket to come to Paris.’
‘No!’ Cecile blurted out. ‘No, you mustn’t do that.’
‘Cecile, what is going on?’ I gripped the phone so hard that I feared I might snap it in two; I glanced at Gabriello, who was watching me with interest. I pulled at the cord, though it had very little slack from behind the desk, and turned away for some privacy.
‘Cecile, please,’ I begged.
Again with the silence, followed by a sigh. ‘Okay, but you never heard it from me.’
‘Heard what?’ I snapped, my patience now paper-thin.
‘Claire wanted to surprise you when you got home from Italy. She didn’t want to interrupt your holiday, seeing as you were having such a good time.’
I scoffed. Trust Mum and Dad to pass that on; oh, how wrong they were.
‘So Claire and Louis decided to fly home to Australia and be there when you got back; oh, please don’t tell them I told you, please act surprised when you see them. They were even going to pick you up from the airport.’
‘Australia? You mean they’re home?’
‘Well, almost; they left last night.’
I closed my eyes; of all the times for Claire to be spontaneous, I really wished it hadn’t been now.
‘Sammi, are you there?’
The silence was now my fault. I faked a laugh. ‘Yeah, I’m fine, thanks for telling me. I will act surprised, I promise.’
‘Of course, if you want to come to Paris we would be more than happy to help you.’
‘Thanks, Cecile, but I better wait until Claire is there to show me around. She would never forgive me if she couldn’t take me to her favourite patisserie.’
‘Oh, but of course.’ Cecile laughed, understanding the passion Claire had for baked goods.
Thanking Cecile and bidding her goodbye, I hung up the phone with an even clearer, if somewhat deflated, purpose.
I might as well go home. There was nothing for me here, now; the thought of booking another tour made me shudder, and the idea of exploring in the footsteps of the Bellissimo tour in order to discover Italy left me with a bad taste in my mouth. Nope, Italy was tainted alright, thanks to Jodie. I dialled the operator, motioning for a pen and paper from Gabriello. No, my mind was clear. I let the fact of my sister’s sweet act numb the pain of me going home; at least I’d be able to see and hug her, the true comfort I needed after this disastrous holiday. I could feel my nerves stilling, just thinking of it.
Home.
I pulled the cap off the pen with my teeth as I spoke to a sales consultant at Alitalia, asking to book the next flight to Melbourne. I felt good about it; with every click on the other end of the line and the helpful woman rattling off times and dates, I felt in control again, a step closer to home and ready to leave this place once and for all.
‘Passport number? Hang on a second, I just have to …’ I clamped the phone between my ear and shoulder, delving into the side pocket of my bag, rummaging and scraping through the interior, much as I had when trying to find the key with Marcello. A memory of his dark eyes momentarily distracted me from my mission.
Not now, Sammi, focus!
Finally my fingers skimmed over the familiar rectangular passport holder.
‘Eureka! Okay, sorry about that, my passport number is … oh, God.’
‘Signora?’ The voice on the other end of the phone suddenly sounded faint, and very far away.
‘I’ll have to call you back,’ I said, leaving the phone sitting on its side on the counter as I rummaged more violently through my bag. ‘No, this can’t be happening, this can’t be happening.’
Gabriello placed the receiver gently back on the hook. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘My passport, I can’t find my passport!’ I shouted, upending my bag onto the floor and sifting through the pile.
Just breathe, Sammi, it has to be here somewhere. It just has to be.
Gabriello was by my side in a flash, probably more concerned about calming me down and stopping me from frightening the other guests.
‘Stay calm, you will find it. Have you checked your suitcase, your room?’
‘I keep it in this bag, in this cover. I always keep it here, it couldn’t possibly be anywhere else.’
‘Is there anything else missing from your bag?’
I ran my fingers through my hair, before searching more violently through my bag’s contents, now strewn all over the floor. ‘No, no, everything else is here, just not my passport,’ I said, flicking up the navy-blue cover, triple-checking in case I had made a mistake.
‘I’ll check with housekeeping to see if they have come across anything; Luciano!’ Gabriello called out to the front door where he stood. ‘Come, help Sammi retrace her steps—she can’t find her passport.’
But as Luciano came to my side, reeking again of cigarettes but ready to offer a helping hand, I was resigned to the fact, shaking my head and holding up my hands. ‘It’s no use, it’s gone,’ I said, my voice trembling. My eyes welled with hot tears; it was all too much.
‘Come on, Sammi, you can’t give up like that. People lose their things all the time, even passports, and we always end up finding them,’ said Luciano.
‘That’s right, always slipping down the sides of furniture, or falling onto the floor or under a bed. I will get the entire staff to tear this place apart until we find it,’ said Gabriello.
It should have given me hope, but it didn’t because I knew it was futile. I knew with a deep-seated bitterness that they would never find it, because I knew exactly where it was—or, more importantly, who had it. I could picture her right now, sitting on a bus winding along the Amalfi Coast, smiling like the Cheshire Cat. Jodie had wanted to destroy me, so well done to her.
She had finally succeeded.
Chapter Thirty
True to their word, Gabriello and the staff of Hotel Luce del Sole tore the place apart. I humoured them, going through my suitcase, retracing my steps, but I knew it was futile. I knew where it was and all I could do was walk around like a zombie, beyond tears, beyond anger; I felt nothing. With no place to go, no passport and no clue, I simply stood back at reception, staring at the phone, ready to make the call that would no doubt crumble my stoic façade. I was about to tell the very people who didn’t believe I could do it—travel overseas, be responsible, be an adult—that they were right. As sympathetic as I knew they would be, I also knew that the first thing that would pop into their minds would be ‘I told you so’.
Yep, I was going to call my
parents.
‘They left without me’ would be interpreted as ‘I missed the bus’. ‘My passport got taken’ would be construed as ‘I lost it’. ‘I have no place to stay, the hotel is booked out’ would be ‘I have no organisational skills, I can’t be left alone in the world’. I could already hear my mother’s voice in my head. Feeling like I wanted to vomit into the nearest pot plant, I picked up the receiver for a third time and took in a deep breath. I had no idea what I was being charged for these calls; with my luck, the bill would probably leave me penniless.
The phone was ringing, and with each trill my vision became more blurry as I sniffed and wiped away tears.
Come on, Sammi, keep it together, keep it together.
I just really needed something to go my way for once. Was it too much to ask that one of the cleaning staff appear around the corner with a winning smile, holding my passport aloft? I could almost forgive Jodie if it turned out she was innocent of that crime.
With no sudden emergence of a cleaning lady, I was now running out of hope. I just needed a sign, a little helping hand; it didn’t have to be big, I wasn’t greedy, just something, anything. But then I heard my mother’s voice and I closed my eyes, wanting nothing more than the ground to open up and swallow me whole. This was it, the point where my parents’ illusion of me was shattered by my own admission.
I opened my eyes, streaks of salty tears carving a path down my face, but I wasn’t sobbing—I was too exhausted for that—I was merely leaking.
‘Hello, is someone there?’
And just as I was about to speak, my focus shifted towards the desk, searching for a tissue, when I paused, frozen in place by the sight of a small item on the counter.
‘Listen, you sicko, I don’t know what game you’re playing at, but go and breathe down someone else’s phone,’ my mother shouted, hanging up in my ear. The line went dead, which was the most beautiful sound I had ever heard.
I put the phone down, blindly slotting it back on the receiver, and stood there for a long, long moment, blinking, barely believing what I was seeing. There, on the far end of the reception desk, with the brochures and daily newspapers, was a shiny little card, black and glossy. I reached out and picked it up, holding up the card to the light. I had asked for a sign and, as my tear-stained face broke into a slow smile, I felt that I finally had it.
There, in bold, proud letters across the card, read:
MARCELLO BAMBOZZI – LOCAL ARTIST.
Not knowing how many Marcello Bambozzis there were in this part of Italy, I flipped over the card, looking for more information. Sure enough, smiling back at me from a black-and-white image were the dimples I’d become addicted to.
Luciano’s voice filtered in from behind me, but still I focused on the card.
‘I’m sorry, Sammi, but we haven’t been able to find your passport anywhere.’
‘Very good,’ I said staring at the photo of Marcello, leaning against a wall, looking so cool and casual that he could have been modelling for Ralph Lauren.
‘S-sorry, signora?’
Oh, right; I spun around, facing a very confused Luciano.
‘Luciano, what’s this?’ I said, passing him the card.
‘Oh, Marcello’s card.’
‘Si, but what for?’
It said local artist, but that seemed unlikely; surely he was a tour guide of sorts.
‘Marcello is an excellent artist. I am surprised none of you took up his lessons.’
‘Lessons, what lessons?’
Luciano seemed intrigued by my response. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘So Maria reneged on her promises.’
‘I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Luciano blinked up at me, suddenly concerned he had said too much.
‘Luciano, please, I’ve had a truly shit day, lay some juicy gossip on me.’
He smiled, glancing at the clock in the lounge. ‘Well, I am due for a break—do you have a moment?’
I laughed. ‘Luciano, I have nothing but time on my hands.’
Luciano sat opposite me, placing down the sweetest gift of all: an espresso.
‘Molto bene, grazie,’ I sighed, picking it up and inhaling the glorious aroma.
‘Prego,’ he said, relaxing in his chair and keeping a watch on the time. The poor fella had a ten-minute break and he was spending it with me. I could tell by the way he was jigging his leg up and down that he was dying for a cigarette; still, maybe that meant that he wouldn’t beat around the bush and tell me the deal between Maria and Marcello.
‘So?’ I prompted.
‘So.’ Luciano edged closer, lowering his voice. ‘Marcello agreed to help Maria with her tour business: making connections with restaurants, showing people around, helping with questions.’
Bedding the women.
I slapped that thought from my mind, refocusing on what Luciano was saying.
‘In doing so, Maria had to help Marcello in return.’
I was now on the edge of my seat, feeling rather nervous; what did she have to do? Bear his children, marry each other by the time they were thirty, what?
‘Marcello wanted Maria to bring her tour group to his studio in order to do a session, a lesson on painting, maybe build in a luncheon and some local knowledge; it is a new thing he’s trying and he was relying on Maria to help generate interest and word of mouth.’
‘And she backed out?’
‘Well, I think she is a bit sceptical about how it would fit into her tour, which is already quite full, as you know. I don’t know if she thought it through when she agreed to help.’
I tried to imagine Nate or even Johnny sitting in a light-filled room with an easel in front of them, serenely painting a bowl of fruit. I couldn’t see it.
‘Seems a bit unfair to not hold up her end of the bargain; why does Marcello bother continuing to help her when she refuses to reciprocate?’
‘Oh, I think he thinks he can persuade her, that all he needs to do is convince her it’s a good idea.’
It all made sense now; that day when he came to pick me up from the Colosseum they argued about whether or not she had made up her mind. And now she was gone with her group, not even having mentioned Marcello’s lesson to them. I suddenly felt angry for him.
‘Seriously, he should just cut all ties with her.’
Luciano laughed. ‘Well, what’s the old saying, blood is thicker than water?’
I paused mid-sip. ‘Blood?’
‘Si, Maria is his sister.’
Missing my mouth and spilling hot coffee on my shirt, I cared little about the mess or the burn, quickly brushing at my top and placing down my cup. Surely I had misheard. ‘WHAT?!’
‘It’s not something they advertise.’
‘Clearly not,’ I said, thinking back to all the moments I had felt threatened by Maria, worried that maybe there was something more. And then a memory popped into my head. I had asked Marcello last night how he knew Maria and he had referred to growing up with her.
Ugh! I had read this all wrong.
‘So basically it’s a whole sibling rivalry thing?’
‘I suppose, though I doubt Marcello has much faith in her promises after this group. I think that’s why he dropped in those cards—he’s trying to drum up business on his own. He only just dropped those in a few days ago. He must have seen the writing on the wall.’
A few days ago? My mind flashed back to the first time our eyes had met, when I had been sitting in this very chair. I wondered if that was the night he put them there. I glanced down at the card, which was now sporting a small coffee stain. It didn’t say a whole lot, but it had a number and an address under his photo.
‘Luciano, is this far away?’ I asked, pointing to the address.
He broke into a broad smile, then took the card from me and, without a word, stood up and started towards the front exit. I did a double-take, following his movements and glancing at the clock; was his time up? He stopped at the front door, look
ing back at me with his brows raised; it was then I realised he wanted me to follow. Leaving my espresso cup, very little of which had actually made it into my mouth, I quickstepped to the door, thinking that Luciano was hailing a taxi to take me to the cryptic address. I came to stand beside him while Luciano quickly lit a cigarette and revelled in the first deep draw. I moved upwind from the smoke.
‘There,’ he said, pointing somewhere in front of me.
I followed the direction of his finger, wondering what he was pointing at. I couldn’t see anything significant and turned back to him, my eyes questioning.
He simply laughed, handing back the card. ‘The house on the left with the green door.’
My eyes dipped to the card and then back up to Luciano.
Surely not.
‘That’s where Marcello lives.’
Chapter Thirty-One
‘He lives there?’
Luciano had seemed so pleased with himself, until the moment he registered my horror. I could see a moment of regret flicker in his eyes, an awkward shift in his feet.
‘Well, yeah, that’s how Hotel Luce del Sole became the choice for the tour group to stay; Marcello recommended it to Maria, as she stays with him when she’s in Rome.’
I found myself leaving the conversation abruptly, my attention so focused on the green door that I knocked into strangers’ shoulders without apology and ignored their shouts. I don’t know what made me madder, the fact that he wasn’t honest, or that of all the hotels in Rome, he had to choose the worst so that he and Maria could have a comfortable commute? Now I was really mad, madder than hell. I didn’t care if he thought I was crazy, because after this morning I wasn’t completely convinced I wasn’t.
If I were to bang on his door like a mad woman, all wild eyes and flushed cheeks, he’d probably think I had forgone the trip to stay here, hunt him down and offer to bear his children, which I must admit I’d fantasised about in the wee hours of this morning. I had been excited at finding his business card, thinking I had found one person to turn to for help when I needed it most. I had envisioned crying on his shoulder, maybe even for him to rescue me. But after Luciano’s insights, I wondered why I thought I could get help from a person whom I couldn’t entirely trust, who had kept the most ridiculous secrets. About his sister, about his address?
