Secrets in Translation

by Sorenson, Margo;

  Phil was busily tapping away at his keyboard, and Nicole was in the tiny kitchen, hovering over the little coffee maker as it began to whistle. They both looked up and smiled.

  “Well, it’s Cinderella, back from the ball,” Phil joked. “Hope no one thought you would turn into a pumpkin!” Lame, I thought, but he was trying. He definitely reminded me of Dad.

  “Good morning, Alessandra,” Nicole said. “Would you like some coffee?”

  I poured some hot milk into the dark coffee in my mug. “Thanks,” I said. “It was a fun evening. People were nice.”

  “I’m sure they were, considering how good your Italian is,” Nicole enthused.

  I reddened a little, remembering Giovanni’s comment. “Not really,” I said. “My accent is fine, but my slang needs a little work. Everyone was helpful though.”

  “Well, you’ll get a chance to use it again, today,” Nicole said, hopefully. “Phil and I have work to do, and we’re hoping you’ll take Carrie to the beach.”

  “She’s dying to get out of here and away from us, I think,” Phil added, chuckling ruefully.

  “Sure,” I said. What else could I possibly say? The thought of spending the whole day with Carrie on a beach with lustful Italian guys lurking after us was hardly my idea of a great time.

  “We’ll give you a key to the apartment, in case we’re out when you come back, and some Euros for lunch; you two can grab a sandwich or something at one of those little cafés,” Nicole said.

  Panino, not sandwich, I caught myself thinking. Stop that!

  “And be sure Carrie wears sunscreen,” Nicole added. “Her fair skin tends to really burn.”

  “I’m sure Alessandra would have thought of that,” Phil said. I smiled gratefully at him.

  “Would have thought of what?” Carrie’s voice called from the bedroom. Phil and Nicole exchanged glances. Carrie had seemed dead to the world just a minute before when I had left the bedroom. I could not help suspecting that she was trickier than I had given her credit for and that she had just pretended to be asleep so she could listen in on our conversation.

  After coffee and a breakfast of hard-boiled eggs and yogurt, Carrie and I changed into bathing suits. I threw on a knee-length skirt and top, while Carrie began to pull on a pair of impossibly tiny shorts. How had her parents even let her pack them? Knowing Carrie as I did now, I concluded that she’d probably sneaked them in when Phil and Nicole weren’t looking.

  “Um, I don’t think so,” I cautioned. “Try something that covers you up more.”

  Carrie’s face darkened. “Who are you to tell me what to wear?” she challenged. “My mother?”

  “Look, Carrie,” I said, trying to sound calm, “in Italy, short shorts are a definite way to attract the wrong kind of guys. You have no idea how annoying, and dangerous, that can be.”

  “Didn’t you wear shorts in Italy when you lived here?” Carrie demanded, lifting her chin.

  “Not on the street, I didn’t,” I answered. “And definitely not that short. And not when I was your age either.”

  In a huff, Carrie flung the shorts in a corner and yanked open one of the dresser drawers, rummaging through it to pull out a pair of cropped pants. She zipped them up with a vengeance and glared at me.

  “There!” Carrie snapped. “Are you satisfied now that I’m dressed like a nun? This is so stupid. We’re going to be showing a lot of bare skin on the beach, anyway.”

  “People expect it on the beach,” I said, hoping that there wouldn’t be any topless bathers at La Spiaggia Grande. How was I going to handle that with Carrie? No short shorts on the streets, but naked boobs were okay on the beach? “But on the street, some guys think it’s an invitation.”

  “Italy!” Carrie muttered in disgust as she grabbed her backpack and stormed out of the room.

  I understood how she felt. It was a little crazy, but it was just the way things were in Italy.

  We took two bottles of water, two small beach towels, and our flip-flops, and, waving goodbye to Phil and Nicole, we were off. It wasn’t hard to find La Spiaggia Grande again, since it was at the bottom of the town, and all of the descending streets eventually led to the beach. I hated to admit it, but being out on the streets in Positano was fun. The fresh, salty breeze met us at open turns, encouraging us to continue down through the town to the shimmering blue sea. Shops displayed their wares on small tables outside their doors. Blue and yellow dishes, decorated with lemons, were stacked alongside woven sandals; light summer dresses, embroidered with lemons and flowers, hung outside the shops and fluttered in the sea breeze. Lemons were everywhere, it seemed.

  Tourists, dressed in brightly colored clothing and tennis shoes, lugged bags of purchases through the streets, stopping here and there as they looked in shop windows. Italians walked more purposefully in twos and threes, gesturing and talking. They dressed casually too, but a little dressier than the tourists; they looked more put-together. Exactly as I had remembered.

  Tiny cars zoomed around us, motorinos whizzed past us, delivery vans rattled by, and guys yelled or whistled at us as we walked down the narrow street. I remembered to keep my bag on my inside shoulder, just in case, and made sure that Carrie’s backpack was anchored firmly on her shoulders.

  “Don’t look when they whistle,” I ordered Carrie, after the first two guys shouted, “Ciao, bella!”

  Frowning, she muttered, “Fine,” and scuffed her flip-flops on the cobbled street.

  Every now and then, we came across an open gate and looked past the doors to see a courtyard with a fountain at the center, surrounded by pink and red flowers, or a table and chairs under a lemon tree. Above us, the golden dome of Santa Maria Assunta shone in the sunlight, and balconies, filled with flowers, looked like small gardens in the sky. At street corners, we’d catch another glimpse of the sea, before we turned and the buildings and narrow streets hid it from view again. I understood why artists liked to come to Positano to paint.

  La Spiaggia, when we finally arrived, was hot and crowded with sunbathers. On the beach to the west, dozens of fishing and pleasure boats were lined up in rows, from the restaurant Chez Black to the tide line. People sprawled on lounges and blankets, sunning or reading or people-watching. Four guys kicked a soccer ball down by the water, yelling in some eastern European language. Everywhere, we heard Italian, English, French, and German.

  “Where do you want to sit?” Carrie asked, scanning the beach.

  I didn’t want us anywhere near the soccer players, or the two guys in Speedos—who had already noticed Carrie, judging from their gestures and stares. A raucous German family with three kids lolled in the sun, halfway between the restaurants and the water; they looked safe.

  “There,” I said, pointing to the family. Carrie looked a little disappointed, but trudged along next to me in the sand.

  “Hey, Alessandra,” she said in a loud whisper, jerking her head to the right. “Why do all these guys wear those little bathing suits? They’re gross!”

  I laughed. “I know—they are!” I looked over at Carrie, who was studiously looking at her feet. “Can you imagine guys wearing those back home?”

  “No way!” Carrie said. “Yuck!”

  “Really, Italians think it’s gross how American men wear boxer trunks,” I said, spreading out my towel. “They think everything’s going to hang out all over the place.”

  Carrie began to giggle and, finding her laugh contagious, I joined in. Maybe things would be all right, after all. We settled ourselves on our towels, and I took out my book. Carrie had a magazine, which she opened and pretended to read while staring at everyone on the beach. I hoped nobody would be topless—naked boobs might just send Carrie screeching right over the edge. As a tourist in Italy, or in any country, it was always better not to call attention to yourself.

  The blond parents of the family next to us slathered sunsc
reen on their three kids and chased them down to the water. I’d forgotten how many Germans vacationed in Italy—more, I now remembered, than almost any other nationality.

  Drowsily, I turned the pages, getting sleepy in the warm sun. I laid my head on the sand and placed the open book over my eyes. Taking a deep breath, I inhaled the scent of paper and ink, my lifesaver and refuge when I had first arrived in Sonoma. My eyelids felt heavy and I thought a little nap might be just what I needed. The excitement of the previous night had left me more tired than I had realized.

  “I’m going to sleep for a bit,” I said to Carrie, hollowly, from under my book.

  “’Kay,” Carrie replied cheerfully.

  When I woke, my mouth felt dry. The printed pages of my book had stuck to my face in the heat, and when I lifted the book off my face and rolled over, I was horrified to see that Carrie was gone—just a crumpled blanket lay on the sand. No Carrie. No backpack. No crop pants, t-shirt or flip-flops. Alarmed, I looked at my watch. I had slept for an hour and a half!

  Damn! In an immediate state of near-panic, I sat up quickly, shaded my eyes from the glare and looked frantically toward the water. No red head bouncing around in the waves. Heart racing, I stood up and searched through the crowds on the beach from left to right. Had Carrie joined some group of kids? She couldn’t speak a word of Italian—had she, by chance, found some English or American kids to hang out with?

  The German family was coming back up the beach from the water, the kids giggling and shoving each other, and the dad trying to keep the kids from kicking sand on nearby sunbathers.

  “You look for your friend?” the mother asked. She must have seen me looking all around.

  “Yes,” I said anxiously. “Did you see where she went?”

  “She went over there,” the dad volunteered, pointing to Le Tre Sorelle, the beachfront restaurant with gaudy red umbrellas.

  “Thank you so much!” I exclaimed gratefully. Grabbing my bag, I shook the sand from the two towels, rolled them up under my arm, slid into my flip-flops, and walked rapidly toward Le Tre Sorelle. What on earth had Carrie been thinking? I wondered.

  “Che cosa fai, bella?” one of the Speedo guys asked with a wide grin as I hurried past. While that kind of flirtation was absolutely the last thing I needed right now, I was relieved that both Speedo men were still on the beach and not off somewhere with Carrie.

  People sat, lunching and talking, around a dozen outside tables at Le Tre Sorelle. A host met me at the entrance.

  “Lunch for one?” he asked with a broad smile.

  “No, thank you,” I answered hastily. “Cerco una ragazza con cappelli rossi.” The surprise registered on his face—a tourist who spoke Italian as fluently as I did was unusual. “L’ha vista?”

  “Si, trenti minuti fa. Non aveva abbastanza soldi per il pranzo. É andata la,” he answered, pointing to the street leading up to the main part of town.

  “Grazie mille, signore,” I said, quickly, and began hurrying toward Via dei Mulini. Apparently, a red-headed American girl had been there half an hour ago and hadn’t had any money for lunch. So why, I wondered, didn’t she just wake me up to get Euros and we could have had lunch together? Instead, she’d headed into town and was on the loose —in Italy!—by herself.

  It was only my third day on the job, and I’d already flunked out. My charge had vanished and I had no idea where she had gone. Panicked, I forced myself to slow down and notice everything. Think, Alex, think, I scolded myself. If I were a rebel, boy-crazy, hungry twelve-year-old, where would I go? There were guys everywhere, but lunch was another thing.

  All of a sudden, it hit me—Café LoPresti! She would be able to not only wheedle some lunch, there, but she’d also have a chance to see Giovanni, without me. Carrie could have her guy, and her lunch, with no nanny to supervise. I sped up, anxious to locate Carrie once and for all, and then slowed as the thought occurred to me—if Giovanni really was involved with the Sacra Lista, the restaurant might not be safe. But what choice did I have?

  I walked quickly up the hill, from one winding street to another, in the direction of the LoPrestis’ restaurant. I scanned everyone along the way, just in case my theory was wrong and Carrie was window-shopping or chatting up some young Italians. Everywhere around me, people were involved in their own conversations and oblivious to my growing distress. I poked my head into shops, in case she’d stopped to look at a pair of sandals or try on a lemon-tinted dress. I asked the shop owners if they’d seen a red-headed American. They were all nice, their faces creased with concern, but nobody had seen Carrie. I asked them, if they saw her, to tell her to go home, and that Alex—no, Alessandra—was looking for her. I began to hope that she really had made it safely to Café LoPresti. At least there she would be with people we knew. I swallowed hard, wondering how well we really did know the LoPrestis after all?

  Then, other, darker thoughts began flooding my brain…

  What if some lustful middle-aged man had sweet-talked Carrie into trying on a dress because his wife was just the same size and he wanted to surprise her? Or what if some guys on Vespas had scooped her up and taken her to a party somewhere where they were all doing crack? Or what if she had been seized by Eastern European slave traffickers who drugged and blindfolded her before shipping her off to Turkey? Or what if the Sacra Lista had snagged her and would force her to sell drugs? Perhaps the Sacra Lista already knew that I was Carrie’s nanny and they planned to use the kid against me and Dad and the winery! My imagination, fueled by books I’d read, was all fired up.

  My mouth felt dry and I was already trying to figure out what I would say to the carabinieri when I reported her missing; I couldn’t even begin to think what I would tell Nicole and Phil. My heart pounded with fear as I hurried up the cobblestone streets.

  Chapter Seven

  I had just turned away from the door of what must have been the tenth boutique I’d searched, when a voice called out: “Alessandra!”

  I turned around to see Carlo. And next to him—with a scowl on her face—Carrie!

  “Carrie!” I cried, a mixture of anger and relief bubbling up inside me. “Where have you been?”

  “I just went to get something to eat,” she said, defensively. “You were asleep and I was really hungry.”

  I looked at Carlo, who shook his head. “I found her walking up Via Vicolo Vito Savino,” he said. “She was lost.”

  “I was not lost!” Carrie said furiously, glaring at Carlo. “I was just shopping on my way to Café LoPresti. I knew right where to go.”

  “Café LoPresti is not in that direction on the street,” Carlo said. “You mistook yourself.”

  “‘I mistook myself?’ You mean, ‘I made a mistake’?” Carrie retorted.

  I blushed, and didn’t know for whom I was more embarrassed—for Carrie’s pettiness in criticizing Carlo’s English when she herself knew no other language, or Carlo, for having his kindness repaid by a snippy little tweenager, or me, for being a fellow American of this horrible brat.

  “Carlo,” I managed to choke out, “I’m so sorry. Carrie is just a kid. She doesn’t mean to be rude and we really appreciate what you’ve done.” I shot a fierce look at Carrie. “You mean to thank Carlo for helping you, don’t you?”

  Carlo’s face had frozen, for a moment, into the indifferent mask I’d first seen in the butcher shop. “Va bene, it’s all right,” he then said, casually. “I was calling on some of our sellers when I saw her coming in and out of shops. She looked lost. It’s not safe to look lost and be a young American girl.”

  “Carlo,” I said earnestly. “I’m so sorry! Mi dispiace moltissimo! I don’t know what I can say to make this right.”

  To my relief, Carlo’s face relaxed into a smile. “No problem,” he said. “I understand.” He looked over at Carrie, who was studying the pattern of the pavement under her flip-flops. “Capisco tutto,�
�� he said, with an intense, warm look that sent a jolt right through me.

  He understood everything—the bratty kid, the language problem, and my embarrassment. I just hoped he didn’t also understand that I thought him the hottest thing I’d ever seen!

  “Grazie tante,” I said, with a smile.

  “I must get to work,” Carlo said. “Maybe we will see you at Bertolucci Limoncello?”

  My heart lifted. This little drama didn’t mark the end of our friendship—or could this be more than friendship, after all? I smiled in relief.

  “Of course, I would love that!” I looked at Carrie. “Hey, Carrie, you’re going to thank Carlo, aren’t you?”

  “You’re not my mother,” Carrie muttered under her breath. She needed a new line, I thought. “But thanks, Carlo,” she said, grudgingly.

  Carlo and I exchanged smiles. Did his eyes linger on mine a little longer than was really necessary? He raised his eyebrows and shrugged, still smiling. “I, too, have a little sister,” he said. “Tutte sono uguale.” They are all the same—well, for his sake, I hoped his little sister was easier to deal with than Carrie.

  “We’ll be in touch, Carlo, and thank you again,” I said. Then, to my surprise, Carlo firmly took hold of my shoulders with his warm, strong hands and gave me a kiss on each cheek. My face felt flushed—I was sure it had turned as red as the bag I carried. Then Carlo kissed Carrie’s cheeks as she stood stock-still in confusion.

  “Ciao!” he said cheerfully and, waving at us, walked into a nearby store.

  “Now,” I said sharply to Carrie, who was staring at me defiantly, “why didn’t you just wake me up if you were hungry?”

  “I didn’t want to bother you,” Carrie answered, looking away. She was a terrible liar.

  “Carrie,” I said, trying not to sound exasperated. “How many times do your parents and I have to tell you about making smart choices? This is a foreign country, and you don’t speak the language. You look vulnerable and you’re cute,” I finished, hoping my last remark would soften her up. “You have to be careful. I mean it.”