Secrets in Translation

by Sorenson, Margo;

  It seemed that I was getting through to her because Carrie straightened her shoulders and had the grace to look slightly apologetic. “Okay, fine,” she mumbled. “I’ll be more careful.” Then, glancing worriedly at my face, she asked, “You won’t tell my parents, will you? They’ll kill me.”

  I had been thinking about happily killing her myself at that moment. “Well, Carrie, they’re going to have to know something,” I said, carefully. “Carlo knows you were lost, and Positano is a small town. I can’t just lie to your parents. We’ll just say you went for a walk and couldn’t find your way back to the beach.”

  “Will you tell them that I didn’t tell you I was going?” Carrie pressed me.

  I sighed and began walking back toward La Spiaggia Grande, motioning Carrie to come along. I wasn’t going to lie to the Cowans. I wasn’t comfortable with flat-out lying, and didn’t do it well. There had been times when I’d really wanted to be able to lie convincingly, but had never been able to quite pull it off. That’s just how I was.

  But then, I thought guiltily, I wasn’t really lying when I didn’t talk about Italy with my new American friends, was I? I used to try to change the subject so people wouldn’t get weird about my Italian life. It was more of an omission thing, wasn’t it? After all, I had not told anyone—including Carlo—what my dad really did at Ralf’s winery. I had to keep silent in order to keep everyone safe—that wasn’t lying, was it?

  “Look, Carrie,” I finally told her, as we turned a corner, “just say that you were going on a short walk and didn’t want to wake me up; say that you realize now that it was a very big mistake and you won’t ever do it again. Okay?”

  “Thanks, Alessandra,” Carrie said gratefully. She even smiled at me, which made me wonder if I’d done the right thing, after all. Smiles came too easily to Carrie when she thought she could get what she wanted. Nicole and Phil obviously couldn’t manage her—what made me think that I could? Although, she did seem to be listening to me more carefully now. Maybe there was a tiny light at the end of this tunnel.

  As my heart rate gradually began to return to normal, I decided we’d better have something to eat. I had no intention of going to Café LoPresti after what had just happened. There was no controlling Carrie, it seemed, and the possible Sacra Lista connection had me worried. I needed a rest from drama. I wondered again if I should find some way of letting my parents know about the Sacra Lista presence in Positano. Perhaps they would want me to come home immediately. Despite the headache of Carrie, I wasn’t sure that I wanted to go back to California yet. Italy was beginning to feel more and more like home, and then there was Carlo. I sighed.

  “Let’s go back to Le Tre Sorelle for lunch,” I suggested. “I’m hungry now, too.”

  “But I want to go to Café LoPresti,” Carrie scowled.

  “We’ll go there for dinner again soon,” I said. “For now, let’s try something different. At Le Tre Sorelle we will have a great view of the water and everyone on the beach.”

  Carrie’s face brightened. “Okay,” she said, and we continued walking back toward the beach.

  At every shop that I had stopped at to ask after Carrie, I poked my head in and thanked the owners, letting them know that I’d found her. Their faces lit up with pleasure and welcomed us back anytime to look through their products.

  “What are you saying to them?” Carrie asked.

  “I’m thanking them for looking out for you,” I answered. “It’s the polite thing to do in Italy.” Or anywhere, I thought, but Carrie probably wouldn’t get that. It was part and parcel of being raised in the Diplomatic Service, and in Italy. Growing up, I always had to think about being polite and courteous; hardly anyone I knew back in Sonoma seemed to think that way much of the time.

  “I don’t really understand why taking a little walk is such a problem,” Carrie said. “There are plenty of people on the streets, and Italians are all so nice—as you yourself keep saying.”

  She really knew how to work something. I sighed. “Carrie, come on. You see enough movies and watch enough TV to know there are bad guys out there. Seriously, you don’t really think you can’t get into trouble in a foreign country, do you?”

  “But it’s Italy!” Carrie exclaimed. “Your old homeland, right?”

  “It’s not my old homeland,” I protested, but even as I spoke the words, a strange feeling of sadness threatened to overwhelm me. Italy was a homeland of sorts though, wasn’t it? Was it even possible to have more than one home? I wasn’t sure what I thought anymore. Time for the journal and a good, strong dose of American-ness.

  “Look,” I went on, trying to collect myself, “the rule is: you don’t go anywhere by yourself. It’s not safe, and it’s not a good idea to put yourself in sketchy situations. Capito?” I lapsed into Italian without even thinking.

  Carrie grinned. “Gotcha,” she crowed.

  I flushed a little, but tightened my mouth and steered her through a crowd of German tourists wearing hiking boots, backpacks on their beefy shoulders. Yes—hiking boots in the middle of summer in Positano!

  The host at Le Tre Sorelle was glad to see that I’d found Carrie. We exchanged an update in Italian, while Carrie and I ate our lunch at an outside table under a tiny umbrella. Carrie stared at the guys on the beach and checked out customers as they arrived at the restaurant; no doubt she wished for some cute American guys to talk to, or some Italian guys to flirt with.

  While the waiter cleared our plates, I looked at my watch— three o’clock. I was completely exhausted after the afternoon’s events. All I wanted was to get back to the apartment and climb into bed. The strain of trying to balance both “Alex” and “Alessandra” was already wearing me down and this was just my third day! Thirty-nine more to go before I could get back to the good ol’ USA. The thought did make me pause, though—Italians were so much friendlier, generally, than Americans, and I felt as if some forgotten part of me were coming alive again. I sighed, paid the check, and we left.

  “Come back to the apartment,” I warned Carrie, as she began to head for the beach again. “I’ve had enough and,” looking at her pink skin, I concluded, “you could probably do with a little shade.”

  “Come on, Alessandra,” Carrie complained. “This is our first day at the beach in Italy!”

  “And it won’t be our last,” I remarked. “Let’s go, or I will make a big deal of today’s escapade with your parents.”

  Carrie wheeled around to face me. “You would not!” she accused. “You wouldn’t break your promise!”

  “Look, Carrie,” I said, guiding her through a crowd of school kids jogging to the beach, chattering in Italian, “a promise is good only as long as both people are honest. So you be honest, and I will keep my promise. You said you wouldn’t do that again, but that also means you have to do what I say.”

  “What?” Carrie exploded, causing a couple of middle-aged women to turn around and look at us. “I do not have to do what you say!”

  “Fine,” I said. “Nicole and Phil will be really happy to hear how you took off by yourself today on purpose, without telling me, on purpose. Good thing they have me along to translate when we need to identify your body at the carabinieri station, the next time you do this and you’re not so lucky.”

  Fuming now, Carrie stomped up the hill in silence. I’d won the battle, for the moment, but it looked as if my work had only just begun. As we climbed the streets, I thought of what Carlo had said about the Sacra Lista. If the Sacra Lista was really as violent as Carlo had said, then there was no such thing as “only business” at all—not even close, no matter what Giovanni pretended.

  I swallowed hard. The corruption that Dad was trying to prevent in Ralf’s winery was happening right here, with people we knew, and in a restaurant we liked. The Sacra Lista was here in Positano, alive, well, and thriving. I wondered if I should mention to Nicole and Phil the possible Sac
ra Lista connections at the LoPrestis’ restaurant. But I couldn’t say anything without revealing what Dad was really doing. And they might wonder why the heck I was so worried about some vaguely organized crime scheme that seemingly had nothing to do with Americans.

  I couldn’t believe that I actually knew guys, like Giovanni, who were probably involved in organized crime! I’d been worried about Dad putting himself in danger. Who would have guessed that I might be running straight into Italian organized crime myself?

  As we passed Café LoPresti and turned the corner to our street, I thought of all our meetings with Giovanni and his family, and how nice and welcoming they all were. It seemed impossible that such friendly, respected people could be part of a criminal branch of the Camorra. I had read too many books, for sure.

  We clomped up the stairs to our apartment and I knocked on the old, wooden door. Nobody answered, so I took the iron key from my bag, fit it into the lock, and opened the door.

  A note from Nicole and Phil waited for us on the little dining room table. We went for a walk. We’ll be home around six. Let’s go to Café LoPresti for dinner. Love, Mom and Dad.

  Chapter Eight

  I was too tired to worry about whether or not we should be going to the LoPrestis’ restaurant for dinner. Once back in the safe and familiar surroundings of our apartment, I managed to convince myself that my imagination was working overtime on this Sacra Lista business.

  Carrie immediately booted up the computer.

  “I’m going to take a shower and then a short nap,” I told her.

  “Uh-huh.” Carrie didn’t even look up. She was probably going to email her American friends and tell them about her nanny-Nazi, and her adventures in Italy with all the cute guys. I sighed, washed my face, and gratefully lay down on my bed.

  I dreamed in Italian again. I was with Giovanni, driving in a car on the Nastro Azzurro, the terrifying Amalfi Coast road.

  “Can’t you stop?” I yelled at him, as he screeched around the corners.

  “Alessandra! Alessandra!” a voice said insistently in my ear. Someone was shaking my shoulder.

  I felt groggy and confused, as if I was coming up from the bottom of the sea. Opening my eyes, I saw Carrie’s face hovering above mine.

  “You were talking in your sleep!” Carrie exclaimed. “And it’s after seven o’clock, time for dinner. Aren’t you hungry?”

  “Dinner?” I mumbled, trying to orientate myself. I wasn’t on the Amalfi Coast road. Giovanni was nowhere to be seen, and Carrie was still shaking my shoulder.

  “What were you dreaming about anyway?” Carrie asked, sitting on her bed. “You were yelling up a storm.”

  I struggled to sit up, rubbing my eyes. “What was I yelling?” I asked.

  “‘Can’t you stop?’ and then a bunch of Italian words,” Carrie said. Frowning, she looked back over her shoulder at the closed door and lowered her voice. “You weren’t dreaming about how I—uh—went for a walk today by myself, were you? If my parents heard you, they might wonder what all that was about, and we had a deal, you know.”

  “No, Carrie,” I shook my head. “I dreamed that I was on the Amalfi Coast road. Remember how scary that was?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Carrie said, eyes wide. “No wonder you were talking in your sleep. I hope I don’t dream about it.” Satisfied, she got up and began brushing her hair in front of the mirror.

  I didn’t want to tell her about Giovanni appearing in my dream. I cringed to think of the use she might make of that information. I also wondered whether my asking Giovanni to stop in the dream reflected my desire to ask him to stop cooperating with the Sacra Lista in real life. I definitely had to figure out what was really going on before I said anything to my parents or to Phil and Nicole—if I said anything at all. There was no sense in alarming anyone if there was nothing to be worried about.

  There were two ways to look at this problem, after all, I reminded myself, opening the wardrobe to pick out an outfit. One, as Carlo pointed out, was to keep in mind that this was the way of doing business in Italy, whether I liked it or not. Two, was the simple fact that people were getting hurt, and perhaps I could do something to stop that. Still, the thought of hanging around with someone who was involved in organized crime gave me the shivers. If I accidentally answered one too many questions about wineries, someone could end up fishing my body out of the Gulf of Salerno. I tried to convinced myself that I was joking, with no success.

  Showered and dressed, and after we had had a glass of wine on our little balcony overlooking the street, the four of us walked to Café LoPresti. Carrie stuck close by my side, as if she was afraid I was going to reveal something about her little excursion and she’d have to step on my foot to get me to shut up. I noticed, as we arrived at the restaurant, that there were no delivery trucks parked in the road tonight, but it was probably too late for produce deliveries. Perhaps the Sacra Lista would arrive with the trucks in the morning? Stop that, I told myself sternly.

  Inside, Signor LoPresti greeted us with his usual genial smile and showed us to a table.

  “Do you see Giovanni?” Carrie asked me in a loud whisper.

  Nicole smiled at her. “No, I don’t.”

  “Don’t you think he’s a little old for you?” Phil said, in his best dad voice.

  Carrie rolled her eyes. “Dad!” she protested. “He’s just nice. Come on.”

  She was pretty convincing, I had to admit. Obviously, Phil and Nicole were persuaded, since they only smiled indulgently at their daughter and began reading their menus.

  I, too, saw no sign of Giovanni. Maybe he had a meeting with the Sacra Lista I thought, wryly. At least he wasn’t here to ask me about wineries. The less said about that topic, the better.

  We ordered, and while we waited, Phil and Nicole chatted about their day. Carrie kept glancing around the restaurant, clearly hoping to catch a glimpse of Giovanni. It was another impossibly beautiful Italian night; through the windows, I could see the stars winking above the rooftops, and the melodic sounds of the Italian language floated all around us. How could a scene so warm and so inviting conceal something so sinister as the operations of the Sacra Lista?

  The waiter brought our wine, poured it—I mentally thanked Phil again for including me—and we all smiled at each other as we clinked glasses.

  “Carrie told us that you two had a nice time at the beach today,” Nicole said. “She said she took a little walk while you were napping?”

  Carrie looked warily at me over her orange drink.

  “Uh-huh,” I said, noncommittally.

  “Carrie said she didn’t want to wake you up to tell you she was going for a walk, but she knows now that was a mistake. Right, Carrie?” Phil said sternly. Carrie nodded sheepishly.

  Amazing, I thought. Carrie had put just the right amount of spin on everything and her parents were buying it, lock, stock, and barrel.

  “Uh-huh,” I said again, not trusting myself to expand any further. “The beach was nice, and we didn’t get burned.”

  “Was it crowded?” Phil asked.

  “Not too bad,” I said. “There were a lot of tourists, mostly Germans.” Who helped me try to find your darling daughter, I wanted to say.

  “Carrie mentioned that you had lunch at Le Tre Sorelle,” Nicole said. “Was the food good? Should we try it for dinner?”

  “It was fine,” I answered. “Sure.”

  “Speaking of trying stuff,” Carrie said, hitching her chair closer to the table. “When are we going to go for a tour of the limoncello factory?”

  Phil fiddled with his wine glass and Nicole sighed. To me, it seemed as if they knew perfectly well why Carrie wanted to go. I definitely didn’t mind the idea of a tour either. It would be a good way to see Carlo again—but I’d have to find some way of letting him know to keep Carrie’s little expedition into Positano a secret.
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  “Any special reason why you are so interested in the production of a liqueur that you can’t even drink?” Phil asked with a teasing grin. “It wouldn’t have anything to do with the son of the owners, would it?”

  Carrie flushed. “Dad!” she exclaimed. “It’s something to do, isn’t it? And you all like limoncello, right?”

  “We’ll go in a day or two,” Nicole promised. “Your dad has some research he wants to do on some of the old Saracen guard towers, so we thought we’d take a picnic lunch out to one of the towers and enjoy the day tomorrow. You girls will like that.”

  Carrie’s expression made it perfectly clear that she wouldn’t like that at all, but she didn’t say anything. Maybe she understood the close call she had had today in the streets of Positano and was finally ready to listen. Knowing Carrie, I was pretty sure her attention would be temporary, but maybe there was hope for her, after all.

  Signor LoPresti arrived with a waiter in tow who served us our dinners. My nerves went on alert, and I tensed, preparing to deflect any winery comments or questions. Keep it light, I reminded myself. “Enjoy,” he said in English. To me, Signor LoPresti said, “Speriamo che ti piaccia; é veramente un piacere che sei ritornata qui,”—we hope you like it; it’s truly a pleasure that you have returned here to Italy.

  Everyone smiled, and I said, “Grazie mille, signore.” But what no one else knew but me was that Signor LoPresti had used the familiar form of “you” to talk to me. Italians usually used the familiar form to talk to kids or good friends, but I knew I wasn’t considered a child any more at seventeen; Signor LoPresti was letting me know that he felt I was truly a friend.

  His gracious kindness also made me feel pretty guilty about thinking that he and his family were involved with the Sacra Lista.

  But, after all, I didn’t belong in Italy anymore, I reminded myself. I didn’t have to feel guilty about anything or worry about not fitting in here. Sonoma was where I had to belong now. I’d better email Morgan soon, or she’d really think I’d fallen off the grid, and who knew how long it would take me to rebuild the friendships I’d begun at Sonoma?