Secrets in Translation

by Sorenson, Margo;

  We planned the next day’s trip over dinner, and I resigned myself to a day with the entire family. I’d take a book and definitely my journal. For sure, I’d have to get back in touch with my American self—Alex. When I got back to Sonoma, I was going to have to act as if I’d never been back to Italy and that I hadn’t picked up all my old Italian life habits. To help make that happen, I was determined not to get charmed by Italy—or Carlo; although, I had a sneaking suspicion that it was already too late, I admitted to myself, thinking about Carlo’s magnetic gaze.

  The next morning, Nicole and I went shopping for picnic lunch stuff. Carrie was stuck in front of the computer again, and Phil was engrossed in his notes and some books, reading, so it was only the two of us. It was nice not having to watch out for Carrie all the time on the streets. Hopefully, she’d get better about being guy-crazy but so far it wasn’t looking too positive.

  We got provolone—it made me crazy when people said “provoloan,” instead of “provolonay,” but that was my Italian-self interfering again—salame, Parma ham, and some other cheeses the grocer recommended. The crusty bread at the bakery was still warm from the oven and smelled delicious. On the way home, we snacked on a couple of rolls the baker had given us.

  “People certainly are nice to you,” Nicole commented, as we turned a corner and headed up the narrow street. “Italians are so friendly. I don’t remember their being this friendly when we were in Rome a few years ago, so I am sure it’s your Italian. That doesn’t happen to me in France with my French, though. And Phil’s Italian is strictly academic. He does all right, but it’s mostly for research, reading, and so on.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said, my mouth full of roll. I didn’t want to get into a whole discussion with Nicole about my Italian-ness. I wondered if I hummed a little of the Star-Spangled Banner it would help me get my real self back—if I still knew who my real self was, that is.

  Back at the apartment, we assembled lunch and put a bottle of wine and some plastic glasses in a backpack.

  “Ready?” Phil asked, shouldering the backpack.

  “Do I really have to go?” Carrie asked, still at the computer, her fingers flying over the keyboard.

  “Of course, you do,” Nicole answered. “The guard tower is so interesting; it’s centuries old and your dad has lots of great stories he can tell us about the Saracen pirates invading Positano.”

  I was pretty sure this was not going to make Carrie anxious to come along, but she was their daughter and I wasn’t going to get in the middle of it. I grabbed my journal, put it in my bag, and waited.

  “What your mother isn’t telling you is that you are coming with us. This is a family vacation and you are not going to stay by yourself in the middle of Positano,” Phil said, more sternly.

  “Oh, my God!” Carrie exclaimed. “You don’t trust me, do you?”

  It was all I could do to choke back my laughter. What a shock! I wanted to say. Our adventure yesterday was certainly not the first time Carrie had done something crazy, and was probably the reason they had hired me; it was either me or an ankle monitor.

  Carrie’s grumbling done, the four of us trooped down the stairs and walked through the sunlit streets to the path that led to La Spiaggia del Fornillo and to Il Torre Clavel. As we walked on the wharf, we could see the hulking medieval guard tower at the bottom of the cliff in the distance.

  “I saw that from the beach yesterday,” Carrie exclaimed. “Oh my God, we are really going to walk out there?”

  “Yes,” Phil said. “We can’t go in it. It’s a private home and it’s rented out for a pretty penny, I understand.”

  “I think I read it was about $70,000 a month for the whole place,” Nicole said. “The Torre Clavel is named after the French artist who bought it and renovated it.”

  “I didn’t think ‘Clavel’ sounded Italian,” Carrie said, trying to sound important. Was she really trying to get into this Italian thing?

  We climbed a set of stone steps from the wharf and began walking along the paved path toward La Spiaggia del Fornillo, the sea to our left, and a sheer cliff to our right.

  “Look how ancient these are,” Phil said, pointing to the steps and bridges cut into the rock cliff ahead. “The Normans, when they ruled this part of Italy, really knew how to build defenses right out of the rock.”

  “I forgot the Normans were here too,” I said, looking down at the surf lapping against the base of the cliffs far below.

  The beach of Il Fornillo opened up in front of us, with a few hotels and restaurants fronting the small sandy beach. People lay on beach towels and under umbrellas.

  “The Normans were everywhere,” Phil said. “They ruled this part of Italy for centuries.”

  “Did the Saracens invade Italy during the Norman period?” I asked. “You said these were towers to protect against the Saracens?” I remembered hearing about the Saracens, or the Moors as they were called, when we lived in Napoli—pirates from Africa.

  “Carrie! Watch where you’re going!” Nicole cautioned. As we crossed the beach, Carrie must have been distracted by some guys, because she almost walked right into someone’s beach umbrella.

  “Mom!” she protested. “I’m fine! Oh, my gosh, can’t you leave me alone for one second? Don’t you think I can see where I’m walking?”

  “Your mother wouldn’t have said anything if you hadn’t almost walked right into that poor man’s umbrella,” Phil said calmly.

  Carrie tossed her head and clomped on ahead in her flip-flops. The pathway was amazing; it threaded along the side of the cliff, formed by dozens of steps up and around sheer rock, with the guard tower standing majestically at the end. A low wall divided us from the drop to the sea below, and trees grew from planters, providing welcoming pools of shade. Tourists sat on stone benches cut into the cliff, or stood, taking pictures of the turquoise sea, the medieval guard tower, and the rock islands in the bay. Phil said the islands were named Li Galli, the little roosters.

  Around a bend in the path, I saw two Italian men in slacks and rolled-up shirt sleeves, gesturing and talking at one of the benches. This route seemed to be dominated by tourists, so it seemed odd to see Italians here. There was something familiar about one of them. And then, when one of the men turned and pointed back toward Positano, I stopped in startled surprise. It was Carlo! What was he doing way out here? I wondered.

  As we approached, Carrie exclaimed, “It’s Carlo! Oh, my gosh, it’s Carlo!” She looked at Nicole. “Let’s say hi!”

  The two men were clearly deep in conversation but I couldn’t hear anything that passed between them, their quiet voices drowned out by the sound of the waves rolling in and crashing below us. Carlo’s companion was much older—perhaps forty-five or fifty. What were they doing way out here in such an isolated spot?

  “He looks busy, Carrie,” Nicole warned her.

  “Carlo!” Carrie cried out.

  Immediately, Carlo turned around. For a second, I thought his startled expression seemed a strange combination of anger and wariness, but then he smiled tightly. His friend looked quizzically at Carlo. Carlo glanced around quickly before approaching us, and his friend frowned, folded his arms, and stared at us as we approached.

  “Ah, the Cowan family, my favorite tourists. And Alessandra,” Carlo said. “Signora Cowan, Signor Cowan, Carrie, and Alessandra, this is my…uh…agronomy professor from the university, Professor Scioscia. He comes to talk with me about the lemon crops.”

  Prof. Scioscia smiled and said, “Piacere.” Maybe it was a pleasure to meet us, but his eyes certainly didn’t look pleased, nor did Carlo look happy to have us interrupt their meeting.

  We shook hands, and murmured, “Pleased to meet you,” and a variety of other polite greetings.

  An awkward silence fell, and Carlo cleared his throat.

  I quickly said, “I’m sure you’re busy. Nice to see
you. Piacere,” and walked toward the rest area ahead. Fortunately, Phil and Nicole got the hint and propelled Carrie along with them.

  I stood at the wall, looking out to Le Galli—definitely a photo-op with rocky crags jutting out of the azure sea, but I wasn’t thinking about photography. Something about the way these two men had been talking just didn’t seem right. What was Carlo doing with an agronomy professor way out here? Why hadn’t they arranged to meet at the factory? Or in the lemon groves? I wasn’t sure what agronomy professors dressed like in Italy—jeans and sweatshirts?—but this guy, with his nice haircut, slacks, and expensive-looking shoes, didn’t seem to be what I imagined an agronomy professor would look like.

  But if he wasn’t a professor, what was he?

  Chapter Nine

  We settled on our picnic blanket and Nicole handed out lunch. I looked back to where Carlo and Prof. Scioscia—if that really was his name—had been standing. They were gone.

  “Meeting about lemons, eh?” Phil asked, noticing my glance. He swirled his wine in his plastic glass, which seemed a funny, gourmet-ish thing to do, considering the glass was plastic. “I read that if you don’t use the right lemons to make limoncello, the liqueur will be inferior. The type of lemons you must use is regulated by the government. The same kind of rules that wineries are also subject to,” he said with a smile at me. “You would know about that. Lots of regulations in wineries too.”

  “Carlo told me they have inspectors who come to the factory to make sure they are using the kind of lemons they say they are,” I volunteered. I wasn’t too thrilled about discussing wineries, regulations, and grapes—even with the Cowans.

  “So, can we visit the factory tomorrow?” Carrie asked, almost bouncing up and down on the stone bench.

  Nicole and Phil grinned at each other. “Well,” Phil said, “I guess we can go tomorrow. I need a little break from the Saracens anyway.”

  I wasn’t sure that I was really excited to visit the Bertoluccis’ factory now, since we’d interrupted Carlo in his meeting. There could be only one reason he chose to meet this guy away from his factory at a place where usually only tourists went—he wanted to keep the meeting secret. But why? Could Carlo possibly be involved with the Sacra Lista? My heart sank.

  He was too nice, too straight, too real, I told myself—wasn’t he? I was thinking about Carlo more than was good for me, especially after having known him for only a few days. There was just something about him; he seemed different from other guys I had met. Maybe it was his seriousness combined with his wry sense of humor or his obvious dedication to his work. All I knew was that I wanted to be around him all the time. Oh, and not to mention how hot he was!

  “Well, Carlo said we could stop by anytime,” I said. We might as well get it over with and then Carrie would stop bugging me. I knew her well enough now to know that when she had her mind set on something she would never let it go. And, I admitted to myself, I definitely didn’t mind seeing Carlo again. When I stopped to think about it, I couldn’t believe that Carlo could actually be involved with the Sacra Lista. My heart sank at the thought. I was sure there must be a good explanation of his secret meeting with his ‘professor,’ and I was determined to find out what it was.

  “Great!” Carrie said, a grin spreading across her face.

  For the next hour, Phil took notes on the Norman architectural surroundings, Nicole and I read, while Carrie thumbed through an Italian celebrity magazine and peered through the iron gates at Il Torre Clavel. No doubt she was hoping for a couple of hotties to come along, but everyone who passed by were either middle-aged adults or German teenagers.

  My thoughts kept returning to Carlo, and I realized that I, too, was hiding things from him. Even if Carlo wasn’t involved with the Sacra Lista, there was no way I was going to let Carlo know about Dad and the Camorra stuff.

  I sighed and turned back to my book. What was wrong with me?

  “Let’s head back,” Nicole said, looking at her watch. “I was going to try and cook tonight, so I need to do a little food shopping. Alessandra?” she said as she looked at me. “Are you able to come along?”

  “Me too?” Carrie asked.

  “Such culinary interest,” Phil kidded her.

  “Well!” Carrie exclaimed. “Oh, my God! I didn’t come to Italy to be a prisoner in an apartment!”

  “Calm down,” Phil said. “I was just teasing you.”

  We threaded our way across the crowded wharf and made our way back to the apartment. We passed the LoPrestis’ restaurant and although I looked for a delivery van, I saw only the usual tourists and motorino traffic. I didn’t really want to see Giovanni yet either, but Carrie noticeably slowed her pace as we passed the restaurant.

  “Come on, Carrie,” Nicole urged. “You don’t need to be hanging around Italian men.”

  “Young lady,” Phil said with a frown, “I hope you’re minding your manners around here?”

  “Dad!” Carrie exclaimed. “Seriously! You want to turn me into a nun or something!”

  I guess neither Nicole nor Phil thought there was any appropriate answer to that, or maybe they’d heard it too many times, because they just kept walking and started a conversation about dinner.

  The next morning, we had a leisurely breakfast on the balcony overlooking the street. Phil got out a map of Positano and herded us out the door.

  “I’m taking my camera,” Nicole said. “It’ll be fun to show everyone pictures of a real limoncello factory.”

  “Mom!” Carrie protested. “That’s so touristy!”

  As if she didn’t act like one herself, I wanted to say, but thought better of it.

  “I’m sure Carlo won’t mind our taking pictures,” Phil said.

  About that, I wasn’t so sure. Limoncello production and recipes were closely guarded secrets, so there might not be any pictures allowed.

  We picked up our car at the parcheggio, Carrie complaining all the way about the hike up to the parking lot.

  “We could have taken a taxi or a shuttle,” Phil said as he handed Euros to the parking lot attendant, “but it would have cost just as much, maybe more, and this way, we’re not tied to a schedule.”

  Phil drove us up the narrow, winding streets to the Bertolucci factory on the outskirts of town. On the way, we saw a number of lemon groves shaded by tarps. We could see fat lemons hanging from the trees, between the rows of poles that were holding up the tarps.

  “Why do they cover the trees with tarps?” Carrie asked, when we stopped to let a family cross the road, the dad wheeling a bicycle with a baby on the back.

  “You can ask Carlo, if he’s there,” Nicole said.

  “It’ll give you a good excuse to talk to him,” Phil said, grinning in the rearview mirror.

  “Dad!” Carrie said, turning her head to look out the window again.

  “This must be it,” Phil said, pulling up in front of a plain-looking white building with a tile roof and an arched doorway framed by two lemon trees. The tires crunched on the gravel as we came to a stop next to the building.

  Bertolucci Limoncello, SA, I read above the doorway. What would Carlo’s reaction be to me today? Would he pretend as if nothing had happened yesterday at Il Torre Clavel? I followed Nicole and Phil inside, Carrie trailing behind. As soon as we walked in, Nicole and Phil stood aside, and Nicole motioned me to the front—naturally, in case no one spoke English. Inside, the fragrance of lemons filled the air.

  A pretty young girl sat at a front table with a computer and a phone. Shelves of files were arranged on a wall behind her. Painted on the wall above the files were branches of lemon trees with fat globes of yellow fruit hanging from them.

  “Yes,” she greeted us in accented English, “may I help you?”

  I cleared my throat, glad, for once, not to have to translate. “Carlo invited us to tour the factory,” I explained. “T
hese are the Cowans. I’m—I’m Alessandra,” I managed to say, remembering the Cowans were determined to call me Alessandra, much as I hadn’t liked it at the beginning of our trip. Now, it began to seem very familiar, almost comforting.

  The girl’s face lit up. “Of course!” She stood, extending her hand. “I’m Giulietta, Carlo’s sister. You are welcome. I will call Carlo. He is here.”

  Giulietta spoke on the phone in rapid Italian, telling Carlo that the American tourist family had arrived.

  The tourist family. Great, I thought.

  A few moments later, Carlo hurried into the reception area.

  “Ciao,” Carlo said, a smile wreathing his face, his eyes lingering on me for just a second longer than the others. I searched his eyes to see if he was trying to hide something, but I couldn’t tell, and besides, just looking into his eyes made my knees feel weak. He shook hands with Phil and gave Nicole, Carrie, and me kisses on the cheeks. Carrie’s face turned a bright red. My heart raced a bit at the brush of his lips on my cheeks. Take it easy, I warned myself. As long as I didn’t look right into his eyes, maybe I could handle this tour without losing my composure.

  Almost as if he could read my thoughts, Carlo looked at me and smiled. “I’m going to speak the English today,” he said. “But please do not take it as the insult. Your Italian is excellent.” Now it was my turn to feel my face turn pink.

  Once in the main part of his family’s factory, Carlo became more outgoing and enthusiastic. His face shone with pride as he led us through the factory.

  “First, the lemons,” Carlo said, gesturing toward plastic bins stacked next to the wall just inside the next door. “These are the lemons we buy from the IGP lemon growers here on the Amalfi Coast,” Carlo explained. “The names of the growers you see on the crates: Fonteros, Cascano, Ferrara e Figli, and so on. We must make sure the lemons are the right kind, so that our license to produce limoncello stays valid.”