Secrets in Translation

by Sorenson, Margo;

  “What kinds of lemons do you use?” Phil asked.

  “Feminello Saint Teresa and Sfusato Amalfitano, mostly,” Carlo said. “They have a thick, waxy skin and have just the right flavor for the limoncello.”

  “What happens if you have the wrong lemons?” Nicole asked.

  Carlo frowned. “The inspectors will fine us and take away our license. And, the limoncello would not taste the same and stores and the restaurants might not buy it from us anymore. So, it is very important that we use the approved lemons for limoncello production.”

  Carrie’s eyes were glued to Carlo’s face. Didn’t he notice that she was totally staring at him?

  “Is that what you and your professor were talking about yesterday? The best type of lemons to use?” I asked, deciding that I might as well take the plunge. I swallowed hard. But shouldn’t I know the truth about this secretive meeting between Carlo and his supposed professor? I couldn’t bear to have suspicions about Carlo, especially Sacra Lista-related suspicions.

  Carlo looked startled; his frown appeared and was gone within a fraction of a second. “Ah, yes, of course. We were discussing a new type of lemon that he is working on, a hybrid,” Carlo answered.

  Why were you discussing it at the end of the tourist walkway to Il Torre Clavel and not here at the factory? I wanted to ask but bit my tongue. My heart thudded. Had I gone too far in my questioning? Or had Carlos gone too far with the Sacra Lista?

  “Will he be able to get it certified?” Phil asked.

  “It will be a long process, perhaps many years,” Carlo smiled and shrugged.

  “Is it a secret lemon?” Carrie asked.

  Carlo stared at her, his face inscrutable. “Why would you ask that?”

  “Well, uh,” Carrie stammered, turning red, “you were meeting him out away from everyone. Is it a secret lemon?”

  “Carrie!” Nicole exclaimed. “Don’t bother Carlo with questions that are none of your business.”

  “Especially when he’s kind enough to show us around,” Phil added. “Sorry, Carlo.”

  Carrie had absolutely no clue about anything sometimes, I thought, but she did conveniently ask him exactly what it was that I most wanted to know.

  Carlo’s face seemed to relax and he laughed. “No,” he replied. “Professor Scioscia loves the view from the torre and he always likes to meet there. He does not come to Positano often from the university at Napoli.” Turning away, Carlo grabbed one of the lemons.

  “Here,” Carlo said, handing me a lemon. “Smell this.” He scraped the lemon with his thumbnail, brought it to his nose, inhaled, then handed it to me. “Scratching the peel releases the oils of the lemon. Do you see?” Our conversation about his professor was apparently over.

  I held the waxy, heavy fruit in my hands, scraped a bit, and smelled. The pungent scent of lemon was wonderful. “It is good,” I said, smiling.

  “Buono, buono,” Carlo said, enthusiastically. I handed the lemon to Nicole who scraped and sniffed and passed it to Phil. Carrie took it next and smelled it, before handing it back to Carlo.

  From the hallway, we entered a huge room with a half-dozen workers dressed in aprons with bonnets covering their hair. The walls and floors were of gleaming white tile, and rows of stainless steel tables lined one half of the room. Workers peeled the lemons in swift circular motions over stainless steel bowls.

  “You do this by hand?” Nicole marveled, stopping to watch a woman peel one of the lemons.

  “Most of the time,” Carlo replied. “There are machines that do it also and we have some of them, but the old-fashioned way is the best. The worker can feel exactly how far to peel the lemon. We do not want to peel any of the white pith, you see, or the limoncello will be bitter.”

  Other stainless steel tables held dozens and dozens of glass jars. When we got closer, I could see that each jar was filled with lemon peels, suspended in liquid.

  “Here is the steeping in the alcohol,” Carlo said, gesturing at the jars. “After we steep them, we strain out the peels and add the syrup.” He pointed to a large tank fixed with some kind of a mixer attachment. “The sugar and water together make the syrup. All of these steps make up the secret of each limoncello house recipe.” Carlo smiled, and a thought flitted through my mind—what other secrets was he hiding from us?

  “Then, of course, we bottle the limoncello,” Carlo said. “But first, the mixture must age for forty days.”

  “Forty days!” Phil said.

  Carlo opened double doors at one end of the room, and we found ourselves in another, smaller room. “This is where we bottle,” he said, gesturing toward machines that were filled with jars, with siphons running from the machines into the bottles.

  “And here are our labels,” Carlo said proudly, gathering up a stack of colorful labels from a table, and spreading them out in a vivid display. Another employee, slapping labels onto bottles, smiled at us. “Only limoncello that is government approved can be sold with a license in Italy. And these recipes are closely guarded, only known to the owners and perhaps the manager of each limoncello house.”

  “May I take some pictures?” Nicole asked.

  “Of course,” Carlo said, after a momentary hesitation. “Would any of you like to try to make the limoncello?”

  “Sure!” Carrie said. We walked back into the main room and Carlo found an apron, a bonnet, and some gloves for Carrie.

  “Me too,” I said. “Please.”

  Carlo looked into my eyes and smiled. “But of course,” he said, in a tone that set my pulse racing.

  “We’ll all join in,” Phil said.

  Carlo instructed us all to wash our hands at one of the sinks and then, after drying them, put on the gloves. Then we put on the bonnets and the aprons.

  Carlo laughed at the sight of us. “This will be a good photo,” he exclaimed. “If it pleases you, I will make a photo.”

  Nicole gave Carlo her camera from around her neck, and the four of us posed in a goofy row, each holding a lemon and a knife.

  “No one back in the U.S. will have a photo like that,” Carlo promised.

  We tried to peel the lemons, but I kept cutting my peel after only a single turn around the lemon. Nicole did better, and Carrie and Phil each gave up after only a minute. We laughed and joked, and Phil told a number of lemon puns. I worried that Carlo might not understand and take offence. After translating the puns, I confirmed that Carlo understood that Phil was only joking. “Capisci che fa dei giochi di parole?”

  We took off our bonnets and aprons and gloves, still chuckling. Carlo’s eyes sparkled with fun. Watching him, my heart lifted. His meeting with the professor just couldn’t be about anything sinister or criminal, I told myself. Maybe professors in Italy were much better dressed than the ones in the U.S. La bella figura was important to all Italians, after all. Still, there was something strange about that meeting, and the two men had definitely not been pleased at our interruption.

  Carlo just couldn’t be involved in the Sacra Lista. Sure, he was really intense about his business, but didn’t his confrontation with Giovanni about The System prove that he didn’t buy into organized crime? But, if I was wrong, and Carlo was into anything shady, I was in trouble—I’d already fallen for him, and fallen hard.

  Chapter Ten

  Carlo!” we heard a voice call. A bald, heavyset man walked through the double doors behind us.

  “My father,” Carlo said, gesturing.

  Signor Bertolucci offered us each a handshake as Carlo introduced us all. “Ah, the American tourists,” he said, a serious expression on his face. “My daughter told me you were here. I wanted to welcome you. We hope you find our small place interesting.”

  “Thank you, yes,” Phil said, gesturing to me. “Alessandra knows a little bit about alcohol production. Her father works for a winery in California.”

>   Signor Bertolucci’s face seemed to freeze, but then his face rearranged itself so quickly that I thought I must have imagined it. “A winery? How nice,” he said, with a forced smile. “Which one?”

  Embarrassed, I said, “Nightingale Vintners. It’s owned by a college friend of my father’s. It’s just a small winery. My father does the marketing and some translating.” And he’s undercover trying to scope out the Camorra and the Mafia in Italy and the U.S.—which, I did not say!

  “Really?” Signor Bertolucci said, his gaze intent on my face. “That is what he does? The marketing and the translation? What languages does he speak?”

  “He speaks a lot of them,” Carrie interrupted, “including Italian, like Alessandra.”

  “You speak Italian?” Signor Bertolucci asked sharply.

  What was wrong with that? I wanted to ask, defensively. A sudden thought struck me. Carlo hadn’t said anything at all to his father about me. But then that was pretty normal for guys, wasn’t it?

  “Yes,” I said, hesitantly. I was starting to feel uncomfortable, as if I were being interrogated by too many pointed questions. I almost expected Carlo’s father to pull out a spotlight, shine it full in my face, and ask: “And why is your father poking around in Italian wineries and asking too many questions about the Camorra and organized crime syndicates?”

  Carlo came to my rescue. “Alessandra lived in Italia until last year. Her father was in the diplomatic service,” he said, first in Italian and then, politely, in English.

  “Ah,” Signor Bertolucci said. “Well, welcome to you all. Please ask any questions.” Then he smiled a little. “Excepting, of course, about our secret limoncello recipe.”

  Signor Bertolucci was serious, just as Giovanni had needled Carlo about being serious. Serious father, serious son. But Carlo could be fun, too. His dad didn’t seem like the fun type at all. Plus, he acted weird about my dad’s business at the winery, asking me all those probing questions. And why was he so suspicious anout our family speaking Italian? I would not translate puns about lemons for Signor Bertolucci, that was for sure.

  “Permit me to leave you now. I must make the business,” Signor Bertolucci said, inclining his head politely. “Arrivederci,” and he disappeared back through the double doors.

  “‘I must make the business’?” Carrie said to me with a snicker.

  “Carrie!” I exclaimed, horrified at the thought Carlo might hear her. Luckily, Carlo had walked around one of the tables to talk with one of the workers.

  “What?” Carrie demanded. “Can’t I make a joke?”

  I sighed. “Carrie, I’m sorry, but it is really rude to make fun of someone else when they’re trying to speak your language.” And when you can’t speak anything but English, I wanted to add.

  “It is time to taste a little limoncello,” Carlo announced, standing next to a gleaming stainless steel refrigerator. He opened the fridge doors to reveal shelves filled with bottles of limoncello. “Would it please you to taste?”

  Phil grinned. “It’s early, but this is special. Of course.”

  “We’d be delighted,” Nicole said.

  “Me, too?” Carrie begged.

  “Only one sip,” Phil warned.

  Carlo opened a bottle, removed five frosty glasses from the freezer, and poured a portion of the golden liquid into each.

  “Cin-cin!” he said, raising his glass. We raised ours, all of us clinking our glasses together. Carlo looked into my eyes, and my breathing almost stopped. Easy, Alex—Alessandra—whoever you are, I cautioned myself.

  “This is delicious,” Nicole enthused.

  “Indeed,” Phil agreed.

  “Wow! Lemonade with a punch!” Carrie exclaimed. I caught her glancing quickly at her parents, who were sipping with their eyes closed, before she downed the whole thing. “Oops!” she said.

  Nicole and Phil’s eyes snapped open and, at the same time, they both exclaimed, “Carrie!”

  Carlo was unsuccessfully trying to hide a smile. He grinned at me, and my heart rate accelerated. I smiled back.

  “Sorry,” Carrie said, most unconvincingly. “The glass slipped.”

  “Carrie, that’s just not true!” Nicole scolded.

  “Oh, my gosh, Mom,” Carrie said, tossing her head, “sometimes you are just clueless!”

  “Young lady, you’ve just earned yourself an afternoon in the apartment,” Phil said with a sigh.

  Then, I thought, if she was going to be in the apartment all afternoon, guess who would have to be with her? I almost groaned aloud.

  “You are kidding me!” Carrie protested. “I’m in Italy—and you’re grounding me?”

  “I have some reading to do,” Phil said, “so you’ll have company. Alessandra, why don’t you take the afternoon off?”

  “Thanks,” I said. Carrie’s face was a study in thunderclouds. What was I going to do all by myself in Positano? I wondered. Shop? There were some cute sandals in some of the shops, but I wasn’t really that much of a shopper.

  “Well, then, Alessandra,” Carlo said, quickly. “Will it please you to accompany me for the lunch?”

  Everyone turned to look at me, and I could feel my cheeks getting warm.

  “Si! Of course,” I managed to say. Carlo’s grin was infectious, and I smiled back. “Thank you— grazie mille.”

  Now Carrie looked really furious, but we chatted further as Nicole, Phil, and I sipped our limoncellos. I reminded myself to try and take it easy with my sipping, especially if I was going to have lunch with Carlo. The warmth of the liqueur was already spreading through my veins, and I wanted to be able to think clearly—although, just looking at Carlo made my brain go all fuzzy. That was not the limoncello’s doing either.

  Carlo gave us brightly colored brochures that described the factory and its history and then, with a flourish, presented Nicole with a bottle of limoncello.

  “A gift,” Carlo said. “It is a pleasure.” He looked right at me. I figured I was about gone.

  “Thank you so much, grazie!” Nicole said, a smile wreathing her face.

  Carlo retrieved a fancy bag printed with a lemon design and slipped the bottle inside, giving it to Nicole with a bow. “For you to enjoy. Maybe not the ragazza,” he joked, gesturing at Carrie and with a wink at Phil.

  That must have really done it for Carrie. She rudely turned her back and began wandering around, looking at the pictures of lemons and lemon groves that decorated the walls.

  “Carrie, straighten up,” Phil said. “Turn around and be polite.”

  Carrie spun around on her heel, her face red with anger. “Fine,” she sputtered.

  I resisted the impulse to roll my eyes. It was so definitely not fine with her.

  Carlo escorted us out. We paused in the reception area, making conversation about the weather, while Nicole browsed over some large pictorial books of limoncello and the Amalfi Coast.

  A striking woman with dark hair and high cheekbones, dressed in a red pencil skirt and an embroidered blouse, walked into the reception area from a side door marked Ufficio.

  “Ah, I see you are still here,” the woman said, with a smile. She walked over to Carlo and kissed him.

  Carlo smiled. “Ciao, Mama! Quelli sono i miei amici Americani. These are my American friends,” he said.

  Carlo’s mother, Adrianna—looking like she had just walked off the cover of Vogue—smiled graciously at us. Phil, I noticed, could hardly take his eyes off her during the introductions and, by Nicole’s peeved expression, quickly masked, I could tell she probably wanted to snap her fingers in front of his eyes. Under Adrianna’s spell, even Carrie made a reasonably polite response.

  “It pleases us that you visit,” Adrianna said. Then, directing her gaze to me, she said, “Carlo m’ha detto che parli Italiano molto bene,”—Carlo has told me you speak Italian very well. “Benv
enuta a casa.”

  I felt my cheeks turn warm. “Welcome home,” she had said. Did she mean simply welcome to their home? Or to my Italian home in general? And she used the familiar form of tu—perhaps because I was younger than she, but it still had its intended effect of making me feel welcome, definitely more so than I had felt upon my first visit to Sonoma.

  “Grazie tanto,” I said. Welcome home, I repeated silently. Like it or not, I was really beginning to feel as if I were home in Italy, and that I’d been away too long.

  Carlo glanced at his watch, and I couldn’t help noticing his strong, tan wrists below his crisply rolled-up sleeves. “It will be lunch time soon; it is now after one o’clock.” He looked at me, and my mouth felt dry. “Alessandra, why don’t we just go to lunch from here? I will bring her home,” he promised Phil and Nicole. From the corner of my eye, I saw Carrie’s face morph into sulkiness.

  “You can join us here, at the house,” Carlo’s mother invited me. “It would be our pleasure.”

  “Thank you, Mama, but I would like to take Alessandra to Café Positano for the view,” Carlo said quickly.

  “Grazie mille per la sua gentilezza; forse un’altra volta,”—thank you for your graciousness, perhaps another time—I said, hoping I wasn’t being too forward in suggesting that I might be invited back.

  We said our goodbyes, and I waved to the Cowans as they walked out the door. Surely, I would be all right by myself, wouldn’t I, with Carlo? I winced, thinking about my Sacra Lista worries. But Carlo’s parents were both cordial, his mom much friendlier than his dad, but that was to be expected. His sister was nice too. Then, I thought of that so-called professor and told myself I’d find out more at lunch. I was definitely falling for Carlo, but I didn’t want to get myself mixed up in any dangerous crime scheme, if that’s what it was. Another reason to make sure I was on my guard, and make sure I didn’t spill anything to Carlo about what Dad was really up to in the wine biz.

  Carlo steered me back into the main room of the factory. He smiled and gestured at the workers, busily peeling lemons and chattering away to each other in Italian.