Secrets in Translation

by Sorenson, Margo;

  I couldn’t believe it when I got up from my nap and discovered that, of all the restaurants in Positano, Phil and Nicole had again selected Café LoPresti for dinner. I suggested branching out and trying another restaurant or eating at home, but Signor LoPresti had apparently promised Phil un piatto speciale—a special dish—that the chef would make especially for him tonight. I was not happy about the prospect of going to a Sacra-Lista-patronized restaurant, but did my best to hide it.

  After a glass of wine on the balcony, a time I tried to drag out as best I could, dreading our upcoming dinner, we walked to the LoPrestis’ restaurant. My heart pounded—I was going into the wolves’ den with the LoPrestis. A number of people were out enjoying the evening, doing some late shopping or going to dinner. The musical lilt of Italian hung in the air, softening the harsher German and English of the tourists—of which I, too, was one, I ruefully reminded myself. If only I really were just a tourist, I lamented, instead of knowing what I knew.

  As we rounded the corner to Via Vicolo Vito Savino, I saw two boys, the scugnizzi, astride their motorinos. These boys were the same two I’d seen on our first day in Positano, the day that Giovanni had accepted the delivery from Parmalat. I took the opportunity to study them closely, now that I knew the LoPrestis’ restaurant was associated with the Sacra Lista. One young man was pudgy, with a double chin, and the other resembled a wolf, lean, with a pointed nose and sharp eyes. I remembered that Giovanni had been angry that the boys had been outside the restaurant when the delivery truck arrived. This recollection confused me; maybe these boys were not Sacra Lista, after all, if Giovanni didn’t want them there.

  Their presence, however, made me watchful. They could be purse-snatchers waiting to prey on some poor, unsuspecting tourist. I decided that I would try to steer the Cowans to the other side of the street, acting all the while like an American tourist so as not to arouse suspicions. If these boys were up to anything criminal, I had a better chance of overhearing them if they were unaware I could speak Italian.

  “What a beautiful night!” Nicole exclaimed, stopping to smell potted flowers in front of a boutique.

  “Mom!” Carrie exclaimed. “I’m hungry. Hurry up!”

  “Let’s walk on this side,” I said, quickly, glancing ahead at the two scugnizzi on their motorinos. “It’s not as crowded.”

  Phil, noting the direction of my glance, herded Nicole and Carrie to the opposite side of the street. The two kids were talking on their cell phones—one laughing, the other intent on his own conversation.

  Nicole and Carrie walked ahead while Phil walked next to me.

  “You sense trouble?” he asked, jerking his head in the direction of the two boys.

  “You never know in Italy,” I said, with a shrug. “We call them scugnizzi, street thugs or pickpockets, you know.”

  “Well, thanks for the tip,” Phil said. He straightened his shoulders and glared at the two kids as we walked past them and into the restaurant.

  Signor LoPresti greeted us with enthusiasm and seated us with all the usual polite comments and exchanged kisses. Did he know those two boys outside? I wondered. And, given his Sacra Lista connections, did he suspect who my father really was?

  Carrie spent the first ten minutes blatantly looking for Giovanni. I, on the other hand, knew I definitely didn’t want to see him. The waiter brought our wine together with three glasses, as per Phil’s request, which sent Carrie into a state of major sulk.

  “Oh, seriously!” she said, gesturing at the other tables. “Look! I am the only person my age who is not having a glass of wine. That is so embarrassing!”

  “Not tonight, dear,” Nicole said calmly, giving Phil a look. “Maybe later in the vacation. We’ll see how things go.”

  “You have a few things to prove about responsibility, young lady,” Phil said. “Let’s remember the limoncello.”

  Carrie sighed dramatically and slumped down in her chair.

  Signor LoPresti brought over the chef. “Tonight, we make for you the spigola all’acqua pazza—the sea bass in the crazy water,” he said. “I promised you we would do something special.”

  I tried not to meet Signor LoPresti’s eyes, worried that I would give something away by accident. Come on, Alessandra, I scolded myself. Did I actually think I could read “Sacra Lista” on his forehead? Could he read “Camorra-buster’s kid” on mine?

  “Thank you, grazie,” Phil said.

  “That’s a whole fish, I think, with the head still on, and everything,” I whispered to Nicole. “I hope that’s okay with you and Phil?”

  Nicole nodded. “Phil is pretty adventurous,” she said with a smile. “It’s not for me, though. And certainly not Carrie!” She smiled at me and I grinned back.

  We worked our way through the bruschetta appetizers—Phil and Nicole said ‘brusketta,’ now, rather than ‘brushetta.’ They’d asked me to let them know if they had mispronounced anything, so I felt obliged to explain that the h coming right after the c in Italian makes the c hard like a k. I joked that they wouldn’t ask for a Chianti with a ch sound like chocolate, would they?

  After a glass of Pinot Grigio, Phil leaned back in his chair and proceeded to tell us stories about his college’s history department, when, suddenly, I noticed Giovanni’s arrival. He strode through the front door, greeting customers by name, stopping at each table, exchanging cheek kisses, and generally chatting everyone up.

  Carrie snapped to attention, immediately brushing her fingers through her hair and thrusting back her shoulders, trying, it seemed to me, to make her boobs more noticeable. I hid a smile and kept eating my lasagna. I really didn’t want to talk to Giovanni and was happy to let Carrie do all the chatting.

  I wished Carlo were with me; I felt braver, somehow, with him at my side. I wanted to close my eyes for a moment and savor the warm memory of our lunch together. He had promised me that we would spend more time together in the weeks to come. “Mr. Serious,” as Giovanni called him. It worked for me. I felt guilty that I had not been completely honest about my dad’s work but I tried to console myself with the fact that it was not my secret to reveal—and keeping that secret is what kept my dad safe.

  “Buona sera, Cowans, and Alessandra,” Giovanni said, stopping at our table. Phil began to stand up, but Giovanni motioned for him to stay seated. “The lovely ladies,” he said, his eyes lingering on my face. I wondered if he was trying to flirt with me, or if he was suspicious of me for some reason; I didn’t want to think about what that reason might be.

  “How are your meals tonight? Are they pleasing you?” Giovanni asked.

  “Delicious,” Phil answered. “The sea bass is wonderful.”

  “Ah, yes, my father tells me this morning that he will make for you un piatto speciale. I am glad it pleases you,” Giovanni said. “Is everything else all right?”

  Phil, on his third glass of Pinot Grigio, had lost his customary reticence. “Well, Giovanni,” he said, “to tell you the truth, we were a little concerned about the two boys loitering outside your restaurant tonight. They looked like they might be purse snatchers or pickpockets.”

  Giovanni’s face suddenly froze. Then, collecting himself, he forced a smile. “I will see,” he said smoothly. “We do not want trouble for our clientele. Thank you for telling this to me.” He inclined his head and said, “Buona sera e buon appetito.” Turning on his heel, he strode through the clutch of diners at their tables and disappeared outside.

  Phil turned his attention back to his fish.

  “What was that about, Phil?” Nicole asked, popping a bite into her mouth. “What pickpockets?”

  “Well, our little Italian friend here,” Phil gestured to me, “noticed two disreputable looking teenage boys hanging out across the street from the restaurant. That’s why we crossed the street.”

  “Really, Alessandra?” Nicole asked. Carrie’s face turned toward m
e in shock.

  “Our little Italian friend”—was that what I was now? Well, after my lunch with Carlo, I had to admit that I was beginning to feel at home in Italy again.

  Chapter Twelve

  You saw real pickpockets? Actual purse snatchers?” Carrie asked, leaning forward eagerly. “How could you tell?”

  “I’m not sure they were purse snatchers,” I said cautiously. “They just looked a little too shady, the way they were talking on their cell phones; those motorinos, too, can be good for quick getaways.”

  “We’re certainly glad you’re so observant,” Nicole said.

  “That comes from living here and almost being a native,” Phil said.

  “It was just common sense,” I reassured them. “And maybe it was nothing.” I started to feel uneasy about this attention and thought I’d better downplay the incident, although I did wonder at Giovanni’s quick-change in attitude, as well as his hasty exit.

  After a cappuccino, we rose from the table, preparing to walk home. Signor LoPresti was most solicitous, but he didn’t mention anything about the supposed pickpockets or the two kids outside. There was no sign of Giovanni.

  The next morning after our breakfast of eggs and fruit on the balcony, I knew it was time to write in my journal. It was becoming more of a struggle to write in English, the more Italian I felt. I was feeling like “Alex” was slipping through my fingers, and I admitted that I wasn’t sure I wanted to stop the slide. Carlo promised he’d email me; we had no other way of communicating. He could have called on Phil’s phone, but I didn’t feel right about bothering Phil. Besides, this was too new. I picked up my pen and began to write.

  I had a special day yesterday with Carlo. We can talk about so many things and he really cares about what he does. He even likes his studies at the university and gets all enthusiastic about the agricultural program and about his family’s business. The problem is—what will happen when I leave? But I may be way off in never-never land here. Who knows if we’ll even end up together at the end of the next four weeks? I can’t imagine that we won’t, though. It’s getting harder and harder to feel American, but, if that means I can be with Carlo, I don’t think I care. Right now, fitting in back in Sonoma, which used to really matter to me, doesn’t seem as important as it used to, but I do have to go back…

  I slid my writing journal in my underwear drawer with a sigh. Carrie might try and find it, but so what? Did I really care what a bratty twelve-year-old thought? Before I went back to the U.S., I’d have some real work ahead of me, if I kept sliding into Italia. Was there an “Italians Anonymous” to help me recover?

  Walking into the little living room, I saw Carrie in front of the laptop, typing away, and Phil and Nicole reading books outside on the balcony. Morning sounds of vendors, early morning traffic, and bursts of Italian conversation drifted through the open French doors from the street below.

  “Can I check my email when you’re done?” I asked. Carrie glanced up and sighed loudly.

  “Carrie?” Nicole said in a warning tone, looking up from her book.

  “Fine!” Carrie said, shutting down her email and stomping into the kitchen. She opened up the refrigerator, complaining, “There’s nothing in here to eat.”

  “Maybe that’s why Italians aren’t fat,” Phil commented from his spot on the balcony. “They can’t store a lot of snacks because the refrigerators are so small.”

  I burst out laughing. Carrie made a face at me.

  “Come on, Carrie,” I said, “you have to admit that was pretty funny.”

  I could see Phil and Nicole smiling outside.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Carrie grumbled. “Hurry up on your email, will you? I want to go to the beach, and my jailers won’t let me go unaccompanied.”

  “Now, Carrie,” cautioned Nicole.

  “Young lady,” Phil said, looking up from his book, “watch yourself.”

  “I know, I know,” Carrie said, plopping down on the sofa and grabbing a magazine.

  I opened my email and my pulse beat a little faster when I saw Carlo’s email address and the subject line “Per Alessandra.” I also saw two other emails, one from each of my parents. Nothing from Morgan or anyone else in Sonoma. They were probably all getting packed for Tahoe. With a sigh, I figured I’d better be the one to start emailing, especially since I didn’t want to be tagged as “the Italian who forgot all her friends once she went back to Italy.”

  I read Carlo’s email quickly and my heart lifted. He asked if Carrie and I would be going to the beach today, and, although he had work to do, he wanted to meet me at La Spiaggia Grande between one and three in the afternoon. The Bertolucci Limoncello cook would prepare a picnic lunch for the three of us.

  Of course! Fingers flying, I emailed him back.

  I answered Mom and Dad’s email. Dad didn’t mention Ralf or the winery. All he wrote was, I hope you’re having a great time and remembering what we talked about. He must have meant, remember to say nothing about what I am doing. A little shadow crossed over my sunny morning.

  What was really bad, I thought, my spirits sinking, was that now I didn’t really want to be in the U.S. anymore, even in Tahoe with Morgan and my other Sonoma friends. I wanted to be right here in Positano. When I did go back—which I would have to, eventually, of course—wouldn’t everyone be talking about how I’d turned down Tahoe and messed up everyone’s plans? Sure, I could play the My-parents-made-me-babysit card, but wouldn’t everyone secretly wonder why I hadn’t turned down the nanny job? Right now, I didn’t even want to think about my life in Sonoma. I signed off my emails to Mom and Dad with Alex, then deleted the x, filling in the rest of Alessandra. I sighed. I’d find time to email Morgan later.

  “Are you done yet?” Carrie complained, looking up from her magazine. “Oh my gosh, you are writing a book!”

  “Carrie,” Phil began, his voice coming through the open doorway.

  “It’s okay,” I said, quickly. “Come on, Carrie. Get your sunscreen.”

  “How about letting me pack you a lunch?” Nicole offered, getting up from her chair.

  My cheeks got warm. “Uh, actually, we’ll be meeting Carlo at the beach at lunchtime. He’s going to bring us lunch,” I said.

  “Oh,” Nicole said, looking surprised and pleased.

  “He is?” Carrie’s face lit up.

  “Uh-huh,” I said, noncommittally, though noncommittal was the last thing I felt. Actually, I could hardly wait to see him again, to feel his lips brush my cheeks, and his warm, strong hand holding mine.

  “Please thank him again for yesterday’s tour,” Phil called from the balcony.

  “Oh, yes, please,” Nicole said.

  Carrie and I packed up our towels and beach gear, grabbed several bottles of water, and began walking down the hill to La Spiaggia Grande. Fortunately, Carrie didn’t need a lecture today from me or Nicole on proper street attire, even though she was going to the beach. Her skirt and top passed my casual inspection, thankfully. I wondered if anything else had happened on her little adventure the other day that she wasn’t telling me.

  Passing Café LoPresti, I noticed the motorino kids weren’t there, and I decided to ask Carlo and if he had ever noticed them before. Positano was not exactly a big town; maybe he even knew who they were. Carrie drifted toward the restaurant entrance on our way, and I reached out to grab her arm before she actually walked inside.

  “What’s wrong?” Carrie snapped. “I just want to see if Giovanni is there.”

  Just as I’d feared, Giovanni must have seen us from inside the restaurant, because he came out to greet us. His dark curly hair was a little unruly, and he brushed his fingers through it as he approached us. Today, he was wearing a light blue shirt and grey slacks and nice shoes, rather nice for a college kid working at a restaurant. But, then, this was Italy, the land of looking good. And he did look good,
I had to admit, despite the Sacra Lista connection. I wasn’t a fan of bad boys exactly, but he was still hot.

  “Ciao!” Giovanni called, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.

  “Ciao,” Carrie replied, as she batted her eyelashes at him. What was I going to do with this kid for the next four weeks?

  “Where are you going?” he asked, giving us both the usual two kiss salute.

  “To the beach,” I answered, replying for the two of us; Carrie was momentarily stunned into silence by his kiss, her face as pink as her t-shirt.

  “Ah, the beach,” he said. “I wish I could join you, but I have work to do here. We have a big party of good customers here tonight and my father and the chef want the food to be perfect.”

  “So you will shop today?” I asked, wondering if the Sacra Lista distribution trucks would come visiting again.

  “A bit,” he said. “Some deliveries are coming also. The usual, you know—olive oil, pasta, Parmigiano Reggiano.”

  “Did you find the pickpockets last night?” Carrie asked eagerly.

  Giovanni smiled, and I couldn’t help but wonder how someone with such a great smile could be working with organized crime. He shrugged. “I go outside to look for these kids, but I see no one. Sometimes the kids around here, they like…radunarsi?” He looked at me for the English translation.

  “Hang out,” I said quickly.

  “Grazie.” Giovanni turned the full force of his smile back on me. “They like to hang out, as you say, because of the girls going by. No doubt, they saw you,” he added, smiling at Carrie, who rewarded him with a full-on blush.

  “Sure, Giovanni,” I said. “Thanks for the compliment.” I smiled to take any possible sting out of my answer, aware that I sounded a little more sarcastic than I had intended. I turned to Carrie. “Let’s go, before we lose a good spot on the beach.”