Secrets in Translation

by Sorenson, Margo;

  “Maybe I’ll see you later?” Giovanni asked.

  “Sure!” Carrie exclaimed, before I had time to respond with a diplomatic refusal. The last thing I wanted was to hang around Giovanni, worrying about every word that came out of my mouth. For all I knew, Giovanni might be passing on to the Sacra Lista everything I told him.

  “Arrivederci,” Giovanni said with a wave as he retreated inside the restaurant.

  We continued through the narrow streets, the vines growing in the trellises above our heads, shops displaying their goods hanging outside on the walls. Tourists seemed to be everywhere, languages mingling in a swirl of sound. Everywhere, I could smell lemons and every now and then the aroma of freshly-baked bread wafting out of a small panetteria.

  At the beach, I found a spot near a small group of American kids about Carrie’s age; I thought they might take some of the entertainment pressure off me. After settling down on our towels, however, I realized that these kids were alone. I couldn’t understand what responsible parent would let two girls in little bikinis, and a guy in boxers—definitely not a European!—out on a beach in Italy without any adult supervision.

  Carrie, glancing over at the kids, took out her iPhone. Then she put her ear buds in, lay down, and closed her eyes. Checking my watch, I saw we had about an hour and a half before Carlo was due to arrive. I took my book out of my bag and lay down on my stomach.

  “Hey!” an American voice called. Looking over the top of my book, I saw a young guy approaching Carrie. “You’re American, too, right?”

  Carrie must have been waiting for exactly this kind of a move, because her eyes popped right open as she quickly sat up. “Hi,” she said, smiling. “Yes, yes, we are. Although, she is practically Italian.” Carrie jerked a thumb at me.

  The kid was nice-looking, with short, blond hair. He stared at me. “You don’t look Italian,” he said.

  I glared at Carrie. “I’m not Italian. I’m American too.”

  “She grew up here and speaks Italian really well,” Carrie said proudly.

  “Oh, yeah?” the kid asked, turning his attention back to Carrie, who was obviously more his age. “I’m Ben.” He motioned to the two girls on the beach towels behind him who were looking our way and giggling. “And those are my cousins, Georgia and Hayley.”

  “I’m Carrie, and this is my—my friend, Alessandra,” Carrie said. I was relieved that she didn’t call me her nanny. Carrie, I knew, didn’t want to have a nanny, any more than I wanted to be one.

  “Hi,” I said. “You can call me Alex.” I turned back to my book, planning to listen in to their conversation while pretending I wasn’t. The fact that these kids were running around the beach alone worried me a little, and I had enough trouble managing Carrie without any other difficult influences.

  “We’re here for a week with my parents,” Ben said. “Then we go to Rome. We’re from Indiana. Where are you from?”

  “California,” Carrie said. She took her earbuds out and they began talking about school, sports, and movies. Ben was starting ninth grade in the fall, and the girls were going into eighth grade.

  I had to smile at the change in Carrie; she tried to act older than she was, picking her words carefully and trying to drop bits of knowledge into the conversation that I was sure she hoped would impress Ben.

  “I’m in track and volleyball,” Carrie said. “What sports are you in?”

  “Soccer and baseball,” Ben answered. My cousins are into dance and that sort of stuff.”

  Their conversation sounded harmless enough to me, so I tuned them out and got into my book.

  “Alessandra?” Carrie interrupted my reading. I had brought the latest book in a new mystery series. Just what I needed—more mystery than I already had in real life. “I’m going to go for a swim with Ben and the girls. You can see us from here.”

  Looking up, I saw the girls standing next to our spot, smiling. The American kids seemed as if they would be all right, even though they were unsupervised. I could still keep an eye on them from my spot on the sand. The four of them walked toward the water, laughing and talking. I liked that it wasn’t hard for Carrie to meet kids. She was tough, but she did have some positives about her.

  “Alessandra,” a masculine voice whispered in my ear. Startled, I looked up. Carlo was casually kneeling in the sand, his face near mine. My heart raced and I scrambled to a sitting position, suddenly aware that I was wearing a small bikini and he was fully dressed. He grinned at me. “Cara,” he said, giving me a kiss that set my pulse right into high gear. “Where is your charge?” he asked in Italian.

  I pointed to the sea. “She found some American friends,” I explained, answering in Italian without even thinking twice about it.

  “So we have a little time together, by ourselves,” Carlo said, grinning. He sat down next to me and rummaged through the basket he had brought. “I didn’t bring wine, because of Carrie,” he explained.

  “That was thoughtful,” I said. While I would have liked to share a glass with him, I knew drinking on the job was probably not a good idea. Carlo must have been sensitive to that too.

  He pulled out some packages wrapped in butcher paper. “These are some of my favorite panini,” he said. “Capocollo and mortadella and provolone.”

  “Carlo, before Carrie comes back, I want to ask you something,” I said.

  “Anything, cara,” Carlo answered, brushing my cheek with his fingers.

  “I—I was wondering,” I stammered, the touch of his fingers sending a jolt through me, “if you knew anything about the two scugnizzi who hang around outside Café LoPresti.”

  Carlo frowned. “What do you mean? When?”

  “The first time I saw them was when Giovanni was getting a delivery for the restaurant, and these two kids on motorinos show up. One of them was talking on his cell phone. Giovanni saw them and he wasn’t happy about it. Then we saw them again last night, outside the restaurant. Are they pickpockets or purse-snatchers or something? Giovanni said that they like to hang around and look at the girls.”

  Carlo put the panini down and stared out to sea. “No,” he said, finally. “That is not why they are there. They are the lookouts..”

  “Lookouts?” I repeated.

  Carlo glanced around the beach before continuing, his voice low. “They are the business part of the Sacra Lista. If the LoPrestis have a deal with a Sacra Lista distributor, they have to know that the LoPrestis are not taking deliveries from anyone else. So, they pay the scugnizzi to spy.”

  “What?” I squeaked. “What happens if the LoPrestis accept deliveries from someone else?”

  “You can guess,” Carlo said. “It would not be pretty.”

  “But what can the LoPrestis do about it?” I asked, almost dreading the answer I knew was coming.

  Carlo frowned. A dark cloud now hovered over our lunch on the beach.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Carlo shrugged. “I am sorry, cara, that is the way of it. I told you yesterday, no? This is the path the LoPrestis have chosen. Instead of trying to fight it, they give in. Believe me—and you know—to fight it can be disaster, but at least you can keep your honor.”

  “That’s awful!” I exclaimed. “You cannot go to the police? So what about your factory?”

  “The police!” Carlo shook his head. “You lived in Italy, so you must remember. Some of the police are in the pay of the Mafia and the Camorra and would inform on anyone who complained, and there is a terrible price to pay for those who complain. No, it must be solved in other ways.” Carlo’s mouth tightened for a moment, before he said, “As for our factory, there is no news yet. Another even lower offer came yesterday from Torino.” He sighed. “I feel bad for my parents. They are so worried that the factory will be sabotaged or that our limoncello recipe will be stolen and we will be blackmailed to keep it private. They are worried that w
e will be forced to sell the factory at a loss, or that one of us will meet with an ugly ‘accident.’”

  “So what will you do?” I asked. This all sounded ominous, and it felt strange to be discussing such dark occurrences on a sunny beach.

  “Right now, all we can do is wait. We have contacted the person in the government whose name Signor Scioscia gave us. We hope that he can help. As I said, it is a very delicate matter dealing with the Sacra Lista and with the government.”

  “What about Giovanni?” I asked. “Are the LoPrestis really in deep with the Sacra Lista?”

  Carlo shrugged. “I do not know. They are successful in their business, and so far, nothing seems to go wrong for them.” He looked at me. “Did you meet Valentina at the LoPrestis’ restaurant?” Valentina—the girl hanging all over Giovanni at the party, and the girl who definitely had not welcomed me.

  “Yes,” I replied.

  “She is, what you say, ‘connected’ to the Sacra Lista,” Carlo said.

  “What? She’s a member?” I stared at Carlo.

  Carlo grinned. “No, she is not herself a member, as you say. Her father is part of the Directory, the governing council of The System.”

  A shiver ran through me as I sat on the warm sand. I’d hate to get on her bad side, I thought. But, I realized, I was already on her bad side. “Does she live in Positano?” I asked. With any luck, I might not run into her again.

  “No,” Carlo said. “She lives in Napoli but visits her aunt here.”

  “She really seemed to like Giovanni,” I said.

  “Ha!” Carlo snorted. “She likes anyone with money, and she likes the men that can get her something. Perhaps her father made her get to know Giovanni better to solidify the Sacra Lista’s hold on the LoPrestis.”

  “That’s awful!” I said.

  Carlo raised his eyebrows. “She is good at playing along,” he said. “I prefer girls who are real.” He looked into my eyes and I swallowed hard, thinking about my own secret—and my dad’s—that I was keeping from him. Should I tell him now? This could be the perfect moment.

  Just then, I heard loud chattering and laughing in English and looked up to see the four kids walking toward us, dripping wet.

  “Carlo, hello!” Carrie exclaimed, grabbing her towel and rubbing it through her hair.

  Hayley and Georgia, in the meantime, were staring at Carlo, open-mouthed. I quite understood their reaction—Carlo was quite the sight on the beach in his crisp white shirt and tan slacks, with his dark hair, brilliant smile, and intense eyes.

  Introductions exchanged, the three kids retreated to their spot a dozen yards away. I could see Georgia and Hayley glancing over their shoulders at Carlo, and I couldn’t blame them.

  The panini were delicious. Carrie bubbled over with enthusiasm as she told Carlo all about her school and her friends. I glanced over at him during one long story, and he gave me a slow smile that made my heart stop.

  Looking at his watch, Carlo finally said, “Ah, ladies, I must take my leave of you. It’s been,” he paused and looked into my eyes, “enchanting.”

  I smiled back, although what I really wanted to do was give him a long kiss and a real abbraccio, but I helped clean up the remains of our lunch and put it away in the basket.

  “Thank you, Carlo,” I said. He leaned over and kissed me gently on the lips. My breath caught in my throat, and I heard Carrie gasp.

  “Ciao, Carrie,” Carlo said, giving Carrie the usual two kisses.

  “Thank you,” she said, blushing, and I wasn’t sure if she meant for the kisses or the lunch—probably both.

  Carlo stood up. “There is much to do at the factory now, with new lemon crops coming. I am afraid I won’t be able to see you for a few days,” he said. My spirits sank.

  “Just email me, if you can, all right?” I asked, hoping against hope. I just couldn’t handle the thought of being without any communication from him, even for two or three days. The prospect of being 6,000 miles away in the U.S. was something I didn’t even want to think about. We had to establish a regular email connection, and the sooner the better.

  “Cara, of course,” Carlo promised, grinning. With a wave, he took the basket and walked back up the beach.

  I watched him disappear into the waterfront crowds, and I saw women—from teens to fifty-year-olds—giving him sidelong glances.

  Carrie’s back looked as if it were getting pink. She had moved over to join her new American friends and was talking with Ben, but I knew it was time to call it a day. “Hey, Carrie, I think we’ve had enough sun. Let’s go.”

  The kids’ conversation stopped, and the familiar pout took its place on Carrie’s face. “But, why?”

  The three kids exchanged glances. Now I was the bad guy, I could see. Well, that was what I’d signed up for.

  “You can make plans to meet them another day. Give them your email,” I suggested.

  Soon, slips of paper and iPhone contact numbers were exchanged amid much laughter and cries of, “Okay!” and “See you!”

  Carrie and I packed everything up and walked across the beach to the street. It was a beautiful afternoon. The sun shone on the golden dome of Santa Maria Assunta, and the smell of lemons and gardenias was strong on the breeze. We threaded our way through the clumps of tourists, a mass of humanity intent on their own missions.

  “Hey!” Carrie exclaimed, when two middle-aged ladies in white sneakers almost ran her over. “What do these tourists think they’re doing? All this pushing and shoving!”

  “Remember,” I said, as we turned the corner to Via Vicolo Vito Savino, “not everyone who comes to Italy feels like they have to act like a guest in someone’s house.” Inside, I was smiling at the fact that Carrie, having been in Italy less than two weeks, was already shedding some of her American tween characteristics and becoming more polite and considerate of others.

  “Yeah,” Carrie said, with a giggle. “I’d like to see how some of the snotty kids at my middle school would handle all this tourist rudeness or even this Italian culture.” She smirked. “Not too well, I don’t think.”

  I couldn’t resist. “Do you mean that not everyone you go to school with is well-mannered?”

  Carrie burst out laughing. “You have got to be kidding me! It’s like mortal combat sometimes.” She rolled her eyes. “Don’t you know what I mean?”

  Sadly, I did. “Yes,” I answered. “It gets a little better in high school, but still….” I let my voice trail off. There was nothing else to add. We both got it.

  “So,” Carrie said, as we climbed up the cobblestone streets to our apartment, “why do you always introduce yourself as Alex?”

  I sighed and tried to explain.. “Now that I’ve moved to the U.S., I want to fit in with everyone else. There were so many things I didn’t know about what it was like to live as an American. The internet and TV aren’t a substitute for really living somewhere, I found out. Sure, lots of people thought it was cool to have lived in Italy, but then, some people started making too big a deal out of it—you know how people can be—” I paused and Carrie nodded, eyes wide “—and it made me feel uncomfortable. I honestly felt like a loser sometimes, so all I want is to fit in and not be noticed.”

  “Oh, my God,” Carrie said. And then she said something that made me forgive her for just about all the trouble she had put me through in our two weeks in Italy. “You? A loser? No way!”

  I smiled at her. “Yes, me. So, I decided to just be Alex, which is the English version of my real name.”

  Carrie’s mouth formed into an O. “So that’s why? You just wanted to be an American?”

  “Well, yes,” I admitted. I wasn’t going to go into any more detail about Morgan and my worries about the trip to Tahoe, or she might think I really was a loser, after all.

  “But you’re so Italian right now!” Carrie said. “You are per
fect here; you speak Italian so well, and you know how to act and everything. You’re pretty much Italian, I think.”

  I held back a sigh. Maybe I was pretty much Italian—and maybe that was who I needed to be. As we passed the LoPrestis’ restaurant, I heard Giovanni’s voice.

  “Ciao, Alex! Ciao, Carrie!” Giovanni sat at a table, under the awning at the front of the restaurant, a drink in front of him; beside him was Valentina, with a scowl on her face. Wonderful, I thought. Let’s all hang out with organized crime.

  “Come and join us,” Giovanni called in English.

  “Just for a minute,” I said. “We should be going home.”

  Valentina tossed her hair over her shoulder, her mouth tight. Nice welcome, I thought.

  “All right,” said Carrie. Then her eyes narrowed. “Who’s the chick with the big boobs?” she whispered.

  “Valentina,” I said. “She’s a friend of Giovanni’s.” And, I added silently, connected to organized crime, the guys who kill people very slowly and leave them to die in trash barrels in back alleys.

  We sat down and Giovanni ordered us each an aranciata. Carrie sipped hers, silently, a frown on her face, sneaking sideways looks at Valentina and Giovanni. I stared intently at my aranciata, sipping it through the straw, and wishing I could disappear into its orange depths.

  “Giovanni tells me that your father owns a winery,” Valentina said, her eyebrow arching. “In California. Is it a big one?” Her eyes bored into mine.

  Suddenly, I felt very cold. I took my hands off the icy glass in front of me and put them in my lap. My heart pounded so hard that I was sure everyone at the table could hear it.

  “N-no,” I stammered. If only I could sound confident and nonchalant. “He doesn’t own one. The winery he works at is very small.”

  “Oh,” Valentina said smugly, leaning back in her chair as she draped one braceleted arm along the back of Giovanni’s chair. From her expression it was obvious that she was relegating me to the “loser” side of her mental address book. At least I hoped that was what she was doing with that information. Maybe all she wanted, after all, was to humiliate me in front of Giovanni, to show me up as the daughter of an unimportant person—not to pry into Dad’s business. What I wanted to say was, “And what does your father do?” That question would have earned me the malocchio—the evil eye—from her, for sure.