Secrets in Translation Page 3

My mouth was dry and after I’d handed Carrie and Nicole and Phil their waters, I uncapped mine and drank thirstily. Italian water tasted the same as U.S. water, but I knew now, after my little interaction in the AGIP, that water might be one of the only things that was the same in both countries.

  We passed the exits for Napoli and then Pompeii, and I stared at the blue cone of Vesuvius, which had loomed over my life for so many years. I couldn’t believe I was back. I watched from my window as the jumbled buildings and dusty pink and beige apartments and houses of Napoli faded into the distance.

  Two hours later, we drove through Sorrento across the Amalfi peninsula to the Amalfi Coast road and began the terrifying drive that I remembered vaguely from previous trips to the coast. The sheer cliffs dropped into the bluest sea imaginable. Tiny villages clung to the steep mountainsides, making me wonder how it was they managed to hang on.

  “Oh, my God, Dad!” Carrie shrieked, as we narrowly missed a giant tour bus barreling toward us on the impossibly narrow road, suspended above the ocean.

  “Shhh, Carrie!” Nicole exclaimed. “Don’t look down if you’re afraid.”

  “Or don’t look at all. Shut your eyes,” Phil suggested, hunched over the steering wheel. I couldn’t see his knuckles, but I was sure they were white. Between the crazy Italian drivers, the wack-job motorcyclists, and the millions of tour buses, this Amalfi Coast road, the Nastro Azzurro, was a terror. In some places—especially around corners and the infamous hairpin turns—there was room for only one vehicle at a time; we had to listen for horns beeping from the unseen oncoming traffic, or hope the roadside mirrors would catch sight of the vehicle before we ended up in a head-on collision. I sure hoped I wasn’t going to die in Italy. If I did, I comforted myself that at least I wouldn’t have to face Morgan or any of my new friends again. That was sick.

  Looking out the window, though, at the little shops and restaurants and the signs for each little cliffside town, a feeling of familiarity began to tug at me. The boys hanging out on the street, looking over a motorino. A gaggle of girls whispering outside a store. The plump figure of a nonna all dressed in black, market basket over her arm, making her way gingerly across the cobblestone street. How much I had forgotten! No, I told myself. I couldn’t let myself go all squishy and nostalgic.

  We finally reached Positano—a collection of houses, apartments, hotels, and shops pasted on the cliffs overlooking the bay, framed by three ancient guard towers. Even I had to admit that it was a drop-dead gorgeous view.

  “We’re staying here?” Carrie asked, craning her neck to look out her window. “For six weeks? Is there anything to do?”

  “Yes, we’re staying here,” Phil answered curtly, his customarily pleasant demeanor apparently eroded by the strain of driving the Amalfi Coast road. I couldn’t blame him.

  Carrie slumped down in her seat, drumming her fingers on the armrest.

  “Nicole, do you have the address of the apartment and where we pick up the keys handy?” he asked.

  “Yes, Phil, right here,” Nicole answered, holding out some papers. “And here are the directions to get to a parking lot.” She handed those to me. Great. “It’s going to be quite a walk from there to the apartment with our luggage, I’m afraid, according to this.”

  “Why can’t we park at the apartment?” Carrie whined. “Do I have to carry my bag a long way?”

  “That’s the way Positano is, Carrie,” Nicole said, patiently. “A lot of Positano is accessible only by foot.”

  “Only by foot?” Carrie asked, incredulously. “We have to walk everywhere?”

  Phil added, “Carrie, you know that a lot of Italian towns and villages are built on hills, and steep, narrow streets are the norm. This isn’t Hummer or Escalade country.”

  I thought Phil’s comment was pretty funny, but Carrie didn’t seem to think so, judging by her dramatic sigh and eye roll.

  We wound our way down a narrow street, crowded with other cars and pedestrians and guys whizzing by on Vespas and motorinos, and I saw the sign we were looking for: parcheggio—parking. A guy was motioning us in with his hands, but I didn’t see enough room for our car.

  “Is this where we park?” Phil asked, rolling down his window.

  “Si! Si!” the guy answered. “Keys,” he added, holding out his hand.

  “This is the place,” I confirmed, checking the directions our landlord had provided.

  We unloaded our bags from the trunk, bid farewell to the Volvo, Phil taking a claim ticket, and we looked around to see where we were supposed to find the restaurant where we would pick up the keys for the apartment. I studied the map Nicole had given me and tried to get my bearings.

  There were plenty of other tourists around, judging from their clothing and the English and German I heard, but most everyone on the street was definitely Italian. Here I go, I thought, and swallowed hard.

  “Where are the street signs?” Carrie asked. I pointed to a wall at the corner. Via G Marconi, the rectangular sign read.

  “Oh, like everywhere else in Europe,” she said, smugly.

  Nicole and Phil smiled. “Yes, Carrie,” Nicole said. “Like places you’ve been before.”

  “It’s just like usual, then” Carrie said, brushing her hair out of her eyes and adjusting her backpack.

  I wanted to say that the real Italy was nowhere like she’d been before, but there was time enough for her to find that out. I studied the directions our landlord had emailed Nicole; they looked easy enough to follow, as long as we could find the signs. Worst case, I could ask for directions.

  Ten minutes later, after winding through narrow, crowded streets with our bags, we stood in front of the Café LoPresti, the restaurant where our landlord had left the keys for us. It was a typical Italian restaurant, with an arched doorway and outside tables shaded by red and green Cinzano umbrellas. A few dogs slept in the shade, under the tables where their owners were having lunch. I handed the papers back to Phil.

  “Here,” I said. “The people in the restaurant probably speak English.”

  He smiled a little tentatively, and we walked inside. The scents of olive oil and warm bread floated to meet us. About a dozen customers, mostly Italian, were eating at tables, talking loudly, and laughing. A really hot-looking young guy with dark, curly hair, wearing tan slacks and a long-sleeved white shirt rolled up to his elbows, walked toward us as we trundled our suitcases over the stone floor to the hostess desk. Carrie elbowed me and grinned.

  “Buon giorno,” he said with a confident smile. Then he continued in English, thankfully. “You must be the Cowans. Benvenuti in Italia.” He held out his hand and Phil shook it. “I am Giovanni LoPresti, and this is my family’s ristorante. Signore Crudele is your landlord and our very good friend.

  “This is my wife, Nicole, our daughter, Carrie, and our friend, Alessandra,” Phil said. They shook hands.

  “Piacere,” Giovanni said, looking first into my eyes and then into Carrie’s. I struggled to take an even breath. He went on, smoothly: “Let me find my father and he will give you the keys and instructions.” Before he turned to go, he gave me—and then Carrie—a blindingly white smile.

  Carrie blushed and I bit my lip to keep from laughing at her obvious reaction. Here we go, I thought. But he was really cute, no question. He must have been nineteen or twenty and way too old for Carrie, but not for me. What was I thinking? I scolded myself. The last thing I needed was another Italian entanglement.

  Signor LoPresti emerged from the kitchen a few moments later, carrying a big envelope. He looked like a heavier, older version of Giovanni, and he, too, was dressed sharply in an open collared shirt and slacks. La bella figura, I reminded myself. Italians really did like to look nice and appearance was very important.

  Introductions made, instructions, directions, and keys changed hands. I tried to pay attention to what Signor LoPresti was saying, but l
uckily everything seemed pretty straightforward. From the corner of my eye, I tried to catch another glimpse of Mr. Italian Hottie, but he must have been in the back somewhere. After Phil and Nicole promised Signor LoPresti we would be back for dinner later, we left. Carrie kept turning to look back over her shoulder, and I whispered, “Too old for you,” and grinned.

  She pouted and tossed her head. “We’ll see,” she said.

  The Italian sun assaulted us as we walked out of the restaurant. I blinked in the bright glare and saw Giovanni directing a big van next to the wall of the restaurant. It took up almost half the entire street, but passers-by didn’t even seem to notice. They just walked around it, though some teenagers slapped its fender. On the van’s side, I read Parmalat, in big green letters, which, I knew, was the brand name of all kinds of things like milk, ice cream, and gelato. Two guys hopped out of the cab and began unloading crates and carrying them into the restaurant. Giovanni laughed and joked with them and even took a crate himself after he waved at us, calling out, “Arrivederci!”

  Two boys, about fourteen or so, had stopped to watch the unloading from astride their motorinos. I noticed Giovanni give them a piercing look, which they returned with surly expressions, before he shouldered the crate and walked back into the restaurant. One of the boys sneered at Giovanni’s disappearing back, then punched a number into his cell phone, talking urgently, as he looked around at the passers-by. Then, saying something to the other boy, he jerked his head toward the street and they both took off, zooming around pedestrians and cars. What was that about? I wondered why these young guys found a grocery unloading scene so interesting, and why Giovanni was unhappy that they were there. Obviously, I didn’t know everything about Italy. Had I become more American than I thought?

  Perhaps they were petty thieves of some kind. Kid street criminals—scugnizzi? The usual pickpockets and purse-snatchers? Although, if they had been, Giovanni would have yelled at them to go away and probably chased them off, rather than just glaring at them. There had been an almost palpable tension in the air that crackled between Giovanni and the two young men. Was there something else going on? And if there was, what was it? Stop it, Alex, I scolded myself. Give the imagination a vacation.

  “He seems like a nice, hard-working young man,” Nicole observed.

  “Hmm,” Phil answered. “I thought he was a little too interested in the girls.”

  “Oh, Dad!” Carrie exclaimed. “You are such a dad, sometimes.”

  Nicole and I laughed. But my smile faded as we hiked down the narrow, winding streets to find our apartment. I was back—I was really back. All around us, Italians laughed and gestured as they walked by us on the narrow sidewalks; motorinos and scooters whizzed past, drivers hollering to each other and at pedestrians. The familiar scents of Italy surrounded me—sweaty humanity, ancient buildings, the suddenly pungent fragrance of geraniums in window boxes, the acrid smell of benzina, and fresh bread wafting from bakeries. It was as if I’d never left.

  Had I lost Alex already? I wondered. I had to hold on, hard.

  Chapter Three

  We found the apartment up a flight of narrow stairs leading from the street. The building was a faded pink with crumbling plaster. Above us, a balcony jutted out over the street with some potted flowers on it, and there were gauzy curtains at the windows. There was a downstairs apartment, number fourteen, and the stairs led us up to number fifteen. We lugged the bags up; Phil and Nicole caught their breaths, while Phil fumbled for the keys in his pocket. The door was an old wooden one with an iron doorknob.

  “This is where we’re staying?” Carrie asked, wrinkling her nose. “This is old and junky.”

  In spite of myself, I bristled and wanted to snap back a quick answer but stopped.

  “This is a very nice place,” Nicole said sternly. “We’re paying plenty for it.”

  “Hmph,” Carrie snorted. Just then, Phil got the key to work in the lock and opened the door.

  I couldn’t believe it. It was so much like my Italian friends’ houses and apartments—the mismatched furniture, the small living area, the microscopic kitchen. I could just imagine the bathroom and bedrooms!

  Carrie began exploring. “One bathroom?” she exclaimed in horror. “Only one? For all four of us?” She turned a stricken face to Nicole. “And where’s Alessandra going to sleep?”

  Uh-oh. Somehow, I had known that this was inevitable. Italian—actually, almost all European—apartments were much smaller than what we were used to in the U.S.

  “You’re sharing a room,” Nicole said, after an awkward pause.

  “I don’t get my own room?” Carrie asked. Then she must have had an inkling of how she sounded, because she said, still grumpily, “Okay then, fine.” She dropped down on her bag and sunk her chin in her hands.

  “I apologize, Alessandra,” Nicole began. “We—”

  I smiled. “Don’t worry,” I said. “That’s Italy. I know. It’ll be fine. Carrie had better not snore though,” I added, half-jokingly.

  “I do not!” Carrie said indignantly.

  Nicole opened up windows and Phil carried their bags to the room they would share. I took my bag to our room, and Carrie trudged behind me, mumbling. The room wasn’t bad—it was small, but clean, with twin beds covered by flowered bedspreads, and a small dresser with a mirror above it. A chair sat in the corner and a wardrobe stood next to the dresser. The window looked out over the street below and at the opposite apartment house, whose window boxes were filled with red geraniums.

  “Which bed do you want?” I asked Carrie. I probably could have pulled rank and taken first choice, but her parents were paying me, so I thought I’d be diplomatic.

  She shrugged. “I don’t care. Where’s the air conditioner? I want to be cool. It’s hot in here.”

  This time I just had to smile. “There’s not much air conditioning in Italy in private homes,” I said. “Electricity is way too expensive. Americans don’t even think twice about how much they waste,” I admitted.

  Carrie’s jaw dropped. “But we’ve always had air when we came to Europe.”

  “You probably stayed in hotels all the time,” I said.

  Carrie threw herself on the bed closest to the window, face down. “This is horrible,” she said, her voice muffled by the bedspread. “I want to go home.”

  That makes two of us, I wanted to say, but decided it was best to say nothing at all. I unzipped my bag and opened the wardrobe to find ancient hangers. They would work. We unpacked our clothes, stuffed them into the miniature drawers, and hung things up in the wardrobe.

  “Alessandra?” Nicole said, coming into our room. “I’d like to go to the grocery store and pick up some things for breakfast and lunch tomorrow. Would you mind coming with me? The refrigerator is tiny, so I imagine we’ll be shopping most every day, just as I read in the guidebooks, and I’d like to have your help at least for the first few times.”

  “Jeez,” Carrie complained. “I thought she was supposed to be my companion, not your translator.”

  “Carrie,” Nicole said, in a warning tone.

  “Fine!” Carrie groused. Then she brightened. “Can I come, too?”

  Nicole stared at her daughter. “You want to go grocery shopping? With me?” she asked, incredulously.

  I was pretty sure I knew the reason why Carrie wanted to go, and it was wearing pants, but I kept my mouth shut.

  “We’ll probably have to go to more than one store,” I warned Nicole. “I doubt there’s a supermarket in town.”

  “Of course,” Nicole said. She pulled a list from her purse. “That’s why our landlord, Mr. Crudele, wrote all these stores down. A-ha! Butcher, produce, bakery…we’re set,” she finished, cheerfully. Meanwhile, Carrie was brushing her hair and putting on lipstick, looking in the mirror.

  “It will be good to be outside in the sunlight,” Nicole said.
“It’ll help with our jet lag. Phil, be sure you sit next to a window so the sun can get to you too.”

  Phil was sitting at the square table in the dining area, his and Nicole’s laptops up and running. “Yes, dear,” he said. “We’re in the wireless network,” he exclaimed, with a grin.

  “Can I check email?” Carrie asked. “My friends all said they’d email me, since I can’t text or tweet or Instagram over here.” She made a face. “It’s like being in the middle ages.”

  I could check mine, too, but I guessed there wouldn’t be anything from my American friends yet. I knew I should email Morgan so she wouldn’t think I was a real loser, but I could always do that later. I’d email Mom and Dad that we had arrived safely, once we got back from shopping, and I’d email Caterina, Giuseppa, and Maria, too. With a sigh, I remembered how much fun we used to have, sharing secrets, giggling about guys, and complaining about schoolwork. Morgan and the kids at Sonoma had no idea how rigorous an Italian school was; they complained about “all the work” at Sonoma High. Ha.

  “Later,” Phil said. “I’ve got to check in with the department and then with my contacts here. It looks like you’re on your way out the door anyway.”

  Carrie frowned. “Whatever.” She crossed the room to the front door and flung it open. “Let’s get out of here,” she said.

  Phil frowned, but then he sighed and turned his attention to his laptop. Nicole and I followed Carrie out the door.

  The grocery store was our first stop.

  “Buon giorno, signore,” I said automatically to the owner as we walked in. How many times had this simple greeting gotten me into trouble in the U.S., making my friends think I was terminally weird?—that is, until I realized that no one in the U.S. greeted shop owners and customers when they walked into a store, especially not people my age.

  The shop owner smiled at me, raising his eyebrows. I already knew why. It wasn’t only the Italian words of greeting; it was the accent. I was “down home,” and he knew it.

  “Buon giorno, signorina,” he replied.