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2
Portofino, 2000
Watching my car being unloaded from a ship in the Genovese port was discomforting, to say the least. The two men who were in charge of the operation were equally idiotic. The ’61 Lincoln Continental was a graceful brute. I’d kept it in the shop for three weeks before leaving U.S. soil, having the interior redone and wrapping the cushions in white leather to contrast with the ebony dashboard. The guys from Lincoln installed their newest generation engine which was currently roaring like a fire-breathing lion under the hood. I loved this car; I loved every smooth, sexy curve of the bodywork, but she was hard to handle. Obviously, the two airheads that were on unload duty were no match for her.
One of them was down on the dock at the edge of the unloading ramp, trying to guide the other one to drive in a straight line – God help us all – and the so-called driver was pussyfooting around the gas. Out of nowhere, the car started moving backwards. What the hell? I threw my hands up in a frustrated gesture and the moron stuck his head out the window.
“E colpa mia.” Yeah, it was his fucking fault. “I thought it was the second gear.”
Second what?
“It’s an automatic transmission. Just put it in drive and drive it.”
It took them five more minutes to finally hand me the key so I could go back behind the wheel. The moment I started rolling away, I felt my body relaxing in the leather chair.
I drove across Genova, avoiding the busy city center, and finally slipped into the Italian countryside. I never got to explore this northern side of the country, not at length. Napoli and Rome were much closer to my heart, but something called me here. I think I saw it as a place that wasn’t tainted by Salvatrice’s memory; somewhere where I could breathe without smelling her perfume.
The road wove across the coastline, crossing the towns that were spread on the Italian shore. The sun was shining up in the sky and I cranked up some music, a suave Andrea Bocelli song, to go with the scenery. Call me sentimental all you want, but this was a very romantic road trip. It would have been perfect to have someone to share it with. A beautiful woman with green eyes that reminded me of spring days in Central Park, wavy caramel hair, and pouty lips.
Fuck, no! How did she sneak up on me like that? I was here to find life after Salva. I couldn’t let her paralyze me with her memory anymore. It was time to write an obituary for my love. Trying to regain my focus, I gripped the steering wheel and heard the leather of my driving gloves cracking. The sound brought me back to reality and I concentrated on the road, enjoying the colorful landscape of Camogli and San Lorenzo della Costa before taking the side roads to my destination.
Portofino. If Heaven was anything like they described in church, I imagined Portofino to be the closest thing on earth that could get close to that description. I’ve been here a couple of times when I was a boy. Mother liked it, but father wasn’t a fan of the provincial scene. On second thought, he wasn’t a fan of anything. The town was full of people, the streets buzzing with life, but most of them were just passing by. In reality, only six hundred souls lived here, the rest were just tourists searching for the picturesque pleasures the Italian Riviera had to offer. I wondered if some of them were just like me, lost souls looking for an ounce of hope.
There were no mansions or villas around here for rent. It was very different than Umbria and Tuscany. Being located right on the seashore, the city was built on terraces. My travel agent struggled to find something to rent that was up to my demands for a long time but it finally happened. He found a beautiful, traditional pallazi – a grand waterside home – on Via Duca degli Abruzzi Street, right on the water. I pulled the car in front of the gate, happy to see that all the pictures that had been presented to me matched the real thing. For the next three months I was going to live in this old, seductive building with an spacious living room. Every morning I could come down here, open the French glass doors, step out onto the terrace overlooking the water and enjoy the peace. The view was beautiful enough to keep me busy while I pushed away my past.
~~~
The first night of my cleansing getaway was auspicious. The house was a jewel, still sporting original features that were here for hundreds of years, like the fresco in the foyer depicting the Genova of old. Everything was spotless and in good condition – the art, the details on the walls – so I was looking at fragments of the original house carefully restored by the owners, but that didn’t make it any less special. The master bedroom was on the first floor, occupying half of it. I didn’t have a chance to explore the rest of the house because I needed some sleep, but I sure as hell was pleased with this room. The walls were a calming yellowy buttercream color, covered with impressive paintings encrusted in plaster frames. The ceiling was a masterpiece, painted with roman gods from corner to corner. When I turned on the crystal chandelier, it was like the images came to life.
The long flight and the drive tired me enough, so all I got to do the when I got here was take a shower and climb into the four-poster bed with a water mattress, ready to be knocked out. I must have been more exhausted than I realized because I woke up just the way I fell asleep, with my face into the pillow. I was grateful for a long sleep with no green eyes inhabiting my dreams.
Pleased with myself, I took another quick shower, brushed my teeth and fixed my hair, making sure every strand was in its exact place. Before leaving the bathroom, I pulled out the shaving blade from my grooming kit and fixed the edge of my trimmed beard. When you did what I did, there was an image I had to uphold. I was representing the famiglia, I couldn’t show up unshaved, with messy hair and wearing tank tops.
After giving myself another look in the mirror, I left the room, aiming for the kitchen on the ground floor. All that was missing in my life – apart from my green-eyed queen – was a steaming cup of coffee. Praying there was some in the house, I started going down the stairs, neglecting to put on any clothes. There was something liberating about walking through this house gloriously naked, feeling the marble under my feet and the cross breeze flowing over my skin.
What I didn’t expect was to walk into the living room and find an elderly-looking woman opening the doors that were going into the patio. When she looked up, she saw me in all my…morning glory.
Shit. What the fuck was going on? She spoke while my eyes grew wide and my brows got together in a gesture of confusion.
“Ah, young boy, don’t look at me like that. I assure you I’m not a ghost.”
“Signora,” I gasped while grabbing a decorative pillow and using it to hide my dick away, “excuse my appearance, but I have no idea what you are doing here.”
“You don’t need to shy away like that. I raised seven boys.” Good to know, but it didn’t make the situation any less uncomfortable. I was butt-naked in front of a strange woman well into her seventies. “I’m the owner of the house, Aida. I’m here to bring you breakfast.”
“Bring me breakfast? Why?”
“Didn’t that charming boy that I talked on the phone with told you there were arrangements made?” I assumed she was talking about Halloran, my travel agent. “He paid me handsomely for your stay here and I never had a tenant to stay so long before, so I asked if there was something I could do. He said you mentioned you don’t know how to cook, so I could make sure you have at least one decent meal a day.”
I did tell Halloran that whatever he found me needed to be close to at least one restaurant. A man could live on sandwiches for only so long.
“Umm, I was not informed, Mrs. Aida.” That’s why I introduced myself dick first. “I apologize that you had to see me like this.”
“Don’t bother your mind with it. I fixed your meal out on the patio.”
“Is there any coffee?” I asked, intrigued.
“Of course, I ground the beans myself this morning.”
