Last Voyage of the Valentina(80)

They nodded, their mouths agape. Alba was relieved when they got off at the first stop, their throats too dry to bid her farewell.

When the ticket collector wandered through, she was at her most charming. “I have to confess that I have lost my ticket,” she said, smiling sheepishly. “I’m so sorry and so useless, but that young boy with the twitch,” the ticket collector nodded in recognition as she imitated the way he blinked, “I was so distracted talking to him, he was so dear and I was so dreadfully sorry for him, that when he gave me back my ticket I must have dropped it onto the platform. Of course, I’m more than happy to buy another one.” She began to delve into her handbag, hoping he’d stop her before she had to make up another story about losing her wallet too, which might have stretched his sympathy beyond its limit.

“Please, signora,” he said kindly. “Michele is a good lad but a little simple. He probably forgot to give it back to you.” Then, in the manner of most men she encountered, he endeavored to take his generosity a step further. “If you have a heavy bag please allow me to help you carry it down from the train.”

“Thank you,” she said, knowing that if she declined his offer she would dent his pride. “That would be most kind. I do, as it happens, have a heavy bag and, as you can see, I’m not very strong.”

After lingering for longer than was necessary, the ticket collector wandered off, reassuring Alba that he would return at the end of the line to help her down. Once he had gone, she gazed out the window.

She thought of Fitz. She blushed as she remembered his kiss. The intimacy of it. It had been like slow dancing after a frenetic round of the twist. It had almost been too much, excruciatingly slow and tender. It had strained every nerve in her body, forced her to feel. To really feel. Not to pretend. It had come so naturally to him, this feeling thing. To her it had been embarrassing, then amusing, and finally almost painful.

The countryside glimmered in the haze of the late morning sun. Tall cypress trees rose up with the heat and sandy-colored houses sheltered in the shade of pine and cedar. Alba wanted to stick her head out of the window and sniff the air like Sprout did in the back of Fitz’s Volvo. She had imagined these smells all her life. She had seen Italy in films, but nothing could have prepared her for the aching beauty of the country. It was fitting that her mother had come from this earthly heaven, for in Alba’s mind she embodied all those qualities; her spirit moved among the abundant bougainvillea, olive groves, and heavy vines.

The train screeched to a halt in Sorrento. As he had promised, the ticket collector returned to help Alba with her bag. Eager to please, he wheeled it all the way along the platform and out onto the street, then bade her goodbye. The town was busy. People walked by, their thoughts on themselves, oblivious of the young woman who stood in bewilderment, her stomach now twisting with hunger. The buildings were white, yellow, and red, their shutters closed to keep the rooms cool, the ground-floor windows protected by iron bars, the doors vast, shut, and inhospitable. Although pretty, there was something unwelcoming about the place.

Finally, the street opened onto the seafront. Boats bobbed up and down on the water or had been dragged up onto the beach. The wet sand was brown like gravel and people ambled up and down the quay, enjoying the sunshine. A couple of restaurants and shops spilled out onto the pavement and the smell of roasting tomatoes and onions wafted on the breeze. She felt her stomach rumble and her mouth salivate. She longed for a glass of water. In her fury she hadn’t thought of stealing a few supplies from the hotel minibar. The more she thought about food and drink, the hungrier and thirstier she became.

She did not allow herself to wallow in self-pity, as she would have been tempted to do had her will weakened. Self-pity never got anyone anywhere and she despised those weeping women in the movies. She had got this far; with a little charm she could get to Incantellaria. Leaving her bag on the quay, she gathered her courage and marched up to a wizened old fisherman pottering about his boat. As she approached, the smell of fish invaded her nostrils and she was struck by a wave of nausea. “Excuse me,” she said, smiling sweetly. The old man looked up. He didn’t smile. In fact, he looked more than a little irritated to have been disturbed. “I need to get to Incantellaria,” she stated. He looked at her blankly.

“I can’t take you,” he replied, shaking his head as if she were an annoying fly he wanted to be rid of.

“Do you know anyone who can?”

He shrugged unhelpfully, raising the palms of his hands to the sky. “Nanni Baroni will take you,” he said after a moment’s thought.