After I ask the British barista if they’re hiring and get a big fat no, she points me to the corner of the café where the notice board is. Though most of the postings are actual flyers for parties or advertisements for ceramic sales, there are a few work notices.
One of them looks fresh—none of the phone number and e-mail strips on the notice have been torn off.
It reads:
Need help. Want English speaking woman. Two children. Must be good to young children and help with language. Fluency needed. Italian is helpful to have. Please e-mail Felisa. Locate to Capri.
I quickly take the notice off of the board before anyone else notices. Like hell I’m going to compete for this job. Even though I’m not really sure what it entails other than possibly teaching English to two kids, or what it pays, or if it includes room and board, I’m not going to give up the opportunity. If it doesn’t work out, then I’ll just put the ad back.
I immediately connect to the café’s Wi-Fi on my cell phone and write an e-mail to Felisa. I make myself sound as good as possible: Graduated from San Jose State with a B.A. in English. Worked as a receptionist for a prestigious manufacturing company (before I was fired). Great with children (I think I babysat once when I was fifteen). Willing to work on Capri, provided help with housing is included. Spent a great deal of time building up life skills while traveling Southeast Asia. Know how to bake a mean tiramisu.
That last part is a lie but I thought they might find it endearing.
I press send and then wait.
And wait.
And when I realize I’m not going to get a response right away, I head to the bar next door, taking the work notice with me.
* * *
I don’t get a reply until the next morning. I didn’t sleep well, between obsessing over how to get home and trying to ignore the sounds of Hendrik and Ana having sex. You’d think I’d be used to public dorm room copulation by now, but I’m not. It’s one of those things you don’t want to get used to because then that means you should probably reexamine your life.
When I check my e-mail on my phone, all bleary-eyed, I see that Felisa wants me to meet her at the dock at four this afternoon. It doesn’t say anything else. Not what she looks like or if I need to bring anything or where we’re going. I mean, the dock? She’s not actually thinking of doing the job interview on the island of Capri, is she?
But as many questions as I have, I’m also excited. Because this is promising. And it was so easy. One e-mail and bam! I might just be teaching English to two cute Italian children. I bet they’re just darling and say mama and eat politely. Sure, I don’t have a lot of experience with children, but I figure I might become a mother one day so this is good practice. I mean, the maternal instinct has to be in me somewhere.
I tell Ana and Henrik that I’m meeting someone down at the dock. I haven’t told them about my financial problems and don’t plan on it, so they’re a bit suspicious about this meeting, even when I try to play it off as if I met a guy yesterday and I’m meeting up with him again.
I mean, it could be true, in a way. I assume that the children will have a father and he might want to interview me, too.
I leave at three o’clock because the hill takes its time to wind down, and Italians walk slowly (yet drive frighteningly fast). I’m at the dock with plenty of time to spare.
Positano is absolutely gorgeous from the water and the pebbled beach is packed with bronzed men in Speedos and brightly-striped umbrellas and chairs. Tiny boats and Jet Skis zip back and forth, sloshing the low dock with water. I stand there and wait, my face to the sun, still pinching myself that I’m here, in Italy, and it’s a gorgeous day.
Time seems to drag on a bit. I look across the dock and slowly realize that no big ships are docking here, only small boats. I look over to my left and notice a large hydrofoil pulling out from the area around the rocks.
Oh shit. Is that the dock she meant? Have I been standing in the wrong place this whole time?
I whip out my phone and look at the time. Four ten. Just fucking great.
I’m about to start running across the beach toward the bigger ships when a woman yells out. “Hey you!”
I stop in my tracks, pebbles flying everywhere and getting in my sandals, and see a woman striding toward me. She’s short and round with gray hair pulled off her face, showcasing her very sharp nose. She’s still beautiful, though, in an older, classy woman way. Or she would be if she didn’t look so scowl-y.
“Show me your hands,” she says in a thick accent, stomping over to me, and for a moment I’m afraid that this is all a misunderstanding. Is she mistaking me for a thief or something?