Frank Polizzi - Somewhere in the Stars

At breakfast inside the café, Nick watched some of the villagers stop by for a caffé and a cornetto , chattering in Sicilian, Italian, or a combination of both. He lost himself in the banter of the morning regulars. When the café got quiet, Salvatore sat down next to Nick.

“Did you have a good rest?”

“I slept, but not peacefully.”

“Your backpack is gone and yet it seems you still have a weight on your shoulders. Another Atlas.”

“I carry more than a myth but I’m not seeking solace.”

“Mi dispiaci, my nature is to be simpaticu.”

“Well, maybe you can help me. I’m looking for someone.”

“Una bella donna.” Salvatore laughed. “We men are always looking for one.”

“Okay, if you don’t want to help.”

“No Signuri Nicolo. I was just having a little fun.”

“Just call me Nick.”

“Whatever you say, Mr. Nick.”

“I’m searching for a Caterina. Her last name is Rossetto. She is a Milanese. Met her in Roma.”

“Ah, you must be very careful how you treat such a woman.”

“You don’t know her.”

“Tu sì giustu ma … Allura, she is not from here. That’s all I can tell you.”

“Are you sure?”

“I have lived here my whole life and know everyone and everything. And whatever I don’t know, someone will gossip to me before long. There are always some scanusciuti here, è veru, looking for something, but no Caterina. Who knows, maybe she snuck in when I was away? Why don’t you take a hike on the road and find a beach to walk on? You can throw your troubles to our winds.” Salvatore raised his right forearm, palm open and slowly lowered it. “I’ll ask around if there is da donna mistiriusa from Milano, Roma, et cetera. We can talk when you come back for pranzu.”

As Nick strolled east along the narrow trail, he passed by houses hidden by whitewashed walls, some with purple bougainvillea clinging to them, the sea revealing itself unexpectedly. He discovered a small church, Chiesa San Pedro. There was no one inside and he lit a candle in front of the saint’s statue. He made the sign of the cross and stepped out the door. The sun blurred his vision, as if a sign that his search would be futile. He continued on and found a beach on the cove of Zimmari. Nick took off his boots and socks and carried them, as he ran through the red sand in slow motion to confirm that he belonged on terra firma. When he came to the end of the cove, he sat on a rock, dropping his footwear, to have a smoke and enjoy the unspoiled setting, but there was no one to share the moment with. Within minutes a shooting pain began from his right calf and wrapped around his lower leg, clamping it like an alley cat sinking its sectorial teeth into a hapless mouse. He limped to the edge of the water, rolled up his pants and waded up to his knees. The cold water shocked the heat in his leg. Before returning to his rocky seat, he scooped several handfuls of muddy sand and smeared it over the sore leg. He lowered himself onto the rock, as the throbbing subsided.

As Nick stared at the Tyrrhenian Sea, he rationalized that this business of being alone wasn’t such a big deal, until Caterina morphed into this watery scene and remembrances of her floated around the undulating sea, memories that he had tried to wash away when he returned to San Francisco. When the sound of the surf brought him back to the present, Nick rubbed the caked mud off, unrolled his pants gingerly and put his socks and boots on. He returned to the café, picking up the pace in anticipation of what Salvatore might have found out. The salty air invigorated him and, as he passed the tiny church again, he wondered why he had not seen or heard the chatter of birds, a sign of bad luck as far as he was concerned.

When Nick got back to the café, he sat at the same table on the terrazzo and watched the movement of fishing boats and the scheduled ferries docking. Salvatore brought out an espresso for Nick, assuming he would need a late morning jolt. He placed the cup down and smiled, but Nick continued peering at the sea.

“Bon giornu, Mr. Nick. How did your hike go?”

“ Va beni. Did you learn anything from your paisani ?”

“ Mi dispiaci. Nenti!” Salvatore rubbed his beard. “Perhaps something will turn up.”

Nick drank his espresso to the bottom and walked into the rear of the café to find the bagno. As he approached the door, there was an occupato sign on the lock mechanism. To kill some time, he moseyed around the middle of the café admiring plates with a sage green, yellow and blue design displayed on a shelf. He turned one around and saw it was crafted in Caltigirone. On the opposite side he noticed a painting in an alcove that would normally have had a statue of a saint. He moved closer to get a better look. The rendering was of a fountain, which reminded him of the one in Piazza Madonna dei Monti . His eyes ran over the canvas and led to the right corner where he saw a name scribbled.

“Salvatore, veni cca,” Nick shouted, while Salvatore finished rinsing a glass.

“What’s all the fuss?”

“It’s signed Caterina. The last name starts with an R and trails off. I thought you said there was no one on this island with that name.”

Salvatore looked up to the ceiling. “ Si , a woman who is new to Panarea gave it to me to hang on the wall.” He looked back at Nick. “Said it was on loan for a while. She advised me to fill all the walls with local artists. Ma chi sacciu ? But what do I know? She laughed at me for being rusticu , not knowing how to attract tourists.” Nick just wanted to know who dropped the painting off. In exasperation, he extended his right hand palm down, opening and closing four fingers on his thumb, but Salvatore ignored him. “Telling me my place needed to look like the bohemian cafés in Roma. So to keep her happy, after all, she is very attractive, marone , her breasts…”

“ Pregu , who is she?”

“Her first name is Isabella. That is all I know.”

“Caterina had a friend named Isabella.” Nick tapped his forehead. “Allura, what else can you tell me?”

“Isabella came here six months ago and rented a villa beyond Chiesa San Pedro.”

“I went by the church this morning.”

“There is a small child. A boy. They hardly ever leave the villa . My nephew, Giovanni, sometimes runs errands for them. If you wish, I’ll get him. You would need him to lead you, as the villa è molto difficili to find.”

“ Pregu , it is my only lead.”

“I’ll make you a light pranzu , insalata di mare . Va beni ?”

“Grazii, Salvatore.” Nick ran off to the bathroom.

The next morning Nick trailed several steps behind Salvatore’s nephew who looked unhappy that he had to play guide, as the boy strode down the trail, just wide enough to fit a camioncino . Before they reached San Pedro, the boy deviated left on a path, motioning Nick to follow. It was a trail that one person could fit on, winding down an incline. The nephew stopped at a lookout spot and pointed to the villa and said, “Dda” and then took off leaving Nick by himself.

The path widened as Nick got closer to the villa and he chose a hidden vantage point behind a group of prickly pear cactuses where he could see who came in and out. He was thirsty and drank some acqua minerale from a thermos while he waited. A red heron landed on the outside wall of the villa that was covered with purple bougainvillea. The bird had lighted its long body on the top of the wall, made no sound, then flew away. He thought for sure this was a sign and decided to stay as long as it took to see the signora who had dropped the painting off.