Frank Polizzi - Somewhere in the Stars

“Mille grazie , but I don’t know what I should do.”

“You men are all the same. When it comes to sex, you are very aggressive, and when it comes to love, you are always conflicted. If you love Caterina, you must fight for her just like Nathan is doing as we speak. You must face il tuo destino.”

It was a warm, sunny day and Nick wiped the sweat off his brow with a white handkerchief and trailed Isabella down to the water. In the distance Nick could see the rocks jutting from a cluster of islets and further north the fuming Stromboli. The one-room guesthouse walls were whitewashed and two bright red bougainvillea plants climbed the stucco and crowned the top of the front door. There were patches of yellow hibiscus plants, some buds already full and waiting to open up. Isabella knocked on the door and entered the artist’s studio. Nick heard Caterina yelling at Isabella, who came out of the guesthouse with her hands over her ears.

“Go around to the back where it faces the sea and find yourself a chair. If you’re patient enough, she may have a few words with you. Buona fortuna, Nicolo !”

After an hour, Caterina, wearing a cotton dress the same hue as the bougainvillea, broke through the light blue beads that led to the terrace. She stood there for a while, her brow and lips pursed, brown hair streaked lighter from the sun and braided down her back. She sized Nick up and down. The way she glared at him reminded him that she had every right to despise him.

“Caterina, is it really you?”

“Why are you here?”

“I had to see you again.”

“ Bene , you have seen me, so now you can go back to North Beach.”

Nick got out of his chair and walked up to her. Her face lacked any expression. “You don’t understand, Caterina. Things have changed since our days in Roma.”

“ Si , you state the obvious.”

“Can’t we at least talk for old time’s sake?”

“Pezzo di merde! I hate you.”

“I am sorry. Mi dispiace!”

“Meaningless words! You walked out on me. Never even wrote me a postcard.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You said that already.”

“We can’t undo things of the past. We just have to get on with out lives. I just thought…”

“I’m going inside now.”

The beads crackled in his ears as she left. Nick trekked up to the villa and spoke with Isabella who tried to console him. He returned to the café and Salvatore took one look at him and gave him a glass of grappa and left him to sort things out on the terrazza . Nick could hear laughter from the café, as Salvatore spun a few stories in between serving his customers.

“Salvatore! Salvatore!” The owner came out wiping his hands on his waist apron.

“Mr. Nick, you sound upset.”

“I need a sailboat. Do you have one?”

“Certu. I let you borrow mine. It’s right over there.” Salvatore pointed to its mooring. “You can sail?”

“My father taught me a long time ago. Grazii.”

“Good luck fishing.” Salvatore laughed and went into the café.

Nick checked the seaworthiness of the sloop, examining the lines, halyards and sheets. Everything was secure, so early next morning he picked up a few provisions for the day at the alimentari , loaded up and set sail due south. The morning brought the salty-sweet smell of the sea, the wind billowing the sails, the Sicilian sun warming his face and the breeze tossing his hair. The cry of seagulls followed him part of the way. He never felt more alive than at this moment distancing himself from that Calypso-like island he left behind. The canto of the sails transformed him, while the lines hummed and the sales flapped, the water slapping the wooden sides and spraying his face. This heightened sensation suspended all memory and Nick lost himself in the exploration of the two islands that diagonally bookended Panarea.

His father had taught him well and he handled the tiller and adjusted the sails with aplomb. He laughed aloud at himself for succumbing to the gloomy clouds of his life when all he had to do was set sail alone, wherever the winds took him. Minchia , he was happy to be alive after all that happened. He didn’t need anyone to fulfill his life as long as he could breathe the fresh air that emanated around him. Without any perception of time, these thoughts repeated themselves again and again. What shocked Nick out of his reverie was his sense of smell, his nostrils and eyes wide open to the odor of rotten eggs. He carefully tacked his sails, then switched on the inboard engine, gliding into the port of Vulcano and tying up the boat, as it bobbed in the sea.

Nick followed a road past the hissing and fuming of sulfur coming out of the ground and came across the mud baths of Laghetto di Fanghi where he paid the attendant a few liras to enter the natural site. There was no one there so he had no inhibition about stripping naked to bathe in the pale brown, hot mud, rich with minerals. After immersing himself, he meditated for 15 minutes. He got out and was amazed there was not even a tingle of pain in his right leg. He stepped over to the nearby beach and washed himself off in the warm, spring-fed blue sea. Later, he bought a bottle of acqua minerale naturale and carefully hiked up to the rim of the Gran Catere, clouds of sulfurous gas in the air and within an hour made it to the top for a spectacular view of the Aeolians as far as Stromboli, then returned the same way to his sailboat heading northeast for that other fiery island.

After hours on the sea, Nick went ashore on Stromboli, detecting the power of the volcano as his feet touched land. He meandered around the rocky shoreline until he saw a man in his early thirties examining rocks and placing one in a sample bag. He moved closer to him and discerned he was British, judging by his safari hat and khaki shorts with kneehigh socks. He smiled thinking that no self-respecting Italian, especially a Southern one, would be caught dead wearing pants only fit for children.

“Tu sei inglese, no ?” Nick asked.

“Right you are, English!”

“I’m American sailing around the archipelago. Nick Spataro.” He offered his hand and the Englishman cranked it.

“Nigel Dickens, no relation.” He grinned like a Cheshire cat. “Sailing round the Tyrrhenian sea, is it? Lovely idea. Would like to do that myself. But as you see I’m quite busy with these volcanic rocks. The magma ejects all kinds of interesting forms. So what made you stop here at the ‘Lighthouse of the Mediterranean’?”

“Can’t say I’m much interested in rocks and minerals. But I do find watching the eruptions exciting from Panarea, where I’m staying. You know, smoke and fire spurting. Lava spilling.”

“Ah, you like the fire and brimstone,” Nigel said laughing while Nick grinned.

“First time to Sicily?”

“No. I first came during the American invasion of southeastern Sicily.”

“Blimey, I was there too. Engineering unit under Montgomery. And you?”

“Tank destroyer squadron, Paton. But if you don’t mind, I’d rather not talk about it.” Nick pursed his lips.

“Right you are. No point to it now. We have to get on with it.”

“Are you doing academic research or exploring for a mining company?”

“On a grant from Oxford to study the effects of surface change over time. No doubt you Yanks might find all this boring.”

“Everybody has to follow their own stars.”

“I see. You like all those dreamy things. Are you a writer of sorts?”

“Nah, but I am majoring in American Lit.”

“A man after my own heart. Can’t get enough of your American English, as they call it. Always changing, not like our stuffy British English, but then again we do have Shakespeare. And Dickens, of course.” They both laughed.