Rosamanti (10 page)

Reaching over to the table, she grabbed a notebook and pen. “Read out the first one please Carlo.”

“
Come un cane, cercate l’osso
.” Scratching his head, he frowned. “It says: like a dog, you seek the bone.” He looked up at her with a blank look.

She wrote down the words in the notebook, then looked up to meet his gaze.

“Signora? A bone? The treasure is a bone? Mama mia!”

“Next one?”

Lips compressed, he turned back to the handwritten note.

“
Bianco diventa blu,
”
he paused turning the paper slightly sideways and screwing up his eyes
,
“
attenzione la tonalità.
” Again he looked confused. “She has scribbled over this word.” He pointed with his finger. He read it out slowly. “White becomes blue, beware the hue.” He looked up at her and licked his lips. “Signora, I think it is a body. First there is a bone, then it says to beware.”

She frowned. “Well if you’re right, there won’t be too much left after eighty odd years.” She wrote down the translation.

“
Prendete il vostro ultimo respiro, ora faccio la tua morte…”
His face paled. “No signora. I am certain. There is no treasure.” He swallowed.

“What does it say? Tell me!”

He cleared his throat. “Take your last breath, you now face your death.”

She nearly dropped the pen. “Are you sure?”

“Si.” He looked small and vulnerable. She reached out and put her arm around his shoulders.

“It’s okay Carlo. She probably wrote this for a game. Like someone who puts a message in a bottle and tosses it out to sea, hoping someone will find it and have a bit of fun.”

His wide open eyes told her he didn’t think that very likely. She didn’t think so either.

“But…” he paused, “what if it is real?”

Exhaling noisily, She shrugged. “I honestly don’t know.”

The excitement had faded. She looked at Carlo, wishing she hadn’t asked him to help her decipher the Italian clues. Why would a twelve year old girl write such things?

“Come on, let’s go and see if there are any eggs for you to take home to your mama.” She stood up and reached a hand down to him as he knelt on the worn mat, his elbows resting on the coffee table. He looked at her hand for a moment, his expression still worried. Then he took it and stood up.

“Can I collect the eggs, signora? I’ll be careful.”

Her laugh rang out. “Of course you can.”

* * *

Sarah stared out at the view from the bus window, delighting in the brilliant colors of sea and sky. Sheer cliff faces, dropping majestically to the blue water, were dotted with villas and dwellings in pastel shades. Green pine trees dotted the cliff edge, some even growing from rugged ledges half way down.

After collecting eggs with Carlo, she had walked in to Capri township. He gave her instructions on where to catch the bus to Anacapri. As she sat in the bumpy little bus—not much bigger than a large family vehicle—she mused how she had hardly ventured beyond the microcosmic world of Rosamanti. In such a short time, so much had happened. New friends, new pets, a new way of life, and she was writing again. It couldn’t possibly get any better!
The narrow, steep and winding road hugged the sharp ridge stretching from east to west across the island. To the right—down toward Marina Grande—lay a couple of tiny, crescent shaped coves, where a break in the rugged cliffs created a small swimming bay.

The bus turned off
via Roma
and veered right onto
via Provinciale Anacapri
. As they climbed higher, groves of olive trees drooped with fruit. Spread on the ground under each tree was a large net. Soon she saw people on ladders under the trees, shaking the branches and making the olives drop down to the net. Farther along, several people were gathering the net in by holding the edges and collecting the fruit, as fishermen would gather their catch of tiddlers on the beach. The bus driver changed gear several times, dropping to low gear. The motor whined as the driver negotiated several extremely tight hairpin bends, while climbing steeply upward. They passed orchards of citrus, looking lush and healthy. As the little bus ground its way painfully to the crest, Sarah sucked in a huge gulp of air as a view so magnificent it threatened to make her faint spread before her. The driver stopped the bus, looked over his shoulder, and called out to the four passengers.

“
Castello Barbarossa. Cinque minuti
.” He cut the motor and opened the door. One young man who had been standing at the bus stop, climbed aboard and sat down. Taking advantage of the brief stop, Sarah stood and, taking her camera out of her bag, indicated to the driver that she wanted to take a photo.

“Si, signora.”

She walked to the rear of the bus and looked down at Marina Grande and the rugged coastline of the northern edge of the island. Her camera clicked as she took snaps. But the most amazing sight was higher up on the ridge behind her. She had caught a glimpse of Castella Barbarossa as they rounded the bend, just before stopping. She knew from her guide book, that this castle was built by the infamous pirate Barbarossa when he invaded Capri back in the 16
^th
century. She took photos from several angles, then took a few minutes to examine the castle’s round Byzantine towers, rising high, silhouetted against the dark blue sky. The sharp toot of the bus’s horn and the roar of the engine as it kicked into life, made her jump. She quickly jumped back on board and found her seat.

Craning her neck as they started back on the journey, she tried to absorb as much of the amazing view as she could. The road was much flatter now, and within about fifteen minutes, they entered an area filled with homes and hotels. The bus stopped again, the driver shouting, “
Piazza Vittoria,
” and everyone alighted. She was last off.

Clutching her straw basket and putting her hat firmly on her head, she wandered through the charming laneways of the town center, exploring the piazza that opened out into small squares with surprising frequency. Cobblestone pavements, covered with square tables dressed in white tablecloths, sat outside cafés and restaurants, beckoning customers with their aromas and colorful décor. She strolled languidly past attractive shop windows dressed with handmade leather sandals, cute clothing shops, and hats. Local ceramics, bearing the traditional colors of blue and yellow, beckoned her. Inside, she idly wandered among the quaint and serviceable ceramics. Plates and tableware, painted with masses of yellow sunflowers on blue backgrounds, drew her attention. In one shop, she found a ceramic goat, not unlike Geraldina, but painted in exquisite yellow flowers intertwined with greenery, and views of the blue sea in the background.

“
Quanto costa?
” she asked, indicating the goat statue.

The shop assistant wrapped it safely in white tissue paper and placed it in a small carry bag. Pleased with her purchase, she moved from shop to shop, stopping to explore the unique wares. She saw stores that only sold limoncello. Entering one, the shop owner greeted her with a tiny tasting glass, asking her to try the lovely liquid. Having only had it once, Sarah happily agreed. Once more astounded by the kick, she smiled and looked around her as she sipped the smooth drink. Everything for sale in the shop was yellow. It looked sunny, warm and bright. Back outside in the narrow lane, fruit and vegetable carts overflowed with gorgeously fresh produce. Hanging from the roof of the cart, ropes of dried chilies—dangling like children’s sweets in shiny colors of red, yellow, orange, green and purple—looked like decorations rather than ingredients. Ropes of garlic bulbs, and festoons of onions, hung from hooks. Large bunches of beautiful yellow bananas, looking very inviting, reminded her of home, where every backyard had banana trees growing.

Hours passed happily in this quaint, attractive, and friendly little town. She stopped at a little pavement trattoria for some
bruschetta
and a glass of wine. Later, she stopped at a café for coffee and some lemon cake—a dry madeira style cake dusted with icing sugar. She must ask Pietro how to make this.
Thoughts of Pietro made her heart leap in her chest. It had been nearly forty-eight hours since she had spoken to him. She smiled to herself, shaking her head, and wondered where her resolve to embark on a solo, hermit, isolated, twelve month sojourn, had gone. Life certainly brings some surprises, she thought.

She walked leisurely back to the bus stop in the piazza. On impulse, instead of going straight to Capri township, she boarded the bus down to Marina Grande. She thought that Pietro should be back from Naples by now. Maybe she could hitch a ride back to Rosamanti on the Vespa.
With a smile so wide that she felt her eyes crinkling at the corners, she relaxed on the bus, and again let her eyes feast on the raw and rugged beauty of the island of Capri. The color blue dominated everything—blue sky, blue sea—making the perfect backdrop to the light grey limestone cliffs, the dark green of the stunted Mediterranean pines, and the tall cypress pines that grew up on Lo Capo. As the bus descended the steep ridge, it once again passed olive groves, the sage green and silver leaves complementing the bright, shiny green lemon trees, dotted with luminous yellow fruit. Paradise, she thought. It was just like the Garden of Eden
.

Soon the bus arrived at Marina Grande. Day-trippers lined up along the floating pontoon to buy tickets to the Blue Grotto. A long queue of people, waiting to board the funicular, hummed with conversation as they stood, fanning themselves with their hats. Patiently waiting to enter the little funicular station, they were at the mercy of the harsh sun and the heat reflecting from the pavement in the portside square. Alighting the bus, Sarah donned her hat and walked toward Zia Maria’s restaurant, over near where the fishing boats rested on coarse sand that looked like crushed shells. As she got near, Maria came out and, seeing Sarah, rushed over and hugged her, kissing both cheeks.

“Ciao, bella!
Great to see you!” Her exuberant welcome took Sarah by surprise, but she was beginning to get used to the warmth of everyday greetings in this country. So unlike the Australians, who were much more reserved.

Sarah hugged her back. “Ciao, Zia Maria.”

“You want some lunch? Maybe some wine—some coffee?”

Shaking her head, Sarah smiled back. “Not this time. I was wondering if Pietro was still here.”

“Allora. No, he is already gone. He went up to Rosamanti an hour ago.” She raised her eyebrows and cocked her head to one side. “I think perhaps that he went to see you?”

Sarah tried hard to hide her disappointment.

“It’s no problem. I was just out shopping and thought I’d pop in.” If Zia Maria believes that, she thought, she’d believe anything.

“I’ll just finish my shopping then catch the funicular up to La Piazzetta. I don’t have much to carry today.” She beamed at the formidable Zia Maria, who seemed able to read you from the inside out, her unwavering gaze unnerving. After a moment, Maria nodded her head, seemingly satisfied.

“Okay, but you come for lunch tomorrow, si?
Domani
. I wait for you.” Maria looked past Sarah and bellowed a welcome to two possible patrons. Competition for business was fierce on the island, so touting for diners was an art form. Luckily, thought Sarah, not too many people would be game to say no to Zia Maria.

She walked back along the quay, idly looking into shops. Suddenly, all the joy of window shopping had left her. A strong urge to get home to Rosamanti drew her in the direction of the funicular. The queue looked even longer. Taxi drivers, chatting in the shade of a large tree, noticed her.

“Signora! Signora! Taxi!”

Her haste to see Pietro got the better of her.

“Quanto?”

“
Cinque Euro
.” He held up his hand, five fingers spread. A squabble broke out among the idle taxi drivers. Not wanting to become embroiled in an argument about which one got the fare, she nodded to the smiling driver.

“Si. Cinque Euro.” Knowing it was much cheaper for locals, she shrugged her shoulders and allowed the driver to guide her to his open top, bright yellow taxi. A flimsy blue and white striped canvas roof protected her from the fierce sun.

The drive up to Capri was just as hair-raising as it had been that afternoon on the back of Pietro’s Vespa. She found it much better for her nerves to not look out the front windscreen and tried to concentrate on the view which she doubted she would ever get tired of. The car sped through the single-lane road at frightening speed. The driver had one hand on his horn, beeping almost constantly, arguing with bus drivers and other vehicles over right of way. She wished she was wearing a seatbelt, but couldn’t find one. She wondered if he was a wannabe Formula 1 driver.
Within what seemed like minutes, the driver pulled into the taxi bay near the bus station. With shaking hands, she gave him five Euro. His pathetic face told her she was mean for not tipping. Under her breath, she murmured, “Get over it. You nearly killed me.”

She set off through the maze of little laneways, flanked by startlingly white stucco walls. Sometimes the walls met overhead, providing a cool, shady corridor through which to meander. As she emerged into a wider, cobblestoned lane, the sun once again beat down on her. Masses of purple and hot-pink bougainvillea, set against the stark white walls, lifted her mood. A row of bicycles stood close together, their backs against a wall. The sign outside the small shop caught her eye.

Biciclette elettriche in vendita.

She stared at it, frowning, as her mind worked through the machinations of translation.

“Ciao, signora. You want to see the bikes?” A man—who looked to be well into old age—smiled at her, his shock of white hair shining in the bright sunlight as he stood in the doorstep.

“Si. Thanks.”

He pulled a bright red one out from the line of bikes and stood it up on its stand. He reached into his back pocket and he took out a wrench, then loosed the bolt to drop the seat height. Sarah inspected this curious looking bicycle. It was more like a moped, but had pedals and a chain to drive the back wheel.