We Run the Tides(59)
We take a ferry to Capri the next morning. In an hour we’re there, under the white cliffs draped in green. We’re driven up a steep hill in a golf cart, and then must travel by foot to Anacapri, where cars are not allowed. We walk along a breezy promenade with its explosion of pink bougainvillea. Birdsong is everywhere but we see no birds. We pass a tasteful advertisement for Inês’s festival appearance that evening. I take a photo of her posing in front of it and send it to Lucas.
Inês’s event is held outdoors, in the plaza in front of the hotel. Chairs have been set up so the audience can have a view of Inês and of the blue, blue sea. I sit off to the side, translating everything into English for those in the audience wearing headsets. While I’m proud of Inês, my translation job is mediocre. I’m accustomed to having time to pore over the words she writes before choosing the right one in English. But tonight, I need to translate quickly, and worry I’m not doing the poetry of her speech justice. No one seems to notice.
She signs books (she always signs them “With all my love, Inês”) and then there is a small dinner on the hotel’s patio. A buffet has been set up and candles have been lit. I sit at the round table adjacent to hers so her fans can be near her. Seated at my table is a boy around Gabriel’s age, and as I watch him eat his pasta and smear tomato sauce around his mouth, I yearn for my son. When the dinner is over, I accompany Inês to her room. The evening air is warm, the orange blossoms fragrant. The hotel has placed a chocolate cake on her desk.
Walking along a garden path to my room, I hear a woman laughing. The sound comes from one of the private patios that accompany the larger suites. I’m reminded of Maria Fabiola and that crazy laugh of hers. I listen closely to see if it will come again, but I only hear the sound of an Italian woman singing into a microphone. She’s been paid to entertain poolside, and has an audience of three.
In my room, I place a pillow over my head so I can sleep undisturbed. I wake up late and miss breakfast. Inês knocks on my door at 10 a.m. She’s snuck yogurts and fruits in her capacious purse so that I can eat. I ask what she wants to do that day, and she says she has plans to go to San Michele—the former home of a well-known Swedish doctor, with a man who was at dinner the previous night. Apparently he’s learning Portuguese and wants to practice with her. “Any young man, you know, is good research for my book,” she says and winks. She can’t wink with just one eye, so she shuts both her eyes, and for a moment it looks like she’s making a wish.
I decide to spend a couple hours sunbathing and swimming, so I walk down to the green lawn adjacent to the pool and search for a vacant chaise longue. As I get settled in, I watch two of the pool boys, both dressed in white shorts and white shirts, adjust an umbrella for an Italian woman in her seventies wearing a sparkling gold swimsuit. She directs them to move the umbrella to the left, then to the right. My swimsuit, a pale pink one-piece that seemed an homage to Fellini when I packed it, now seems not only muted but dated, too.
It’s too hot to read. After ten minutes I place my book on the chair and make my way to the pool. As I stand by the railing, dipping my toes in the water, I watch a woman with long hair emerge from the other side. She’s wearing a black bikini, and although she is thin, her bosom balloons over her top. A pool boy awaits her as she steps out. He seems only too happy to wrap her in an oversized white towel. As she turns and walks in my direction, I think Maria Fabiola. And then I second-guess myself.
She must sense another set of eyes on her because she turns toward me. After registering who I am, there’s a short and meaningful lapse before she forces her mouth to smile.
“Hello, Eulabee,” she says. She’s still fifteen feet away, her face drawn but beautiful.
I rush toward her. I expect we might hug, but she holds my shoulders and kisses me on both cheeks. It’s difficult to decipher whether it’s the kind of kiss one gives when greeting a friend or leaving them. Her nonchalance unnerves me. It’s been over three decades since our last interaction, but her posture implies I’ve followed her on vacation against her wishes.
“Come to where I’m sitting,” she says. “I have an extra chair set up. I’m waiting for my husband.” The emphasis is either to inform me I’m just invited to pass the time, or that he’s perpetually delaying her. I can’t tell which.
The tile is hot on my feet and she must notice my discomfort.
“You should get some sandals,” she says, like practical shopping advice is the most natural thing for her to be giving me right now.
“Oh, I have some,” I explain, stupidly. “They’re just somewhere else right now.”
We sit on the lounge chairs she’s reserved. They are perfectly shaded by a large umbrella, but still the pool boys come over to adjust it.
“Grazie,” she says to them, smiling. She’s almost fifty and her smile is still a precious reward. I can see this in the boys’ faces.
“Grazie,” I echo. The boys don’t look at me.
“I think this calls for two glasses of prosecco,” she says before ordering from the boys in Italian.
“I can’t believe we’re at the same hotel,” I say.
“Well, it is the best hotel in Capri,” she says, and looks to the sea so far below.
“Where do you live these days?” I ask casually, as though Spragg classmates haven’t spent hours speculating what kind of exotic place Maria Fabiola would be calling home. I expect her to say Barcelona or Rome, or a place I’ve never heard of, someplace where no one would have come across her.