We Run the Tides(61)

“Want to walk to the piazza with me and get a bite?” I suggest.

“I could use a walk,” she says. “Do you mind, Hugh?”

He says he doesn’t, but I watch him stare at Maria Fabiola as she stands. It takes me a minute to place what I see on his face. It’s a look of concern a parent might give a child who’s about to take a test for which they are not prepared.

Maria Fabiola pulls on a bright blue dress and slips on crisp white espadrilles. I return to my lounge chair and slide into my flip-flops and a white cover-up that’s a few years old and, in the sunlight, appears a shade of buttermilk.

We walk out of the hotel and onto the promenade. Maria Fabiola suggests we go into a Missoni store. “You’ll love their material,” she says. The saleswoman smiles at Maria Fabiola. I mention I’m looking for a new cover-up, and she pulls out several options for me to try on. While I’m changing, I hear the saleswoman complimenting the color of Maria Fabiola’s attire. “It’s the color of the famous Blue Grotto,” the saleswoman says.

The flattery works. Maria Fabiola tries on a long shimmering blue and green skirt.

“What do you think?” she says, admiring herself in the mirror.

“It looks incredible,” I say honestly. “You look like a mermaid.”

She buys it on the spot. I marvel at the ease with which she hands over her credit card. “Are you going to get anything?” Maria Fabiola asks me.

“I’ll come back later,” I lie.

We continue down the promenade. A breeze from the sea below scatters the heat. We pass two Carabinieri talking to a photographer.

“Do you know it’s illegal to be a paparazzi here?” Maria Fabiola says. “Yesterday Hugh and I were out on the water and all these fishing boats around us were filled with men with cameras with long lenses. They were desperate to get photos of the party on some rapper’s yacht.”

I don’t know what the correct response is. “Shameful,” I say.

We pass a church where a wedding is about to take place. The bridesmaids pose outside with white bouquets. Their dresses are silk, dark fuchsia, and too heavy for this heat.

Maria Fabiola and I approach the piazza. We pick a casual, relatively empty restaurant and sit at a shaded outdoor table. The waiter approaches and we each order a glass of wine and a prosciutto and melon appetizer and caprese salad to share. A boy kicks a soccer ball into the middle of the piazza and I watch as he runs after it.

“Do you have children?” she asks.

“One,” I say, “a boy.” And then, for no reason, I feel the need to explain. “I became a mom late,” I say. “I was married before and it ended. Then I miscarried twice—both times were devastating. I’m happy to have the one.” I tell her about Gabriel and how we spend every weekend, it seems, on a train. “He’s at that age,” I say. I reach for my phone so I can show her a photo.

“Oh, no, let’s not be cliché,” she says. “Let’s try to be European and not bring our phones out on the table.”

“Okay,” I say, replacing my phone in my bag. I remember how she had a way of making me feel crass. “What about you? Do you have children?”

She hesitates. She stares at me and a smile overtakes her face. “Three daughters,” she says.

“Ah, that’s like out of a fairy tale,” I say.

Her smile vanishes. “What do you mean?” she asks.

“You know, the number three is always in fairy tales. Three bears, three pigs, three daughters. Three’s the charm.”

“You were always so into reading your stories,” she says.

And you were so into making up yours, I want to say. But we’ve grown up now, and so I refrain.

We drink our wine, we laugh.

Before long, a large table near ours is populated by a group of beautiful young women.

“They must be models,” I whisper to Maria Fabiola. She says “Yes” without looking at them. The tables around the models fill quickly. People the world over believe beauty is contagious.

We listen to the models speak accented English with one another. Russian, Slovakian, Dutch, we guess. Three of the four are smoking. Passersby stop, stare, move on. Soon, though, the attention seems to be waning, so one of the models stands up and takes two loping steps into the piazza. “Hey bitches,” she says, far too loudly, “can you tell I’ve been working out?”

All the young women compliment her physique. Now the attention of the piazza, two hundred pairs of eyes, is back upon the table of models. The models look away, feigning disgust.

“I hope my girls don’t grow up to be models,” Maria Fabiola says. But there is something in her voice that implies that this will be difficult to fight—their beauty will pull them inexorably toward modelhood.

The food arrives and over lunch Maria Fabiola tells me about her daughters. Their names are Simone, Cleo, and Mirabella. The youngest is interested in ballet, the two older girls play tennis, like their father.

The church bells start to clang loudly. We watch the newly married couple emerge from the small church, holding hands. Everyone in the restaurant and in the piazza stands and applauds. The bride’s and groom’s eyes blink quickly, like newborns adjusting to the light.

“So how much time do you spend translating?” she asks, turning toward me.