Page 72 of Capo
I fiddle with the belt, locking it in place. “Do they also work for Salvatore?” I have to shout to be heard over the engine. We’re rocking back and forth, dodging potholes and bumps. I have my heart in my throat the whole ride.
My driver shrugs again. “They’re just people, Signorina. Good people. You will see.”
‘Relatives in Sicily. Treat them with respect.’
His words make my throat clench. What if I don’t live up to his expectations? Who are these people? I see hardened, rough mafiosos before me, like in the movies, hats, a cigar in the corner of their mouths, machine guns. My mouth goes dry as we approach flat, beige stone buildings. This is it. A kid runs across the road and my driver honks his horn, making a sharp turn into a narrow alley that soon opens to a square. We come to a stop in front of a house looking much like the others. Every window has cascades of flowers in front of them. It looks peaceful, well cared for.
My driver honks repeatedly until a woman comes rushing out of the house. He hops out, greets her with cheek kisses and then opens my door.
“Signorina. This way.”
The old lady is completely dressed in black, has gray hair and leathery, weathered skin. She takes both my hands and shakes them as I step out of the car, again struck by the heat. She looks me over from top to toe, her gaze stopping at my sock-clad feet. She turns to the driver, gestures to me and to the sky as a string of words I don’t know pour over us. The driver shrugs, answers something.
“Hey, what’s she saying?”
“She wonders why you’re dressed like that.”
I turn to her with a grimace. “Long story.”
“This is Signora Maria DeCata. She will take care of you. I must leave.” He throws up a hand in a greeting, hops in the car and disappears in a roaring cloud of dust before I can even answer.
“Vieni, vieni, Signorina!”
She waves for me to come with her and I follow, stepping into the surprisingly cool, semi-darkness of the house. Maria keeps talking, gesturing. I shake my head and gesture to my ears. I have no clue what she’s saying.
“English?” I ask.
She stops and frowns, holds up a hand. “Attesa.” Then she disappears out the door and leaves me alone.
I’m alone. Left alone. With an open door. Are they absolutely clueless? My heart speeds up. Maybe I can actually get away from here? I think of the mountains, the long, dusty road and the barren land. Not without shoes. Not without a car. I put the thought away for now and sink down on a chair by a sturdy, wooden kitchen table. Soon enough I hear women’s voices and Maria steps inside with a woman in tow who seems to be about my age. She grabs my shoulders and kisses both my cheeks.
“I’m Alessandra. Welcome to Bietini.”
I must look like a question mark.
“Our village. We have been told to take care of you. You can come with me.” She looks me over. “Do you have a bag?”
I shake my head as I stand. “I’m so happy that someone speaks English!”
Alessandra laughs. “I am the only one, I think. No bag. Hmm. You need clothes. And shoes.”
I nod eagerly and she waves for me to come. “Grazie, Maria,” she says and kisses the old woman on the cheek.
The stone paving is hot and it permeates through my socks, burning the soles of my feet. Sweat breaks out again and I tear off the shirt, leaving me with only two layers of clothes on my upper body instead of three. I feel like I’ll pass out any moment. My head spins and maybe I shouldn’t have had that last Vodka. My throat is parched. I’m about to ask her how far we’re going when we make a sharp turn into a little alley and she pushes open a door to a two-story building.
“We have arranged a room for you, Chloe. I’ll find you something to wear. Are you hungry?”
“No, but I’m thirsty. It’s hot!”
“Yes, we have winds from the Sahara.”
“Sahara? Africa?”
Alessandra laughs. “Yes. It’s close. I’ll be back soon. Your room is upstairs to the right. The other door is the bathroom. You can’t miss it. There are bottles of water in the kitchen. Make yourself at home.”
Africa? It hasn’t really struck me until now where I am.
I make a quick survey of the house and find a rustic kitchen with a counter full of vegetables and several plastic bottles of water, like she said. I drink eagerly and move on to a small living room with a couch, an armchair, a couple of tables with crocheted tablecloths, and a TV. On the far side of the room is a door that leads to a bedroom. Upstairs I find my designated room, and the only bathroom in the house. I can’t help wondering if I have been given the best bedroom. The walls are painted white. There is a fairly large, four-poster bed that must have been built in place, a wooden closet, an armchair and a little side table. There are no decorations other than a tiny painting of Mary and Jesus, hanging on the wall above the top of the bed. Sheer, white curtains cover the window that has a view of a backyard and the mountains. It’s dead quiet. I wonder how many houses there are here, how many people, and where everybody is.