3.
The sun was shining again when I woke up. I was alone in the bed and wondered whether I had dreamed the two girls. To be honest, I don’t suppose I was much entertainment to them. My recollection was foggy, and I must have fallen asleep quite quickly. Oh well. Easy come, easy go.
I wasn’t sure I hadn’t imagined the whole thing. I use my imagination to put my characters into situations that, let’s face it, are not normally associated with modern suburban life, so it’s possible my fatigued brain might make up two warm soft girls in my bed the moment my own life starts getting a little out of the ordinary. In for a penny, in for a pound, as they say.
I got up and dressed - khaki trousers, white shirt, and my cream coloured linen jacket. Then I went to try to find breakfast. If Valenti wanted to see me, he knew where I was.
There was a note taped to the door of the suite. “Thanks for a lovely night. We’ll pick you up at noon. Don’t be late. – J and C.” The note was real enough. J. and C. would be the girls, and not just figments of my imagination after all. I was glad to know that I wasn’t suffering from premature dementia. J and C? Jane and Clara? Jocasta and Charlie? I was too hungry for guessing games.
The hotel had a garden courtyard, complete with palm trees and flowering plants. I don’t know about plants. These ones had red flowers and some others had blue, yellow, or pink flowers. I liked the red ones. They seemed to come with coffee, and a menu that offered eggs, eggs, eggs, or toast. I felt magnanimous toward the serving staff, and ordered both eggs and toast. It came with ham and a ring of pineapple. I felt better.
“It’s very pleasant,” said a voice, “but the island does have a murky and some say sordid past.” There was a large older Englishman at the next table, looking at me intently.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m not sure I’m following you.”
“Just saying hello to a fellow Englishman,” said the man. “I thought you looked like a journalist and ventured that the island has, it is rumoured, a sordid past. Mafia, you know.” He tapped the side of his nose.
“Oh,” I said. I smiled. “No, I’m not a journalist. I write fiction.”
“Do you, dear boy?” said the man. “Fascinating. I always liked Robert Ludlum.”
“Yes,” I said. Why not like Ludlum, after all?
“I’m here for the sunny weather,” said the man. “Good for my lungs. I don’t suppose they’ll crucify me for that.” He chuckled, which turned into a cough. His lungs liked the weather more than they did conversation, apparently, or his jokes.
“No,” I said. “I suppose not.” Everyone seemed to mention crucifixion when they talked about Cassini. Come to Cassini, but watch out for the crucifixions. Maybe it was good for some kind of tourism. Sort of like a gift shop at Lizzie Borden’s house selling axes.
My breakfast arrived and the older man buried himself in a magazine. He seemed determined never to emerge.
I was ready for the “pick-up” at noon. Maybe Valenti would serve lunch.
I went out to the lobby, all marble tile, white paint and large chunky potted plants, the big clay pots sometimes dwarfing the dark green foliage that lived in them. There was a veranda out the front door of the hotel and I sat down on a wicker loveseat to wait for whatever transportation was supposed to arrive. I had no idea what I was waiting for, not even what sort of transportation would take me to Valenti.
The girls were young, impetuous, and vibrant. They would arrive in a red or white sports car of some sort. I ruled out a Lamborghini – not enough seats for everyone. They would be dressed in shorts and maybe bikini tops. I looked down at my slacks and linen jacket and felt overdressed. I’m not old, but I’d look like a pimp riding in an open convertible with two young bikini-clad girls.
A black limousine pulled up. It was a Mercedes-Benz of the old school, with curtains in the back windows. It looked like a hearse. A young man in a black suit and thick rimmed black sunglasses was driving. I decided I wasn’t dead, since he wasn’t wearing a top hat. That was reassuring.
The back door opened, and one of the girls got out – golden blonde, not bronze-brunette. She was wearing a white blouse, blue scarf, and black pencil skirt with matching high heels.
“Hi Mick,” she said. She smiled. “You’re right on time. Shall we go?” No kiss hello. No cute little hug with her standing on tiptoes. We were going to be all business, it seemed.
I got up from my seat and went down the steps to the gravel driveway. She smiled brightly, stood on tiptoes as she touched my arm, and gave me a little peck on the cheek. I couldn’t tell if this was a sign that I was getting control of my life, but I didn’t think so.
Bronze-brunette poked her head out of the car. “Hi Mick,” she said brightly, holding out a hand. “Hop in. We need to get going.”
I got into the car, followed by golden-blonde. I sat in the middle of the back seat with a girl on either side. They were identically dressed. I missed the bikini tops.
“Let’s go, Damian,” said bronze-brunette. The funeral limousine whispered to life, and glided down the gravel drive and we were off.
“So, where are we going today?” I asked.
“Mr. Valenti, is back,” said golden-blond. I decided she was “J”. “We’re going to the house.”
“He must like you,” said bronze-brunette, or “C”. “He never lets people in. Most people, even on Cassini, don’t know where he lives.”
“We work for him and live with him," said J.
“We don’t sleep with him,” said C, emphatically. “I’m Julie, by the way, and that’s Cristina.” Apparently I was not good at assigning initials to people. I was having trouble keeping them straight in my mind. I couldn’t identify any differences between them under their blouses.
“We’re having lunch with Valenti and Mama," said Cristina.
“Don’t worry about Mama,” Julie said. “She doesn’t talk much, but Tony is protective of her.”
“Well, she is his mum,” said Cristina. I wondered if I was getting a better handle on things. I doubted it.
“Who is Damian?” I asked.
“That’s Damian,” said Julie. She seemed confused by my question. “He’s the driver.” Damian turned briefly to give me a grin. His teeth were beautifully white. I still knew nothing else about him.
The girls chatted to each other about beaches and men they hadn’t liked for one reason or another as the car meandered up the mountain that forms Cassina behind the town, along a winding road. The centre of the island was forested, and seemed remote, although we couldn’t have been driving for more than about 15 minutes. The car turned suddenly right, which didn’t help me get my bearings, but did throw me against Julie. I didn't complain. Cassini isn’t large on the map, but I hadn’t made an in depth study of its roadways. We could have been turning toward the sea or the centre of the island.
A minute later, an electric gate slid open in the forest and our car slid through it. The forest gave way to a manicured lawn leading to a cliff overlooking the Mediterranean. A white house, split between two and three stories, sat right on the edge of the cliff. The three story part had a flat roof with urn shaped decorations at the corners. The two story part had a red tile low peaked roof. It was something built by an indecisive architect of funeral homes. That might explain the car.
The car pulled up in front of the door, a hammered bronze and dark wood affair, and we got out, all except Damian.
“You’ll love it here,” said Julie, slipping her arm into mine. I hoped that was a promise.
“I would love a drink,” I said to her. She slapped my shoulder as if this was a great joke. We got out of the car.
“Enjoy your stay, Signor Holmes,” said Damian. He wasn’t smiling, but his tone was friendly. I didn’t realize he knew how to speak.
“Thank you,” I said. My mother always told me that whatever the situation, it pays to be polite. He nodded and the car pulled away, down the drive. I followed the girls into the house.
Julie immediately ran up a flight of stairs, disappearing into the upper parts of the house. Cristina and I stood in a bright, open breezeway-type hall that extended to the back of the house. French doors at the other end were open, letting in a fresh breeze that smelled of flowers. Cristina slipped her arm through mine, now that Julie wasn’t holding onto me, and guided me along the hall and out the French doors.
We emerged into a sunny courtyard type terrace, floored in smooth flagstones. Flowers grew on hanging planters on the walls of the terrace, the same red ones that I had decided I liked in the hotel. You could get a good view of the whole side of the island and the Mediterranean from up here. There was no sign of the town, so I assumed we were on the other side of the island. There also wasn’t a beach in view. I wondered how many sides Cassini had. The island was like a person. You never knew where you were.
Cristina smiled at me. I didn’t know where I was with her either. Julie emerged from the house wearing a bright orange-pink bikini and a floral sarong. She smiled as well and came over to the rail. I decided I didn’t know what was going on, but that I liked them both. They seemed to like me.
“My turn to change,” said Cristina. “Don’t go anywhere.” She winked and ran into the house.
“She likes you a lot,” said Julie. “You’re a lovely guy. You’re honest, and you don’t think too much of yourself. She’s had some bad experiences.”
“Is this a good experience?” I asked.
“Of course,” said Julie. “Tony will be down in a minute. He’s just changing for lunch.” She gestured to the left side of the terrace. There was a table and some chairs set up under an arbour, the kind that people in Italy grow grapes on. There were grapes growing on this one. A couple of young maids were putting plates and serving dishes on the table, which was already set.
“Hey, Micky-boy! You made it!” said a loud gravelly voice.
“Oh hello, Mitch,” I said. “I didn’t know you’d be here as well.”
"I told you I would. This is great. I hope the girls have been taking care of you. Well, up to a point, hey?” He winked. “They’re family here,” he said conspiratorially. “Look, but don’t touch, eh girls?”
“None of your business,” said Cristina sliding up to my other side so that she and Julie both held an arm. “You don’t touch. What we do with Mickey is our business.” Cristina was wearing a metallic blue bikini and sheer gossamer white thing that could have been a shirt, or an open robe. I never know what women’s clothes are called, but I made a mental note to look this one up.
“Lucky guy,” said Mitch rolling his eyes, but he grinned as he lit a cigar.
An elderly woman in black slowly emerged from the house, walking out with great dignity and difficulty onto the terrace. “Excuse me,” Mitch said abruptly, and almost ran to meet the old woman.
“Careful, Mama!” he called. “Here, let me help you.” The lady kept moving slowly forward, but stopped when she saw Mitch approach her and looked at him in annoyance. She allowed him help her to the table. For a moment he looked more gallant than roguish.
“Oh, here’s Tony!” said Julie. A silver haired man had emerged in white slacks, a blue blazer with open necked white shirt, and shining black shoes. He had once been athletic, but looked a bit round in the middle now, as if he'd been at the gym without getting the results. He was clean shaven and wore large glasses that had a pinkish amber tone in the lenses.
“So you must be Mick Holmes,” said Valenti. “Glad you could make it.”
“Your people pitched me a good script,” I said sardonically. “I didn’t know if I could turn it down.”
“Listen to the guy,” said Valenti laughing. “He makes like I’m forcing him into something.”
“I just don’t like not knowing what’s going on,” I said. I was feeling annoyed at being manipulated. I looked at Cristina and decided I was okay with being manipulated in some circumstances. Even so, I wanted to hold someone responsible.
“Well, that’s why you’re here,” said Valenti. “Come on. Mitch, take the place on the other side of Mama. Girls you sit with Mick. Make sure he’s well fed.” We all sat down. I found myself directly across the table from Mama. She stared at me. I don’t think she liked me. The feeling was mutual.
Mama turned slowly to look at Valenti balefully. Then she turned to the table and took out a rosary. Her fingers flipped through the beads and a muttering noise came from her. I may have misjudged her.
I was about to reach for a bread roll, but Mitch subtly raised a finger. I paused, wondering what was going on.
Valenti clasped his hands together and said, “Lord we thank you for your mercies and the bounty you spread before us. Help us to be ever grateful for these thy gifts and for our salvation. Amen.”
I raised an eyebrow. Mitch smiled at me, winked, and started spooning vegetables onto Mama’s plate. She muttered and flipped through some beads. Julie and Cristina grinned at me and started to help themselves to roast chicken and salad. I got my bread roll and some butter, and a few other things that were very tasty. Food, I mean. I won’t lie though. Two bikini-clad girls, each within two feet of me was making me think of other tasty things.
“Mama likes it if we say grace before lunch,” said Valenti. “Isn’t that so, Mama?” he shouted. Mama glanced at him. Frowned, and looked at her vegetables disdainfully. “I’m glad you agreed to write my story,” said Valenti. “Listen Mick. I got lots of guys who can write my story, but you can make me look decent, real, and human."
“I have no intention of lying just because you have a sore conscience,” I said.
“I’m not asking you to lie," said Valenti. "You don’t have to cheat or steal either. I just want you to treat me like you do your other characters. You write about all kinds of people, and they all have seedy pasts, dark sides, and skeletons in their closets. But you make them look good. We know about their flaws, but we’re still in their court when the chips are down. That’s me!”
“You want to be a flawed hero of your own story?” I asked.
“Flawed hero,” said Valenti. He grinned. “Yeah, I like that. What do you think, Mitch?”
“It’s good,” said Mitch. “Come on, Mama, you gotta eat something. Have some chicken.” Mama looked at him, put away her rosary, and slowly stood up from the table. She grumbled as she walked back slowly into the house. Conversation stopped as she shuffled across the flagstones until she vanished through the French doors. It was like a spell. “All I did was offer her some chicken,” said Mitch. Julie and Cristina got up and ran into the house. They seemed upset.
“They’re close to Mama,” said Valenti. “For the book, I’ll give you access to my diaries. Yeah, that surprised you, didn’t it? Tony Valenti keeps diaries. Well, I’m not always proud of the things I did to get to this point in my life, but I’m not afraid of the past either. Write that down. It's a great byline for the book, eh, Mick?”
“Super,” I said, deadpan. “So you don’t mind if I find out about crucifixions.”
Mitch looked like he was in pain. “Look, Mickey-boy…” he growled.
Valenti laughed. Mitch looked at him quizzically. “You’ve been sold a line, Mick,” said Valenti. “I don’t know who told you this stuff, but villager gossip runs a mile a minute. Even faster when the details get mixed up.”
“So there weren’t any crucifixions?” I asked.
“These are superstitious villagers. Rumours may have been spread by the old mafia types to keep people in line. You can look at all the old archive newspapers. I have a full collection here in the house.”
“What about a library,” I asked.
“No public library on Cassini,” said Valenti. “Anyway, you don’t speak Italian.” It was a point.
“And I can just write whatever I find?” I asked.
“Sure, as long as you make me a real…” he paused and turned to Mitch. “What did you call it last week?”
“A sympathetic character,” said Mitch.
“Right. Make me into a sympathetic character in my own story,” said Valenti. “You know, he’s got flaws, but he’s only human, and he meant well.”
“Okay,” I said, “I can do that, or at least give it a try. You can look over the chapters as I write them to see if it works for you.”
“Great,” said Valenti.
“I knew you were our kind of people, Mickey-boy!” said Mitch. “Let’s have a drink!”
So I drank red wine with Valenti and Mitch. By the second glass, I was Mickey (Mickey-boy to Mitch) and Valenti was Tony. He told stories about all the movies I hadn’t seen that he had starred in. I didn’t feel too bad about this since nobody else had seen those films either. Apparently he had once kissed Claudia Cardinale on screen and she had sneezed all over his suit. I wondered if it was as memorable to Ms. Cardinale as it was to him. He probably still had the suit. At some point the girls came back.
“How’s Mama?” asked Mitch.
“She’s resting,” said Julie. “We got her to eat some soup.”
“Good,” said Tony. “You girls are great about helping her.” Cristina glared at him and sat down next to me. “What you girls will like,” said Tony, “is that Mickey here has agreed to write my story, so he’ll be around Cassini for a bit. He can stay here tonight.”
“I don’t know about…” I began. The girls were both sitting beside me again snuggling up to me. Julie smiled. Her orange-pink bikini had a front tie. I felt Cristina’s small hand on my left thigh. I couldn’t remember why I was objecting.
“I do,” said Tony. “You stay here tonight. The girls will make sure you have a bed that’s better than the hotel. Tomorrow, I’m throwing a little party for a few friends on my boat. You come to that. You’ll see some of the most seedy, no good louses this side of Sicily. If you’re going to write the story, you’ll want to see what they’re like. Then you’ll be more sympathetic to me, as well. They all owe me. This island would still be a bunch of poor fishermen and shepherds without me.”
“Compared to its current prosperity,” I said.
“Hey,” said Mitch. “We got tourism and we might even get into this eco-resort thing.”
“Just write the book, Mickey,” said Tony mildly. His eyes stared into mine with a steely intensity, but I wasn’t backing down. I have my principles.
“Okay,” I said. “You’re the boss.”
“We don’t use that word,” said Mitch.
(to be continued...)
I raise my glass of Maker's Mark to you!
