But now I was done, I had a break of at least an hour and a half before Signora Strada's house. I was looking for a place to sit in the sand and eat my bread and provolone. I had brought along my diary because more often than not, I would write down a thought, an impression, another description of the clear turquoise water, that sparkled like gems in the sunshine.
Afterward, when my fall from grace was sealed and complete, I would blame my misfortune on the fact that he had the most beautiful reddish blonde hair, his head was chock full of curls, each ring with a kind of shadow. Nobody had hair like that, certainly not in Paola -- for sure not in Paola. Or for that matter, no one in all of Cosenza.
Nobody was as tall as this man was either! He had to be, I tried to calculate, almost two heads taller than me, making him nearly six feet! I had never seen anyone blessed with such stature, nor had I seen such clear blue green eyes like his -- eyes that exactly reflected the sky or the ocean or both.
But it was the fact that he had a rather large leather notebook in his hands that made me so curious. Could he be a painter? Or a writer like me? He smiled at me, a wide and comfortable smile, as if he already knew me. So surprised was I by this confident gaze that I too stopped. Right away I felt my heart bumping in my chest. Our eyes locked, and then color rushed into my face and I forced myself to pass by. I glanced down at the stained apron I wore and the sack-like dress beneath and I felt a wave of such deep shame.
I picked up the apron and twisted it off over my head. And then I looked back at him and I was astonished to find that he was still standing there staring at me. He was clutching his notebook as if it was a lover. He smiled again, and nodded in a knowing way, as if he was certain that one way or another, something would be coming from me.
Who was this man? How could he have such "facia," such face? So rude, and yet so handsome and so perfectly at ease with his boldness! Where had he come from? But instantly I knew. He was one of those wealthy people from far up north, the folks who come to visit "the boot" as they call it. Southern Italy. They come to be here in the sun and the sand, "sole e sabbia."
I passed my hand over my hair, tightly bound in a knot. What was this feeling? Was I, could I be in love, oh but how could I be, I was barely 17, and I had seen him for only a few short minutes. In that moment, though, I could imagine him touching the skin of both of my arms and I shivered.
I walked as far as I could to get away from him and sat down in the sand near my favorite pile of rocks. I wrapped my arms around my knees. I sat there feeling locked up. I couldn't possibly eat a thing. I couldn't stop trembling. No matter how tightly I held onto my knees my arms shivered. As hard as I could, I tried as hard as I could to put him out of my mind. I vowed that I would forget that I had seen him by the seashore.
But a vision of his eyes and his hair and his smile and his towering height, all of it was branded front and center in my mind.
All this happened on a Friday at the end of February. It was Lent, and so when I finished wiping and sweeping and scouring the Strada cottage in the afternoon, I walked to the Sanctuary of Saint Francis of Paola where I often go to think about life.
No matter that I remained in the chapel for well over an hour. No matter that I breathed slowly in and out the whole time, and that I kept squeezing my eyes shut tightly, hoping to rid myself of all temptation. Still, when I opened my eyes, he was right there, square in sight.
And then the pink of the walls turned on me: they made me think of pink flesh and I grew so terrified of my thoughts and feelings that followed -- skin, skin, skin -- pelle, pelle, pelle -- that I quickly left the sanctuary and hurried into the street. My body was consumed by a strange heat that felt like it wrapped me in a warm blanket.
Mama looked at me with one eye slightly shut, an accusatory glance, and suddenly I felt like a slut, una "puttana" as Mama would say, a term she used so often when she saw a girl with a blouse that pulled too tightly across her bosom, or a woman who dared to wear her skirts above her ankle. Certainly the word suited me today.
That night I sank into bed, my head filled with images of this man I labeled "diavola," the devil. I took my diary into bed with me and wrote a description of him followed by the words: "And then he was gone! Amen!" I had never touched myself before, because the priest so often talked about that evil, but now I couldn't help it, I gave into the urges, all the while hating myself for being such a lowly sinner. I vowed that the following day, I wouldn't dare walk on the beach. That thought calmed me and finally I sank into sleep.
I awoke with a start, my heart pounding, and I sat up straight in bed. I took up my diary again. I scribbled: "Dear God, I hate feeling this way: like someone has turned me inside out from head to foot, so that nothing I feel or think can be hidden from anyone!"
I decided to visit my friend Nunzi that morning. Nunzi is my best friend but more like a big sister. But would she understand if I confessed what had happened?
"Wait," I cried out, holding the palm of my hand against my forehead. "NOTHING HAS HAPPENED!" As soon as the words had escaped my lips, I worried that I had spoken too loud, that Mama in the next room had heard.
I dressed quickly and left the tiny room where I sleep and I crept into the room that holds the woodstove. I took the wooden pail off its hook and left the house and walked the cobblestone streets until I came to the central square where the communal fountain is. I filled the pail at one of the spigots, grateful that it was so early that no one else was awake. I came back to the house and filled the espresso pot with water and coffee. I would make coffee as soon as Mama woke up.
Slowly I opened the door, hoping against all logic that it was him, the man I now referred to in my thoughts and my diary simply as D.
There was Nunzi! I held one hand against my heart, hoping I could stop it from pounding.
"Come in, come in," I said, amazed that she would show up so early.
"So my friend, what is going on with you? I haven't seen you in two days!" Nunzi stood with hands on her hips.
My lips trembled. My arms started shaking too. How was it that Nunzi always knew when something was up with me?
"I...I don't know what you mean," I said, busying myself by lighting the woodstove.
"Look at me Filo," Nunzi said.
And so I slowly turned to face my friend. I kept my gaze low.
She started chuckling. "I said look at me, ragazza! Show me your eyes!"
"I don't understand how you always know." I lowered my gaze again. "But when I tell you what happened you will understand that it is nothing, really nothing at all."
"Oh yes, well if that's so, how come your cheeks are flushed with such a lovely rosy color?"
I shook my head and proceeded to tell Nunzi about my encounter with D. In the telling, though, I left out certain points, namely that I hadn't been able to stop my trembling. Naturally, I left out the dream too.
"Well, my dear friend, it sounds like you have a crush on this handsome stranger! I am glad that someone finally recognizes how beautiful you are. But just be careful Fi, you know how men can be!"
"Oh Nunzi, really, I told you, it's absolutely nothing. And you know too that I hate it when you lecture me..." I was about to say "like Mama does," but I didn't because at that very moment, Mama came into the kitchen.
"Well and what is the lecture for, my dear Nunzi?"
Nunzi smiled her most beguiling smile. "Oh Signora I am just trying to convince Filo to take a job for me. I have more than I bargained for this week." Nunzi winked at me.
"That sounds like something Fi ought to do! Wouldn't you agree Fi?" Mama smiled at me and turned the heat under the coffee. When it was done, she poured for the three of us. We sat and sipped, as we so often do, and soon Nunzi excused herself.
Later, when I was sweeping the kitchen, I thought back to what Nunzi said. She is very protective, and I am grateful for that, but when she lectures me, ah, it makes me crazy. When I was a little girl, and Papa was still alive, I remember his stern words, and his creased forehead. I dreaded when Papa, a normally loving and cheerful man, got this way, and today I found myself irritated that my best friend felt she had to warn me once again about how men can be! We have talked that subject to death!
Which is how I justified going back to the beach again, just about the same hour as the day before. In my mind I deserved this walk by the sea, just to make myself feel better. I wouldn't admit to myself that I was dying to see D again.
My heart started beating faster as soon as I unlaced my boots and stepped into the sand. I had my shoes dangling from my first two fingers, just the way that D had his cloth shoes swinging from his hand the day before. I walked the entire length of the beach and when I reached the end I had to decide: should I pace the beach back in the other direction? And in that moment I knew it would be sinful to search for this handsome stranger.
Altogether embarrassed by my desire, I decided to leave the beach. If anyone from Paola saw me parading back and forth on the sand, wearing my best dress, they would get "a half idea" --"una mezza idea" about me, as my mother put it. The idea being that the woman, me in this case, was looking for something -- or someone-- she shouldn't be looking for.
As I wiped the sand off my feet and put on my stockings and boots, I decided to visit the St. Francis sanctuary for a second day in a row. I had found my time there calming and if I needed anything right now, it was to calm myself.
As I left the beach I sat down on a low wall momentarily, and gazed out at the sea. I thought, if only I had brought my diary. But Mama doesn't approve of me "writing in the street," as she puts it -- "scrivere per strada." We have big arguments over this! You see, my last name being Scrivano -- scribe in Italian -- I feel it is my right, to write as much as I can, and anywhere I please. Mama is not of the same mind and it makes me furious!
"I love if you write, but Filo, please, honey, do it at night when you are in your bed, in private!"
I bent over to brush the sand from my boots. I stood up and gasped. There was D right across the street. I'm sure my mouth dropped open. He smiled at me and crossed the street.
"Why are you leaving the beach on such a lovely day?" he asked. He was carrying his leather notebook again, and a pen, but he slipped them into a colorful cloth bag. He didn't stop smiling. I looked up at him and squinted into the sun. I felt the blood flushing into my cheeks again. And instantly I was tongue-tied. He spoke such beautiful Italian, I was ashamed to think that as soon as I spoke, he would know that I was of a low class.
And because of that, I didn't say a word, at least not at first. I smiled, though, and nodded, and I pointed in the direction I was walking. He followed me, taking one step for my every three.
"Oh so you are unable to talk?" he asked, looking serious for a moment. "How sad and difficult that must be for you!" And then he smiled that smile that stops me dead in my tracks!
I stopped walking and found myself laughing.
"Ah but you are able to laugh," he said, "which after all, is probably so much more important than speaking."
I turned to face him. "I am perfectly able to speak, but I generally do not speak to strangers!"
"Oh well that. Let me introduce myself: I am Giovanni Masiero, so now you know my name, I am no longer a stranger."
Soon we were there, in the square before the church. I was trying to decide how I could politely take my leave of him before I entered St. Francis. I walked slowly up the stairs, and turned.
"May I accompany you inside?" he asked, sounding very polite.
My eyes widened. It never occurred to me that he would want to go into the sanctuary. And of course there was no reason he couldn't except...
What if someone happened to see us together? I wondered whether it was a sin for me to be seen inside a church in the company of a man who perhaps was ten years older than me, a man I cannot stop thinking about. My heart hammering, I was about to tell him he couldn't come in. And then he smiled at me again and my resolve evaporated.
"I suppose that it wouldn't hurt if..." and before I could finish, he met me at the top step, scooped up my hand in his and led me inside the pink sanctuary.
"It is a most beautiful sanctuary, don't you agree?" he whispered. I nodded my head yes. Before I knew it, my thoughts were tumbling forward and I actually saw myself walking down the aisle in a wedding dress, while he awaited me at the front near the altar. At that exact moment, the priest, Father Crudele, stepped into the front of the church. My eyes flew wide and I felt sweat sprouting out of my scalp and my armpits and the white neckline of my navy blue dress.
Without thinking, I steered D into a pew and plunked myself down. I let go of his hand and kneeled and right away clasped my hands in prayer.
"Please God," I prayed in silence, "Please let there be an earthquake right now so that I don't have to make an introduction of this man Giovanni to Father Crudele, because I know the priest well enough and he will certainly tell me to my face what he has told me and so many others before: "You are headed straight to Hell!" -- "Sei diretto dritto all'inferno!"
As I watched the priest come down the aisle, my heart began slamming at my ribcage and my mouth grew so dry that my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. Oh my dear God what what what shall I say to him, how can I possibly explain that I was just holding hands with this handsome stranger?
And then, just when I felt so woozy I thought perhaps I would faint, I saw something I rarely see: Father Crudele with a broad smile, and his hands reaching out to either side, as if he were the Pope welcoming his flock.
"My dear Signore, how kind of you to do us the favor of a visit!"
I blinked. My mouth dropped open. I could be forgiven for thinking I was hearing things. But no, the priest was actually standing three feet away, in the aisle, and he was actually talking to Giovanni in a manner that I rarely if ever hear him speak to anyone. His eyes had a sheen of kindness that I had never seen directed at me or Mama or anyone else I know for that matter.
And then it hit me. Money. Whoever this Giovanni character was, he or his family had donated handsomely to Crudele's coffer. Otherwise, why would the priest offer Giovanni such a sleasy smile?
"Oh yes, Signore, Filomena Scrivano is one of my favorites," Crudele said, nodding his head -- with that thin balding hair -- in my direction. I nodded too, and attempted a smile, thinking all the while that I had never before heard the priest refer to me as one of his favorites. I was still kneeling, and then I realized I ought to be standing up, as both men were. I pushed myself to stand and held onto the back of the pew in front of me.
Just wait until I tell Nunzi, was all I could think.
"When you two have finished with your prayers, please come to the rectory for a glass of wine!" I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Had I ever heard the priest invite anyone in all of Paola to share a glass of the wine he so carefully hoarded? My stomach started into a roll, and then it twisted, and for one horrible moment, I thought I might vomit. I took a big breath in, and wondered if I could bow out of this invitation. Again I felt dizzy and so I was profoundly relieved when the priest finally turned back toward the front of the sanctuary and disappeared from view.
I dropped into the pew. I turned to Giovanni and without thinking I said, "Who exactly are you that our priest is so glad you are here?"
D threw back his head of dirty blonde curls and laughed out loud, so loud that I grew nervous. "I am a just a poet, Filomena Scrivano. And because of your last name, I think that you too are a scribe!"
It felt like he was seeing right through me. He knew my name and he knew that my heart beats for writing.
He placed his hand on the cloth bag he was carrying. "Perhaps I will write a poem for you, my dear girl!" And then he stared straight at me and drew one hand very gently beneath my chin, as if I were a child, and then I felt his fingers trace my jaw, and land on my lips. The feeling sent warm chills through me, but scared me to my core. No one had ever touched me like this before!
I couldn't take one more minute of this. I rose and Giovanni tried to take hold of my elbow but I pulled away and stepped in front of him and into the aisle.
"I must go home," I whispered.
"But this is a church, dear girl, you are quite safe here, I promise you," he said.
I gazed at him and his curls for one more minute and I realized that I was just as afraid of myself as I was of him. Raising my hand in goodbye, I fled the sanctuary, grateful for the fresh air and sunshine. I smoothed a few stray hairs into my bun, and with my hands and arms trembling at my sides, I headed as calmly as I could toward home.
And when I got there, Mama was out. Thankfully. I went directly to my bed and pulled my diary into my lap and wrote:
Who could this man be
who overnight has turned me upside down
with simply a smile?
Already I have walked down the aisle of
the Sanctuary of St. Paola
with him,
me in a white dress.
At that moment, I heard Mama walk in the door, so I slipped the diary under my mattress.
What a day it had been! What was I going to tell Mama about it?
I shook my head.
Absolutely nothing! Assolutamente niente!
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