I will be there shortly. I am not using a map. Believe it or not, there are no maps to be found anymore, anywhere in Italy! I know. Crazy. I am using my GPS, on my phone, to direct me from the bed and breakfast that sits on the hill. I start walking; I am not at all prepared to walk downhill for so long, and at such a steep descent. But the streets -- all such ancient cobblestone -- just keep going, winding down down down toward the water.
Who knew that Naples is so mountainous?
Along the way I see a couple of young boys, sitting on the edge of a wall. Shirtless in the sun, they look to me almost like statues. And then a group of priests all in long black robes, themselves on tour.
Before long, I am here, now, at the mammoth piazza,
Opened about 1860, it has been, over the years, a literary salon, an art gallery, a meeting place for kings and queens, politicians, journalists and artists.
No matter that there are crowds. You stand out -- who else is dressed for the 1800s? As you walk, your steel grey dress sweeps the smooth paving stones. And today, you wear that same scarf that you wear in the photo. It crisscrosses over your chest and ties at the waistline. Oh and a shawl, a light shawl crocheted out of that splendid cotton lace, covering your shoulders.
I slip my iphone into my purse. There will be time, I hope, for photos later. I take a few steps, then walk up to you slowly. I remove my sunglasses and smile shyly.
"Bongiorno," I say. "Sei...Filomena?"
You lift your face in what looks like an attempt to strike an aristocratic pose. "Si," you say. You nod, but no smile. "Sono Filomena."
"Good, good, oh so so good to meet you," I stumble in English, thinking I will reach out and embrace you, but then, something in your face tells me not to.
I pull out a small journal where I wrote down certain sentences while on the flight over from JFK. I knew I'd be too flustered to rely on memory:
"Si, sarebbe carino." You nod again, but this time, you smile politely.
And now the head waiter asks. "Due, signore?" No, no, I say, holding up three fingers. I ask for seating for three to accommodate me and you and a young woman I met on the internet while arranging my stay in Naples. Hopefully, Sarafina will appear in order to do the translating, as she promised.
The waiter guides us to a table at the furthest corner of the outdoor seating. The sun glows on your shoulders and your iron-colored hair, pulled back in a bun. A few silvery wisps escape at the hairline.
There are so many people yakking away in Italian, all around me. I smile, because, honestly, it's just so exhilerating to be here.
And now, after we sit, I freeze. After all these months and months -- years -- waiting and wanting to meet you, I am suddenly losing my confidence. What if Sarafina doesn't show? By the time I go into What's App and call her, it will be time to leave. And without her, how can you and I possibly speak to each other to talk about all of those questions I have for you!!
I close my eyes, and force myself to inhale slowly, trying to settle my nerves. If all else fails, I will pull out the phone and rely on Google translator.
The waiter appears. "Che cosa desiderate, signore?"
You order a cappucino, and so do I. "E tiramisu!" I add.
"Due?"
"No, tre, signore," I say.
As he walks away, I notice a young woman with cropped hair, fiery red with one stripe of bright purple. Ah. Sarafina, thank God. I'd know that hair anywhere. I raise one hand to wave and she smiles and hurries over.
"Oh I am so so happy to see you, Sarafina," I say, getting up.
"Me too, very glad we are meeting!" We hug briefly, and then sit.
And now it's time. It's that moment I have been anticipating for so long.
I glance over at you -- you have one small hand covering the other on the table. You are so tiny! I feel decidedly like an oversized American! You are holding yourself very still, and now you are staring at Sarafina, of course, at her hair. Honestly, you look a bit terrified. Or am I just imagining that?
Because the next thing I know, the two of you are in animated discussion speaking in such rapid-fire Italian that it's all just a pleasant blur to me.
While you are speaking the waiter returns and asks Sarafina if she wants un caffe. She orders a doppia, a double espresso, and then goes right back to conversing with you.
I want desperately to know what you're saying, but I don't dare interrupt.
Well, OK, after a few minutes, I feel like I will burst if I don't.
"Per piacere," I say, raising one hand slightly. Sarafina turns to me.
"Oh sorry," she says, "It is a lot, we are talking so much I know, I am happy to talk for you, just tell me what it is you want to know!"
I inhale. Squeeze one fist below the table. "So first of all, please thank her for coming, for meeting me here in Naples. Because I know this is not her home, we are such a very long long way from Paola, or San Lucido, whichever she..."
Sarafina begins to speak and soon, you are nodding, very slowly, but then with no warning you smile and I see for the first time that you really are a beauty, those eyes, greenish brown, they sparkle, and those dark lashes, yes, your eyes are indeed exotic.
You speak quietly and with a kind of forceful dignity that I have already noticed in your photo. No matter that you fell into shame when you got pregnant as a young woman, today you command respect, that much is clear.
What you say by way of Sarafina: "Yes, it's a long way but I am glad to be here, to meet you, my dear great great granddaughter, but you ought to know that I am very much at home here in the Piazza Plebescito, because --" and here you gesture across the giant piazza, "here is the grand Basilica di San Francesco di Paola!"
Sarafina explains to me something that I am embarrassed I don't already know. San Francesco di Paola is not quite as famous as Saint Francis of Assisi, but in Italy, particularly in the south, in Calabria, he is very well known. Like his namesake, he was a man of nature, and a humble servant of God, and supposedly a miracle worker. The columned basilica here in the piazza,
"Please tell her, Sarafina, that there is so much about the home of my ancestors that I don't know. And I am looking forward to going there to Paola directly after I leave Naples!"
Your response: "You will be impressed when you go there with the magnificent Sanctuario di San Francesco de Paola, which is built on the hillside right where the good saint lived like a hermit, in the caves, as a young man, before he began working all of his healing miracles."
The waiter sets down the plates of tiramisu, and now I take my fork and lift a bite to my mouth. I have eaten this confection in the United States before, but back home, it never tasted at all like this, which is something between a pudding -- panne cotta -- and a cake, chocolate, thinly layered with vanilla cream.
"Ah, magnifico," I say, the cake dissolving in my mouth. My companions begin to enjoy theirs as well.
Eating gives me a chance to think. I want to know about the man who fathered your baby. Will you tell me?
"Sarafina, would you explain to her that her ancestors want so much to know all about her life, and as part of that, we want to know who was the man who became her son's father."
I had explained to Sarafina when we emailed, explained what little we know about the circumstances under which you became pregnant.
Sarafina nods. "Maybe I suggest, maybe first to talk to her about what it was like to be a child, of her growing up, and perhaps then the question about the other matter."
"Of course, whatever you think." I take my journal out of my satchel, along with a couple of pens. When you begin to reveal your secrets, I will be ready!
I hear Sarafina's voice become quieter, and more charming. Her Italian is so fluid, the tones so round and full and ever-changing. It almost sounds like she is singing. She speaks for several minutes, and as she does, you begin to warm, you are smiling, nodding, and at one point, you raise one hand and sweep it gracefully above your head. Once or twice, you laugh without restraint. After that, you speak in a low and steady tone for what seems like 15 minutes or more. Oh how I wish I spoke Italian!
When you finally leave off, Sarafina turns to me. "This is, oh yes, a beautiful story she tells us. So, Filomena was born in 1852, and her mother had seven children, but when they are babies, two of them die. Very sad. Filomena was number two in position, the second daughter. They all lived in a tiny home of three rooms.
"They were most fortunate because they owned one white cow...and too, how do you say it in English, they had the grey animal with long ears, in Italian, asina, it is good for carrying everything..."
"Oh, you mean a donkey?"
"Yes, yes, donkey. Because of the donkey, Filomena's father who was a fisherman in Paola could carry fish from the catch early in the morning up and over the mountain to Cosenza where he would sell it for a good price in the market. And because in Filomena's family there was no boy until the youngest child, she was often walking with her father as he travels to Cosenza. Also, Filomena says that she was able to go to school each year from November to March. And so, she learned to read and write."
I nodded. An image of your beautiful handwriting on the back of the photo comes to mind.
"Also, Filomena says that they were eating most of the time bread and polenta and maybe some cheeses, and tomatoes and sometimes other vegetables like scarola and sausages they bought at the market in Paola when the farmers come there."
I look up and you are staring at me. I return your gaze, smiling; it is such a privilege to be sitting here with you. And soon it will be time to ask for the answers that really matter: who was your partner? Who fathered my great grandfather, Pasquale, and moreover, who raised him?
With no warning, however, suddenly your face starts to turn pale. What? Are you ill? And then it happens. You begin to fade altogether, along with the shawl, and the dress and the rest of you. I call out. "OH please Fi, please please don't do this. Please please come back to me!"
I stand, I reach over the table as if to touch you, but your chair is empty. There is nothing. You're gone. I am all alone. I sit down and face my journal, where I have been busy writing for the last hour. I tighten my fist around my pen. Start tapping it hard against the paper.
Sometimes, writing can be so incredibly frustrating. And imagination so elusive and puzzling. I wonder what keeps me coming back, to try writing your story, my dear great great grandmother. Honestly, I thought visiting Italy would help, that it would guarantee I would be deeply inspired. A story would easily pour out onto paper, like all the olio d'oliva that I poured onto bread. I would need only watch the words accrue in a splendid order.
But no. That's not happening. In my mind's eye, where I often first see my stories appear, there is virtually nothing. Niente! The waiter is beside me, asking: "C'รจ qualcos'altro che posso procurarti?"
I shake my head, slowly. "No, grazie. Per favore, il conto," I say. I am feeling overwhelmed with sadness. I thought I had your solemn promise that if I met you here, at the Gran Caffe Gambrinus, the most famous cafe in Naples, you would stay with me long enough to answer all of my questions. I guess you are not to be trusted.
Slowly, I reread what I have written. It doesn't begin to be sufficient. Feeling bereft, I decide to write some more:
"Little did I know
that you would show up as
you promised
and even begin to reveal yourself, only
to stop
practically in mid-sentence!
Why were you so insistant on meeting me here?
Why did you leave so suddenly?
Clearly, you were disappointed in me? But why?
What did I say or do to scare you away?"
I close my journal and take out a ten euro note, and a five, and leave them on the table.
My walking tour of Naples leaves in half an hour from the Basilica. I walk half-way across the Piazza, and stop. I take a photo, hoping it will capture the Piazza's beauty and majesty.
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