Foreigners (27 page)

From there it was onto the twisting two-lane blacktop that hugged the cliffside to Anacapri. All that separated their little open-air taxi from a sheer drop to the rocky coastline below was a flimsy-looking green metal railing—like the banister on a stairwell, Stanley thought. Just glancing out his side of the car caused him palpitations. It didn't help matters that Antonio spent more effort turned round talking to Shirley than he did on navigating the narrow slip of asphalt.

“Did you hear that?” she said at one point, slapping Stanley's arm to get his attention. “Antonio's driven Robert De Niro. And others besides, haven't you, Antonio?”

“Yes,” Antonio shouted, turning almost completely in his seat so that he could look directly at Stanley. “Many. I have driven many.”

“I wish you would keep your eyes on the road,” Stanley said as politely as his fear would allow him.

“Oh, don't be silly,” Shirley said, slapping him again. “He knows these roads like the back of his hand. Don't you, Antonio?”

“Yes,” said Antonio, shooting Stanley a sly grin. “Like the back of my hand.” And he swerved the car ever so slightly toward the guardrail and Stanley dug his fingers deeper into the upholstery.

The evening before they'd had dinner at the Mercato. Stanley said that, as it was included in the package, they should at
least give it a try. He didn't tell Shirley that the real reason they were eating at the hotel was that he felt obligated. The previous night, when he'd been waiting downstairs in the bar for Shirley to finish getting ready, the landlord had asked if they would be in for dinner. When Stanley told the man that they thought they might try O'Parrucchiano, a place that had caught Shirley's eye, he looked downcast.

“Yes,” he said rather sulkily. “It is very good. Very nice ”

“Tomorrow,” Stanley said. “Tomorrow we will eat here.”

At this the landlord brightened. “Good, good,” he smiled. “Tomorrow.”

He seemed happier still when Stanley and Shirley walked into the dining room the next night; it was as if they had kept a promise he'd expected to be broken. He met them at the door and showed them to a table by an open window. A soft breeze billowed the curtains, which the landlord made a fuss about tying back, before hurrying off to fetch a bottle of wine.

The dining room was large and airy, and the tables, covered with white linen, were placed in such a way as to afford intimacy without being obviously separated from one another. The walls were hung with crude pastel renderings of the fishing villages that dotted the Sorrentine Peninsula. They lent a homespun atmosphere to the place. The serving staff, who moved between the half-occupied tables and chatted with the guests as they portioned out the green salad and pasta from large metal bowls, reinforced this impression. Stanley found that he much preferred this to O'Parrucchiano and its ill-mannered waiters, even if the fare was somewhat less appetizing.

It was just after their salad plates had been cleared away that the elderly couple approached their table.

“Would you mind awfully much,” the man said as he pulled out a chair, “if we joined you?”

The question appeared rhetorical, seeing as the woman was seated before Stanley had a chance to reply.

“We do so like to meet new people on our trips,” the man stated as he took a chair for himself. “I'm Reginald Hopkins, but please call me Reg. And this,” he performed a brief but gallant sweep of his hand, “is my wife, Domenica.”

Stanley handled their own introductions rather awkwardly, and then sat in awe as Domenica called over the landlord and spoke to him in Italian, in a way that Stanley thought to be unnecessarily brusque.

“Is there something wrong?” he asked her after the landlord went away.

“Nothing at all,” Reginald answered in his wife's place. “Just want to make certain we're not getting yesterday's stale pasta. You must ask, you know. Giuseppe's a lovely man, but he will try to pass off the leftovers for economy's sake.”

There were a few uncomfortable moments at the start, the familiarity of the new arrivals catching Stanley and Shirley off their guard. But things soon settled down and Stanley found that he enjoyed their company. Shirley was quiet for the most part, nodding politely as their dinner companions chattered away. They had met and married, Reginald explained, during the war, when he served as an orderly with the British 10th Field Surgical Unit at Castellamare di Stabia. After the war, he'd studied medicine at Nottingham, before he and Domenica settled in Oxford, opening a practice that he'd
retired from only two years earlier. “Eighty-one,” Domenica said, only the faintest trace of her Italian accent showing itself, “and still he put up a fuss.”

With coffee the talk turned to the local interests.

“The Amalfi Drive is, of course, something to behold,” Reginald said. “There is, for my money, nothing that compares to it in beauty.”

“We've booked ourselves on the tour for the day after tomorrow,” Shirley offered, making her first real effort to join the conversation.

“No, no,” Reginald said, shaking his head. “A coach is not the way to do it, I'm afraid. All herded together like sheep, watching everything through tinted glass. No, you must rent a car so that you can take your time. So that you can stop where
you
want to, rather than where they tell you. Cash in your tickets, my dear.”

“They're non-refundable.” Stanley shrugged.

“Ah, now that is too bad,” Reginald replied. “Still, what you want to do to make amends is get yourselves on the ferry and visit Naples. Bloody marvellous place, that is.”

“Oh, but it's full of thieves,” Shirley said. “Every guidebook says so.”

Now Domenica spoke: “I'm Neapolitan,” she said flatly.

A lull fell over the table, and Stanley felt uncomfortable again.

“Of course it is true,” Domenica said, breaking the uncomfortable silence, her voice all sweetness. “But then one can find horrible people most anywhere.”

Anacapri was quiet, most of the shops closed for lunch. They wandered about the narrow streets, talking, when they did, in hushed tones as if in a church or a library. It was such a peaceful place, Stanley thought, and decided he preferred it to Sorrento, which seemed to be chaotic at every hour. But Shirley found it boring.

“It's like a ghost town,” she said and suggested they have a drink before going back to find their taxi.

It took some searching, but they found a little café on a small street that led off of Piazza San Nicola. It wasn't much to speak of, just a few tables and an awning. The table they took had dirty cups on it and Stanley had to shoo away the flies. When the waiter finally came outside, Stanley ordered two
caffè americano
and watched as the man, the front of his apron stained, shifted the empty cups to another table. After the coffee was delivered, Shirley sent Stanley back inside to get more milk, which was brought to them, hot and frothy, a few minutes later.

“I don't care what anyone says,” Shirley said to him in a loud voice. “The Italians don't know how to make coffee.”

At a far table, a young woman looked up and caught Stanley's eye. She was sitting with an older couple and another woman close to her age—her parents and sister, Stanley assumed. He smiled and was relieved when she offered a gentle smile in return. He hoped that she had not understood what Shirley said, but thought it unlikely. When she turned her gaze away, Stanley continued to watch her. Her patrician beauty struck him. Her hair was so dark as to look black, and was long and straight, and caught the glare of the sun that shone down on her exposed table. She had smooth
olive skin, deepened, he imagined, by time spent lying at the side of a pool or on a beach. Her face in repose took on a serious, almost sombre aspect, but when she smiled it grew radiant with generous goodwill. It was a lovely face. It made him think of Gloria. She too had had a lovely face. Not like this woman's, though; Gloria's complexion had been sallow, and her cheeks had grown jowly when she was still quite young, but when she'd smiled it had brought about a similar effect. Stanley had loved Gloria's smile and had always done his utmost to keep it on her lips, even when she was ill.

Then Shirley said, “Come on,” and gave his arm a shove. “We'll miss Antonio.”

Stanley swallowed his coffee, which was bitter but satisfying. He found the waiter inside the café and paid the bill while Shirley waited in the street. On his way out, the young woman caught his eye again.

Somewhat self-consciously, he said, “
Buongiorno.”

“
Ciao,”
she replied with her sweet smile.

He would have liked to have taken things more slowly, but Antonio now seemed to be in a hurry. Driving back along the cliff road Stanley was struck by the remarkable view it afforded. Capri lay before them like one of the pastels in the Mercato's dining room, crude in its composition but stunning in its effect. And when they reached the other side of the island and stopped the taxi on a bend in the road so they could take a picture of the Faraglioni, Stanley was taken aback by the strength of his emotions at seeing the strange rock formations; the three chalky pinnacles
rising out of the turquoise sea filled him with such a sense of desolation.

“God,” Shirley said, standing by his side, “I wonder who owns all those yachts.” She turned back toward the taxi. “Do any movie stars own any of those yachts, Antonio?”

Antonio, who'd been leaning against the hood of the car, came over next to them. He looked down at the harbour and squinted, as if he could make out one boat from another. “Yes,” he said, nodding. “Yes, some of them. And over there,” he pointed toward a large, white villa on the opposite cliff. “That is where they go. Very expensive hotel.”

Shirley handed him the camera. “Take our picture, will you, Antonio. Make sure you get some of those yachts in it.”

At the hotel that morning, Stanley had been up with the sun. He slipped into shorts and a golf shirt and made his way downstairs. No other guests seemed to be awake yet and he found Giuseppe sitting in the dining room with his wife, drinking coffee and eating hard buns and blueberry jam. The landlord jumped to his feet when he saw Stanley and began to set a table for him.

“No,” Stanley said, putting up a hand. “I just want some coffee, if that's okay.”

“
Si.
Yes, yes.
Uno caffè americano, si.”

Stanley stood there, not really knowing what to do, while Giuseppe went about preparing his coffee. He smiled at the landlord's wife and said what a lovely morning it was, but she just nodded, not seeming to understand. When Giuseppe brought him the coffee, he nodded a thank you.

“Is it all right if I take it back to my room?” asked Stanley, feeling rather sheepish about his request.

“Yes, of course,” said Giuseppe.

In his room again, Stanley was careful not to wake Shirley. He opened the shutter doors and took his coffee out onto the balcony.