Lost in Hotels (36 page)

“Well, we met earlier in the year, and we see each other every few months as we find the time,” I explain, well aware of the full attention coming from the kitchen, the women stopped in their tracks.

“She is older than you? She not want more babies?”

“No, she does. She is not yet a mother. I’m sure she very much would like to have a proper family,” I clarify.

“She has no child?”

“No, neither of us have children,” I reiterate.

“She will move to London with you?”

“We haven’t really gotten that far, but I believe one of us would move to be near the other at a certain point.”

“She not in love with you?”

“Actually, I believe she does love me, even if it’s all very new and fast for her.”

“She is older than you, yes?”

“Yes. Wow, this is brutal.”

“My son, I am just trying to help you like a mother. You English shake your parents’ hand. In Italy, your mama would tell you girl no good for you, and then show you the right one. That is Italy.”

“No, thank you, I think, or perhaps this is all a little weird for me.”

I rise from my chair and make my way to the breakfast bar. I survey the elaborate presentation of fresh baked fruit breads and petite pastries that are a mix of chocolate, lemon, and lavender.

“I make you uncomfortable; I tell you no more,” Martina says from behind me.

“No, I appreciate all the help I can get.”

“It’s just I know a woman, I am a woman, I have daughter and granddaughter. The body do things when you have baby, some up, and some down. Your woman have baby maybe long time ago or not so long ago, but she have baby, I promise you.”

“I can assure you, she has no baby.”

“Okay, okay, okay, I tell you no more.”

“Tell me about you. How old were you when you first married?” I ask attempting to divert the conversation from this starved woman with whom Catherine obviously got off on the wrong foot.

“I’m too old for you. Isabella over there maybe … a little young?” Martina looks for my nod as I sit motionless. “Or maybe not. And the other two, they more for good meal and clean house than bed.”

“Wow, you’re a tough one,” I say.

“No, no, no, I just am very honest. I see life for its truths, and I find it impossible not to share it with people when I see it.”

“And you married then?”

“That is unimportant; I will only tell you I was too old. You marry young, and you can make mistake and then marry again. You marry old and it no work, as woman, you might as well set off with the pirates. Or open a hotel in Italy.”

She laughs and we all join in. I bite into perhaps the best muffin I’ve ever eaten, a crunchy top sprinkled with sugar and a fluffy lemon filling still piping hot.

“This muffin business is simply divine,” I say with a full mouth.

“If only you could marry two women, my father used to say, one to sex and one to cook.”

“Martina, so I take it you don’t think I’m with the right woman,” I whisper, opening my robe enough to stop the sweat that’s beading on my chest.

“It is none of my business. I don’t want to get in trouble. I always get in trouble for opening my mouth too much.”

“But just this one time, I would appreciate the family advice.”

“As your mother?”

“You’re not nearly old enough to be, but as jest, pretend as my mother.”

“You are very, very beautiful man. Every woman who works here tell me, did you see the Englishman? You can have anybody, any woman.” She pauses and then studies my face. “That assumes you do like woman only?”

“Yes, I am not gay,” I say directly and earnestly.

“No, please, forgive me; beautiful man often likes other beautiful man. I am sure you know that already. But I will say one thing and one thing only.”

“A man always thinks about sex, and with a woman older than you, you will always be looking around. You will always be thinking where can I get different sex with young woman.”

“But I have already done that and have come through it wanting someone I can talk to, someone I can connect with and love.”

“You want her because she makes it difficult for you; she is impossible to know and please. That is why you love her. All other girls just say yes to that face.”

She pats my leg and continues in a far more serious tone. “A woman not married at her age has problems or secrets. I hope for you it’s problems and not the other.”

“I was only supposed to be down here a few minutes for coffee and a snack to take to Catherine.” I place a few muffins and pastries in a napkin and take a cup for coffee.

“An Italian woman gets the breakfast for her man, not the other way around. I don’t understand this woman.”

Martina stands, shakes both of her hands, and heaves them over both shoulders in a sort of exasperation.

“I will be on my way then. I think we rented a boat to go around the island this afternoon. What do you think?”

“I think you have a lot of work in front of you, that’s what I think, my love,” she says, pinching my cheeks. “Look at those eyes, just look at them. Make sure they get someone to love before all this turns to this,” as she motions to her own face.

I make my way back to the room where Catherine has risen and started her day. I feel a little guilty that Martina was so critical of Catherine without even knowing her. From ridiculing her body to saying she wasn’t young enough for me. I disagree; I am fully attracted to Catherine’s body just as it is, but it’s her mind and the years it’s had to mature to which I am most attracted.

She’s glowing this morning and a long way from the sullen state she seemed to be in last night, whether it was time change or jet lag or adjusting to me again.

“Wow, that took a long time, but it sure looks delicious,” she says giving me a peck on the mouth.

She’s freshly showered and wearing a simple pair of white shorts, a cotton button-down shirt undone halfway, and a colorful blue Bombay-print scarf wrapped around her neck.

“The lighter one is lemon lavender, and the darker one is raspberry and chocolate,” I say, feeding the lighter one into her mouth.

“That’s ridiculous … oh my god, did they make them all from scratch?”

“From the juice to the jam and pastries, they wanted to enroll you in the wife cooking class.”

“No they didn’t.”

“Well, sort of, but then I told them you had no interest in being my wife.”

“What business is it of theirs? Plus, why can’t you be the cook in the relationship?”

“She didn’t say, but I take it roles are a bit more rigid in Italy. It did make me think, we really need to see each other more often.”

“Where is
this
coming from? All this for a cup of coffee?” Catherine crosses her arms in a sort of agitated annoyance that makes me weigh whether the conversation is even worth it. “Things are going really well for us. Why do you have to jinx it with this bored-maid chatter that’s obviously gotten to your head? Now I don’t want to even eat those.”

“She was convinced you were some sort of harlot. I thought it sounded kind of hot.”

“Excuse me, she said
what
?”

“She just thought you seemed like maybe you could have had a child at some point … she sees auras or something.”

Catherine retreats to the bathroom, dumps the plate of pastries in the trash, lingers in the mirror for a moment, and then returns to the room.

“Can’t we just be here right now with no drama, no fighting, and no gossip from the bored islanders?”

“Of course,” I say. “I thought it was humorous. In no way did I intend on making you uncomfortable. I’m sorry for not being more sensitive.”

“All these people have expectations of women based on their age. I bet she didn’t count your waning biological years.”

“I’m sorry, I think you’re the most beautiful and amazing woman I have ever met. My intention was not to agitate you. Let’s not allow it to ruin our day.” I grab Catherine’s hand and hold it next to my heart.

“So what’s planned for our day?” she asks hesitantly.

“Well, I thought we’d grab a boat and troll around the island.”

“That sounds lovely. Can I go dressed like this?”

“Absolutely, as long as you have a swimsuit on underneath. And they’ll pack us a lunch and some wine we can take with us,” I add.

“I’m sure they’ll poison mine so they can have you to themselves. Was that bartender girl there? I could feel her eyeing you last night.”

“We’ve moved on; no more talk of that. There will always be distractions. It is up to us to look past them.”

Catherine retreats to the bathroom as I do a quick clothes change into my Etro shorts and Speedo underneath that will likely get a reaction from Catherine and her American prudishness. I throw a chambray shirt over it all, unbuttoned and preferably off, but trying to keep up appearances with Catherine, who is a bit sensitive to too much skin.

We make our way downstairs where only two kitchen helpers remain clearing up the dishes as almost mythical-looking maids hang morning laundry on long wires with a backdrop of yachts moored off the port. They pass us our picnic basket and a metal holder of three bottles of wine, which seems excessive for just the two of us, and we make our way down the hill and toward the harbor.

It’s Saturday and the island is noticeably busier. The soot from scooters fills the air as couples pass walking hand in hand. We try to navigate the intense heat under partial awnings clinging from pastel-color houses and logoed storefronts.

At the harbor, we find an older man with skin the color of rubber. The whites of his eyes are pierced with black dots as he stares at Catherine as if in the presence of something magical.

“You must be the harbormaster?” I ask, interrupting his gaze.

“
Si, si, parla italiano
?”

His words eat at me, as obviously, everybody speaks some English in these tourist parts. Yet, he chooses to play dumb and simply ogle Catherine further to my annoyance.

“No, English. You have boat for David Summers from Hotel Raya?” I ask, surveying his inflatable fleet and nowhere near the Riva I was expecting.

“
Una barca lusso
?” Catherine interjects.

“
Barca, si. No lusso, no
,” he replies to her. He waves to the somewhat professional-looking zodiac boats next to him with a rear motor and two rows of seats made from long strips of blue-painted wood having already endured a summer’s beating.

“I was picturing something a bit more wooden and vintage, maybe with a mattress on the back; not some sort of official rescue raft,” I say.

“Well, it seems that’s all he has, and I don’t really see another option.”

“We could go back to the hotel and see if Martina has any suggestions,” I say.

“I’d rather take the raft … don’t be such a snob.”

“Snob? Dear, I just don’t want you getting dirty in there. It’s filthy.”

“I’m a big girl; we’ll be fine.”

I pay the old man directly and lend my hand to Catherine who eases into the front of the boat tied with a rope along the wooden pier. I load the picnic basket and wine bottles inside and remove my shirt before untying the raft and heaving myself to the rear next to the outboard motor. I expect the motor to be temperamental, but a single pull ignites the motor, and I lead us in a circle away from the grumpy old man and toward the deeper water. The motor zips through the almost flat water taking the occasional wave that bounces Catherine in the air with her scarf blowing behind her.

The landscape of Panarea changes from one side of the island to the other. It goes from a more lush terrain around the village to a far rockier beach and barren hillside of dried shrub brush.

“Do you see the fish?” Catherine yells, leaning her head over the side.

“No, I just see a shark,” I yell back. She turns and I throw her a sarcastic smile.

We pass a series of jagged cliffs that fall off the mainland with hundred-foot drops into the cobalt-blue water so clear you can see the putty-colored river rocks laid smoothly at the water’s bottom. I idle the motor to a stop.

“David, the water feels like silk. It’s so thick with sediment and yet so crystal clear.”

“It must be the minerals. It looks so shallow, but it really is quite deep. It’s an optical illusion.”

I jump on the side of the raft and dive into the water with no notice, which catches Catherine a bit off guard. The water is warm but still refreshing. It feels like a layer of satin against your skin, soft to touch from all the volcanic minerals and the surrounding islands. I dive deep, opening my eyes while floating on my body flat and looking back up at the raft. The little motor with its propeller looks so unintimidating underwater. Life moves in slow motion as my wobbly bubbles make their back to the surface and life above waits as I linger until I can’t take it anymore and erupt above the water.

“Are you going to jump in?” I yell to Catherine.