The Lost Swimmer (18 page)

Stephen ambled away, tapping into his phone, while I focused on the road we were about to encounter, the winding horror above the ocean that my mother couldn't cope with, the one I now planned to conquer. I hadn't told Stephen about the significance of this leg of our trip; I didn't talk much about that time at all. The memory of my father coming home stole into my mind – blue eyes bright in his leather-brown face, calling me over as he put his bucket of gleaming snapper on the back porch, telling me the fish were running – would I like to go with him the next day? Of course I would. Then thoughts flooded in of the boiling sea and Dad disappearing with his boat.

I sat down on a sticky vinyl chair and forced myself to think of the calm blue water that our hotel room promised to look down upon.

Stephen returned in a dark mood. ‘How long can this possibly take?'

‘Shh, she's trying her best,' I muttered. ‘What's wrong?'

‘What do you mean?' he erupted defensively.

‘Who did you text?'

‘I'm just finalising some bond charts for my conference paper.' He wasn't making eye contact.

‘Who's helping you?' I asked casually.

There was a slight but telling pause before he replied. ‘Frances Yong – my new research assistant. She's on a steep learning curve.' He stalked away, absorbed in his phone, leaving me to wonder who was really receiving his messages.

‘I'm so sorry this is taking so long,' said Flavia. ‘Per favore?' She passed across a dog-eared brochure of a huge van.

I shook my head. ‘Not on these roads. Something smaller?'

‘Piccolo?' She moved her hands together.

‘Si.'

‘Un momento.' She disappeared behind her computer, tapping more fervently, clearly annoyed.

I turned to find Stephen but he had disappeared. Flavia swore loudly. I'd just stumbled into the Bermuda Triangle of foul moods.

After an hour had passed I was hungry and impatient. ‘Surely you have something?' I snapped. ‘If not just tell me and I'll go somewhere else.'

‘Un momento, signora!'

I sighed and walked towards the door. Where was Stephen? Flavia misunderstood my movement as leaving, and suddenly cried out. ‘Ah, bellissimo! Pronto.' She slapped a much glossier brochure on the counter and I hurried back. A shiny red sports car beamed up. A convertible. Flavia shrugged. I grinned.

‘Perfetto, Flavia, grazie.'

‘Prego.' She groomed her hair with red-knife fingernails and summoned the car with a phone call. ‘I close now for lunch,' she announced, dropping a
Chiuso
sign onto the counter.

I wondered how, after decades of successful travel through Europe, I had managed to choose such a dysfunctional company. There had been no other customers the entire time. I prayed our hire wasn't a lemon.

Stephen met me as the gleaming beast pulled up in front of our luggage. ‘About bloody time.'

A young boy alighted and indicated for Stephen to take the wheel as he walked around to the boot and stowed the bags.

‘I'll drive' I said quickly.

‘I think I've earned my turn. Half the day's gone,' Stephen replied, and before I could argue he slumped into the driver's seat. ‘Where did you find this place?'

He pressed a button that sent the roof whooshing away and moved through gears in a throaty roar, navigating into the flow of Neapolitan chaos. Disappointed and deflated, I told myself that there would be many more opportunities to take the wheel in the week we were staying on the Amalfi coast.

Stephen started weaving through lanes, narrowly missing other cars. He accelerated with relish, snapping on the radio to unleash a girly pop song that soared into the air. I studied him as he concentrated on the road: his dark hair, tousled by the wind, was growing long; his skin had already developed a deep tan and his teeth flashed white as he floored the accelerator and we tore up the Autostrada. Behind the wheel he was as free as a bird.

‘Slow down,' I cried and he chuckled, decelerating slightly.

‘It's like driving a work of art,' he tossed into the wind.

At the Castellammare exit we turned off the freeway and left the bustle of Naples far behind as the vegetation grew thicker and the scent of lemons filled the air. The road narrowed and a hazy blue coastline caught us by surprise, its transcendent weightlessness floating to meet the sky. A fine mist hovered, muting colours and lending a deep serenity. All conversation ceased as we glided through unreality, sea on one side, mesmerising in subtle layers of blue, tiers of lemon groves scrambling up the hills in lush profusion on the other. As the sun beat down my olfactory senses were blown open with a riot of citrus and herbs. I inhaled deeply and felt years fall away. I put my hand on Stephen's leg and started to dream of how we would spend the coming week together.

The road narrowed further and became the treacherous stretch I remembered as a teenager, hanging in mid-air above cascading cliffs that reached hundreds of metres down to the sea below. Hairpin bends were impossibly tight and motor scooters tore along like crazed wasps in both directions, their young drivers seemingly oblivious to the threat of lost limbs and road rules. My stomach kicked with anticipation.

‘My God, I hadn't realised,' said Stephen, pale with shock as he navigated the bends.

‘Would you like me to take over at the next town?' I checked the map, determined not to be afraid of this road, not like my mother. ‘Positano.'

‘I can't pull over.' Fear made Stephen's voice rise.

‘I said the next town.'

‘Yeah, right, and you'd be okay with this?'

I nodded, although I was apprehensive as we came around a hairpin bend and saw a huge green monster barrelling towards us. Stephen braked to a stop as the bus blasted its horn. A stream of motor scooters shot through.

‘Jesus!' Stephen shifted the car into reverse and looked behind; already a line of cars was banked up. He waved at them to reverse, and slowly we all snaked back, with the exception of another pack of youths on scooters who roared up and past, narrowly missing the bus. Panicking, Stephen went too fast and almost collided with the car behind as the giant bus rumbled forward again then suddenly stopped and reversed.

‘It's doing a three-point turn, I don't believe it.' Stephen rubbed his eyes, as though making sure they were working.

A tiny wall was all that separated the road from the death-drop to the sea. The faces of terrified tourists came close as the green leviathan turned a three-point turn into a five-point.

As the bus bore down again Stephen was forced to manoeuvre our car hard against the wall. Finally our tormentor trundled past tooting and Stephen looked up wanly and waved. Stricken passengers stared down.

‘You're doing well,' I said. ‘And it's so sweet you've still got your good manners, even when you're terrified.'

‘How much further to the next town?' he snapped and slowly proceeded around the bend, pressing the horn as though our lives depended on it – which they probably did, as we couldn't see a thing. After narrowly avoiding two oncoming motorbikes, we were safely through.

I checked the map again. ‘About fifteen minutes.'

‘We can swap then.' Watching Stephen's white knuckles gripping the wheel, I suddenly felt sympathy for my mother. As a teenager I'd been furious that she'd cancelled our plans to visit Pompeii when she'd refused to drive back along this road. We'd left the hire car in Amalfi and caught a ferry straight to Naples instead. In my young misery I hadn't realised how truly terrifying it must have been for her to navigate these blind corners with the lethal drop to the sea, especially when she'd just lost her husband, and her entire remaining family was in the car.

It seemed more like an hour by the time we glimpsed the colourful houses of Positano cascading down the hill in muted tones of pinks, greens and vanilla.

‘I'm hungry,' I announced. ‘Let's have ice-cream when we stop.'

‘Ice-cream?' Stephen steered around another bend and turned sharp right past a blaze of purple bougainvillea towards the sea. Motor scooters roared down beside us.

‘Well, gelati. Gelato.' I laughed. ‘Whatever you want to call it.'

Stephen sighed, spent, and miraculously found a park. With finesse, he slipped into the tiny space, then turned and kissed me. ‘I'm sorry I was short. That was horrible.'

‘Well, I'll take the wheel now.'

‘Are you sure you'll be all right?'

I nodded, smiling. ‘Looking forward to it.' He had no idea how much.

‘You're joking?'

‘No.'

I swung out of the car and made a beeline for a nearby gelateria. Inside was deliciously cool and the jewel-like colours of the fresh gelato dazzled. I ordered amareno, with huge chunks of fresh cherry. Stephen had an espresso, then ordered a second.

‘What I need is a stiff drink,' he muttered.

‘Go ahead. You won't be driving again today.'

He pondered for all of five seconds, and we wended our way in the balmy heat down the hill into a narrow laneway full of ultra-stylish clothing stores. We found a tiny bar and moved through to its terrace. A spectacular view over the Tyrrhenian Sea to the isle of Capri, squatting invitingly in the misty aqua haze, stretched before us.

As Stephen drank beer I gazed at the famous island. ‘Just think, we'll be there soon,' I mused.

‘I'm going to have to do a lot more work on my paper,' said Stephen. ‘Sharpen it considerably. With so much loose monetary policy continuing in America and Europe my model needs adjusting.' He frowned at Capri as though the island were to blame. ‘Are you going to be okay with the ferry?' He turned and looked directly into my eyes.

‘It's a little late to ask, isn't it?'

‘Well, I figured as you made the bookings . . . I'd been meaning to.' He leaned across and touched me tenderly. ‘How's your conference keynote going, anyway?'

I sighed. ‘It'll only make me nervous to talk about it.'

Stephen smiled. ‘You sure?'

‘I'm covering a broad topic. I hope I won't be superficial in trying to do too much.'

‘I can read it, if you like.'

I was pleased that he was finally taking an interest. Before we'd left he'd asked nothing about my paper. ‘I could read it to you?' I offered.

Stephen grinned. He knew I loved doing that, enjoyed every moment of having his full attention. ‘Promise I'll be gentle,' he said mischievously and then paused, growing serious. ‘And let's hope things pick up on all fronts from now on.'

‘Hey?'

‘Between us. We'd got a bit, I don't know, taking each other for granted.'

‘I never took you for granted. Did I?' I asked vulnerably.

‘I think you assume my life's always fine.'

‘But it generally is, isn't it?'

He gazed at me intently. ‘Not always.'

My mouth went dry. ‘Is something wrong?'

Stephen turned and watched a ferry wash in from the sea, stopping with a thud against the pier. Tourists disembarked, ant-like, and a queue of others slowly snaked aboard.

‘Stephen?' Blood pounded in my ears.

Finally he turned back and gave a slow, relaxed smile. ‘It's nothing, really.'

‘Are you sure?'

He downed his beer. ‘Come on, let's get this over with.'

He stood and headed for the entrance. My body tingled with relief that he hadn't confessed something awful.

Back in the shiny car, I gunned the engine and purred out onto the steep road that swung at the top to meet the horror stretch. I willed myself not to look down to the sea that was again far, far below, a sheer cliff tumbling to join it in silent reverie to the force of nature that had created such brutal, beautiful terrain.

‘How can this road exist?' said Stephen, gripping his seat as we reached the first of what threatened to be many more hairpin bends, alive with dodging motor scooters.

I tooted, held my breath, dropped down a gear and accelerated slowly, breathing out only when we were back on an open stretch. My eyes yearned to look across to the tiny wall and the death-dive, but I planted them firmly on the road ahead, until I heard a honking horn and, checking the rear-vision mirror, saw a car of youths behind. I was travelling not much faster than a crawl, and the tooting and hand-waving from my followers left me in no doubt they wanted me to speed up.

‘Just ignore them,' said Stephen, tight-lipped.

‘I'll let them pass as soon as I can pull in.'

The youths accelerated close to our bumper bar. I waved at them to move back. ‘They mustn't be local,' I muttered. ‘Anyone with half a brain knows not to speed along here.'

‘That would exclude the scooter riders,' said Stephen.

The beeping became a crescendo, and I couldn't make eye contact with the driver because he was wearing sunglasses that were as black as pitch. He looked about sixteen. His mates started dangling through the windows, using creatively obscene gestures.

‘Idiots.' Stephen rose in his seat and threw them a frustrated gesture that merely stirred them up.

‘Sit down!' I hissed as they zoomed unnervingly close.

Two cars came crawling along from the other direction. After they passed, the youths pulled out and tried to accelerate around us. Stephen and I gasped as a bus and three motor scooters came through a bend and the youths ducked in again. As the next hairpin bend loomed in front of us, I was just about to go around when I heard the loud honking of an oncoming vehicle. I stopped. The youths rear-ended our car with a sickening crunch, propelling us in a kangaroo leap before we halted abruptly.

‘Jesus!' Stephen jumped out like a furious lion while the youths backed up frantically and kept reversing down the road. Stephen followed for a few steps then turned to inspect the damage.