Sorrento (part one)

Sorrento

A short story by Luke Helm

The calm darkness of the Mediterranean descended on Sorrento as we eased toward the city’s small train station. The picturesque Italian buildings settled back into their natural pastels, fading from their brilliance in the coastline’s setting sun. A heavy rain had stilled the city from the bustle of tourists’ days, but it passed as quickly as it fell, and the town was beginning to shows signs of the tranquil Italian evenings.

I carried her backpack, and we walked the cobblestone streets that had been quaint when we first arrived. Now, they seemed to give an impression of home. We passed a smiling little man, sitting in a rickety wooden chair outside his trattoria. He motioned for us to come closer, and then, in colored English—“De best Etalian vine, you buy, for her.” She smiled and lightly set her hand on his arm. In the best performance of his life, he drew his hand to his forehead, threw his head back and used the wall to steady himself. Turning to me, he whispered loudly, “For her…anything!” We laughed, and he disappeared through the narrow door and emerged carrying a bottle of white wine and a rose. Only fifteen Euros for “vino migliore in Italia!”—and the rose was a gift to the “Bella Donna.” His eyes widened as she, in graceful Italian, thanked him but explained that she had to catch the final train to Naples. I paid him for it anyway, handing her the rose and stuffing the bottle into my backpack. We walked on, the deepening night bringing the distant sounds of the train, miles away but approaching noisily along the lush mountain shore.

The email from my mother had humored me when I first read it—I’d been in Rome for two hours, including customs. I could tell that it had taken her hours to find the keys and peck out the six line message. It must be important, I thought.

The infamous Annie, the elusive gem, the oldest daughter of my parents’ friends from Cornell, would also be touring the Amalfi Coast during my three week Italian endeavor. And, the email added in a small aside, my mom loved me. I’d never met Annie though we got a Christmas card from her family for years. After I turned twelve, each card had a short message from her to me—I assumed her parents forced her to write it. I’d met her parents once, at an airport, when my parents and I were traveling. We ran into them while getting coffee. Her dad had worked in the international department for one of the German car companies. He was based off the East Coast, but they did their share of traveling, too—Annie, her one sister, and their parents. Her parents had always been intriguing, but after retirement, they were apt to disappear for weeks or months at a time, no address and no phone number.

In my last year of high school, my mother told me she’d seen a picture of Annie—beautiful, apparently. A few years later, I uncovered a college plot between the four friends to have their children marry. When I got her email, I scoffed. A convenient email address link hung at the bottom of the page. I knew Mom didn’t know how to do that.

I deleted the email and left the café, laughing to myself. The next train out of Rome left me plenty of time to enjoy a few trademark Roman delicacies. Espresso to fight the jet lag until nightfall; Tums—not Roman, but necessary to calm the stomach; and the Italian confection gelato that always made everything better. I arrived in Naples well before evening and began calling the local hostels to ask which had what I was looking for.

“Ciao, Hostel of the Sun—English o Italiano, por favore?”

The convincing Italian from a distinctly American voice stopped me.

“Uh,” I closed my eyes to gather my thought. “Umm…English. Sorry”

“Sure, what can I do for you?”

The voice seemed eager to help, but the slight Bostonian edge paired with her smooth Italian baffled me.

“Um, yeah—I’m looking for a place in Naples for the next week—I was wondering whether you serve breakfast.”

“Yes, we do. Fresh bread and fresh fruit, every morning.”

“Ok, do you have internet access?”

“Well…yes. It was in and out last week—mostly out. But we’re feeling positive about it this week.”

I laughed and asked if they had an open room for the week. They had open dorm beds through the weekend, and after that, an open single room until the weekend. I took it and hopped a trolley to the Hostel of the Sun.

When I arrived, I met Annie for the first time. Her job as the receptionist hostel ended, along with the summer season, three days after I arrived, and we spent the next three weeks together, venturing through all places she still wanted to see, and the sites I had to visit for work.

We sat on the white stone steps of the train station, reeling from her imminent departure. I took out the bottle of wine; the homemade label had already begun to peel. She opened it with the red, white, and green bottle opener she bought for her sister from the bike vendor outside Pompeii. We toasted to our next meeting and sipped the crisp wine from “I Heart Italy” mugs she would soon take to her dad in Vienna.

The foghorn of the train signaled its customary, three minute early arrival. We stared silently at the spinning red petals of the rose, as she rolled the stem with her fingertips.

“I won’t be back in the States until October,” she said slowly, “And even then, I’ll be stuck in Maryland without any vacation days. The most I could do would be flying out for a few days before heading back. Once I start in Maryland, my life is essentially over for two years.”

“Aww,” I pleaded innocently, “but Detroit is so nice in the fall. Michigan State has a grad Psych program, too.” I nudged her shoulder with mine—her light grip on the mug gave way, and we instinctively gasped as the cheap mug shattered. A heap of alabaster pieces and sprinkled wine scattered the damp stone. She smiled and pouted, picked up one small piece, and lowered her head to lay it on my arm.

Standing high overhead, the tiles of blue arrivals and green departures purred as they slowed and clicked into place. The puddles on the platform shook under the weight of the train; the neon greens and blues danced across the remnants of earlier rainstorms. The train bounded into the station, and the horn blared, deafening from twenty yards away. I gripped the large pack to hand to her. She looked down at the bag, then back up to me, her face strained—the first time I’d seen her look uncomfortable.

“What is it?” I asked, unfamiliar with her expression.

“I’m sorry”—she stared at me—“I couldn’t tell you everything here.”

The doors to the train opened; a handful of Italian men and tourists disappeared past us.

My face flooded with color and confusion. I managed only—“What couldn’t you tell me?”

“I’m sorry, darling; I know it doesn’t make any sense. I’m sorry, but you have to trust me.”

The conductor hollered, “All aboard!” My head snapped around to see that we were the only two still on the platform. She held out her hand for the bag, and my arm obeyed, but only with all the discipline it amassed over a lifetime. She slung the pack over her shoulder and grabbed my hand, and we walked toward the open doors.

“Wait,” I scrambled, “trust you about what?” My mind raced to understand. “I’ll call you sometime Thursday—once you get to the hotel with your Dad. I’ll talk to you then.” My statement was more of a plea.

She looked sadly into my eyes, and shook her head in an apologetic “no” as a few tears started down her face. The conductor hollered his final call; she turned and stood tall, awkward under the weight of the bag, straining to kiss my cheek. I lowered to her, feeling her wet cheek. And then she squeezed my hand, and stepped backward onto the train. Her gaze steadied as the horn blew again.

Her face looked of nothing but resolve—“I’ll find you. I love you. Trust me.”

The doors slid shut with their mechanical conviction; I watched her retreat to the handrail and set her pack down. And with that, the train exhaled deeply and slid, slowly at first, into a world without me. She was gone, gone before I could think to jump on the train with her, gone before I could think anything. The train sped her off, along the sea and then toward Vienna, with no regard for my affections.

I drifted back down the white stone steps and stopped to sit next to the broken mug. She had told me she had to leave on the 13^th, but we didn’t talk of it again until that night. She’d packed her belongings into her enormous backpack and emerged from the girls’ wing of the hostel in Sorrento, smiling but quiet.

Going with her was never mentioned—she never gave me the option. She had given me her email address and her cell-phone number from the States and the hotel number where she was meeting her Dad. I reeled from our last few moments. I had work to finish in Italy, and I needed to fool myself into believing I’d get it done. I scooped up a few pieces of the broken mug and headed back through the dark streets.

▼