51. Cruising, Italian Style

I was surprised when I saw Antonio, our Italian tour leader, slip out of Anita's cabin. I was on my way to the ship's coffee set up for those of us early risers who couldn't wait for the breakfast buffet. Was Anita sick, did she need help? It had been clear from the first day of our trip that friendly, outgoing Antonio did not like Anita. What on earth was he doing in her room?

I ducked back into my own cabin and shook my husband's shoulder until he woke.

“Jim, there's something going on.” I sat down on his side of the bed.

“Unnn, there's always something going on. Let me sleep.” He rolled over and burrowed his head into his pillow.

“What do you think of Anita?” I demanded.

“Anita who?” he muttered.

“You know, the pretty blond girl who's traveling alone. I thought it odd she didn't have a boyfriend or even just a friend to travel with. But Antonio...”

“You're not going to let me sleep, are you, unless I play this guessing game with you?”

“Oh, go back to sleep. Barbara will be up getting coffee. I'll go talk to her.”

My best friend Barbara and her husband Dennis were with us on this two week small ship cruise down the western coast of Italy. We enjoyed blue skies with marshmallow fluff clouds during the day as we visited ancient, picturesque villages and in the evenings dined on too much pasta, pizza, and tiramisu. The trip was like a travel brochure. Except for the hostility between Antonio and Anita.

Jim and I had been on other cruises and the tour leaders were always friendly, knowledgeable, and helpful, no matter how difficult a traveler might be. And Anita was nice. But they avoided each other as if they were in a school yard and afraid of getting 'cooties' from each other.

Carefully holding my fragrant cup of coffee, I plopped on a green and white deck chair next to Barbara. I brought her up to date on what I'd seen.

“That is odd. Yesterday he yelled at her for being the last person to arrive for the day's outing. And she wasn't even late. There was still two minutes before departure time.” She took a sip of her coffee and sighed. “Well, it's not our problem, is it?”

I shook my head. “Nooo. But if he dislikes her what was he doing in her cabin? Could he have been looking through her stuff while she was up here with a wake up coffee?”

“I haven't seen her yet this morning, and I can't imagine that nice young man would go through her things. Why he'd certainly be fired, if he was caught.”

“I'm sure you're right, so again I ask what was he doing in her room?”

Barbara looked at me over her reading glasses, “Well if you really need to know why don't you just ask him.”

Of course I couldn't do that. My curiosity wasn't that rampant, but I vowed I would keep an eye on him to see if he did anything else that seemed odd.

Every night after dinner there was dancing in the little bar lounge. And every night Antonio took turns dancing with each woman who either didn't have a partner or whose husband didn't want to dance. Except I realized he never danced with Anita. But she didn't seem interested in dancing with him either. She always turned her back to him when he approached her table to see if anyone wanted to dance.

I pointed this out to Jim and being a man, he said, “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, you never notice anything.”

The next morning I was quiet as I left our cabin for my early morning caffeine jolt, in case I'd see Antonio again.  The hallway was clear. I hate to admit it but I did slow as I passed Anita's door. She must have had the TV on for I could heard low voices murmuring. At least Antonio wouldn't be sneaking around her cabin if she was there.

Our excursion that morning was the seaside village of La Spezia. We were climbing about 100 uneven stone steps up to the heavily carved doors of a Baroque church. Anita, like a young colt, hair streaming behind her, was scampering up ahead of the rest of us, probably trying to avoid Antonio again. She yelped as she stumbled and fell to her knees. Antonio, his face pale, scrambled to her side and gently examined her ankle.

At last he was acting like a responsible tour guide even if he didn't like Anita. But as we gathered around to see if she was OK, he dropped her foot like it burned his hands.

Anita's brown eyes glistened with tears. “I'm so sorry to cause trouble.” She looked at him and then down at her rapidly swelling ankle.

“Can you stand?” Antonio demanded. He helped her up. “Can you walk?”

“I'll help her back to the ship.” I offered. “You need to stay here to continue the tour for the group.”

Jim and I helped her make her way down the hill to the dock, across the gangplank and to her cabin. He went to get ice while I put a pillow under her ankle.

After assuring myself that she was all right I couldn't stand it any longer. “What is wrong with Antonio? I've never seen a tour guide be so mean to a client.”

She looked at me stricken. “No, no, you mustn't blame him.”

“Well, then what's going on between you two?”

“Please, if I tell you, do not repeat this.” I promised to keep her story confidential.

"Antonio and I were married the day before the tour started.”

I almost fell on her bed. I was not expecting that story.

“We were supposed to leave on our honeymoon but the original guide for this tour got seriously ill and couldn't continue. Since Antonio had lead this tour many times, the company begged him to do it and offered to let me come on the tour free of charge. We agreed because we thought we could save the money we would have spent on a wedding trip, but of course, we couldn't let people know we were honeymooners. It would have been unprofessional.”

“So instead you acted as if you disliked each other.” I thought of that old saying, 'Oh, what webs we weave when first we practice to deceive.' But then I thought of how much I was going to enjoy telling Barbara this story. After we got home, of course. I didn't want to let the cat out of the bag just yet.

 

                                                                   The End

 

24. The Magic of Old Books

“Books, Books and More Books”.  The beat up sign lured me in as flashing Las Vegas lights lure in the gamblers.  Perhaps I was a gambler, too; always hoping to find a precious, old book to add to my collection.  I pushed open the grimy glass door, smelled the familiar musty odor as a tinny bell rang overhead. 

            A balding man at a paper filled table near the door glanced up over his reading glasses..  “Can I help you find something?” he asked.

            “No, thanks.  I won’t know what I’m looking for until I find it.”  I smiled and stepped into the maze of bookcases filling the room.  Although narrow, the room seemed to continue a long way into the back.

            He looked down at the book he was reading.  “Just let me know if you need anything.”

            The cases and shelves had yellowing labels.  I kept going further into the land of books until I found a case of  “traveling narratives.”  My favorite bedtime reading.  I couldn’t afford to travel, but I could at least do so in my imagination.

            My Friday evening reward for getting through another frustrating work week was book store browsing.  I read and wrote technical journals all week.  I needed adventure in my week end reading.

            I stood, slightly hunched over to read the titles on the lower shelves. The books were tightly packed and one must have been squeezed in a little too much.  It popped out and fell at my feet.  I picked it up, “The Magic of Travel.”  Hmm, I thought, maybe it knows something I don’t.  It was only $1, probably because it was in bad shape and published according to the inside page in 1948.  After WWII when Europe was recovering and American women were being urged to stay home to give returning GIs a job.  It was written by Henry Rutherford, a former soldier.  He looked grumpy in his picture on the torn back cover.  I wondered if the title was meant sarcastically given he had been sent on his travels to fight a war.

            None of the other books I perused that afternoon struck my fancy.  I went home with just the one book.  The man at the door said, “It looks like you picked a good one.”  He probably said that to everyone to encourage them to return. 

            “I think this book wanted a good home, it landed at my feet.” But he just took my $1 and went back to his reading. 

             The book and I snuggled in for a good read that night.  The first chapter was about the country I had always dreamed of visiting, Italy.  It had everything--beautiful scenery, ancient history, friendly people, terrific food, famous art, and flirty, good looking men.  Of course the book was from the 40s so I wasn’t expecting too much relevancy today.  The first words I read opened my eyes and my heart.  The author was a romantic after all he had been through.

“If you dream tonight of Italy, you will start your journey tomorrow.”  I stopped reading to consider those words.  Could it possibly be true?  Was the book really magic?  I allowed myself to think about what a trip to Italy would be like.  I fell asleep with these thoughts on my mind and so of course did dream of Italy.

I usually slept in on Saturday mornings, but my cell’s ring tones woke me up

            “Matty, are you up?”  My best friend’s voice hit my ear loudly.

“Uh, yeah.”  I was now.

“This is Hannah. I’ve got great news.”  As if I didn’t know her voice. “I’ve entered us both in a terrific travel contest.”

“Yeaaah.”  She was always telling me about terrific contests.

“No this is for a Fantastic around the World Trip.”

“And what do we, or more likely I, have to do to win it?”  I asked warily.  I would not participate in any of those televised 'look like a fool’ contests.

“All you have to do is write an essay on why you want to win.  You’re a great writer.  You can win it.  And it’s for two.”

“I’ll think about it.” I started to put the phone on the bed table.

“You can’t think about it.  The essay is due first thing Monday morning.”

We spent about 15 minutes arguing about why I would or would not do it.  I agreed to do it so I could go back to sleep.

When I woke up a second time, I groaned and knew I would have to write something or Hannah would never let me forget that I had blown a trip around the world.  I didn’t have time to write a really good argument to win such a contest   Even if I wrote a terrific essay I knew I wouldn’t win.  I had never won anything in my life.

I started to get out of bed when my newly purchased book fell off the table.  It seemed to do a lot of accidental falling.  Could it really be magic?  I laughed at myself and then….

I looked down at it.  And thought a while.  Hmm.  Why not?  The author’s probably dead and nobody is ever going to read my entry, anyway.  It will make Hannah happy that at least I tried.  I rewrote the first chapter on Italy a little bit, a very little bit and e-mailed it off with the on-line form before the deadline.

Two months later, I panicked when I learned my entry had been chosen as a semi-finalist in the contest.  Hannah was joyful.  We were to be present at the naming of the winner at a Writer’s Guild Dinner at the Old Delmonico Restaurant.

I did not want to go to this event.  Someone was sure to recognize that I was a plagiarist and arrest me or something terrible.  This proved that no one ever read contest entries.  They were just pulled from a barrel. But Hannah insisted we go.  Perhaps I could withdraw my entry. 

Hannah and I were seated at the front table with the other semi-finalists, I felt my feet shaking.  I could not stand up.  The judges for the contest were announced and filed out on a small stage.  One of the three was a white haired gentleman, with a perpetual scowl.  I squinted my eyes.  It was an older version of Henry Rutherford.  OMG!  What now?

I barely breathed until another contestant won the grand prize of the Around the World Trip.  I was left in my obscurity.  But wait.  This year they had a special second prize.  And I was named.  Oh, no, this was worse than my worst nightmare.

I stumbled up on stage to win my all expenses paid trip for two to, where else, Italy.  Henry Rutherford glared at me as he presented it to me.  I relaxed.  He’s senile.  He doesn’t remember what he wrote.  I was safe after all.

He leaned over and whispered in my ear.  “I was tempted, very tempted to vote you the grand prize.  But, in fairness, I just couldn’t do that.  However, it's gratifying to know that someone still reads my old books.”

                                                     The End