Passeggiata (complete 2016)

PUBLIC BETA

Note: You can change font size, font face, and turn on dark mode by clicking the "A" icon tab in the Story Info Box.

You can temporarily switch back to a Classic Literotica® experience during our ongoing public Beta testing. Please consider leaving feedback on issues you experience or suggest improvements.

Click here

Margherita worked the reception at a small waterfront hotel; the least expensive rooms priced out at less than one thousand euros a night in high season, but now the best rooms could be had for under a hundred, on most weeknights, anyway. And for weeks now, with the economy still doing so poorly, almost all the rooms had been empty for over a month -- with one or two Scandinavians taking rooms for the winter. She'd seen the owner nervously going over the books, and rumors were flying there would be staff cuts before Christmas.

As was her routine, she'd brought lunch today, made in the little apartment she kept just a block away, yet by midday she had not taken time off to eat; rather, she had gone to the back office and started working on the night audit. One of the housekeepers sat at the front desk while she worked, yet it hardly mattered. No one was scheduled to arrive today, and there were so many mistakes to correct...

"How are doing today?" She looked up, saw her brother Paulo.

She looked at him a long time before speaking. "Fine. How was the water?"

Paulo turned red-faced and sullen, looked down at his hands. "Is there no one in this damn town who hasn't heard of my great accomplishment this morning?"

"If there is, I haven't heard."

"Oh, thanks. Yes, thank you so very much."

"Don't mention it. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"I want you to come walk with us tonight. You know it would make Mama happy, and perhaps it would give you some measure of happiness as well."

"Paulo. You and Tonio have asked me a hundred times, and a hundred times I have said 'no'. So, now I must ask you -- when will you stop? Why can't you understand, I will never speak to that woman again!"

"You ask me this? Yes, that is true, yet I can't understand this because she loves you so much, and I know that deep in your heart you love her too. You could not hate her so without loving her equally! And now she is locked away inside a prison, a prison within her own mind, and cannot even remember those days that hold you apart. She only remembers yesterday, and on her good days, she remembers forty, fifty years ago. There is nothing in between. Only love remains, the love in her heart. And that love remains for you, too. I hope you will remember that love, before hate blackens your heart -- and before it is too late!"

"Idiot! I pray one day, before it is too late, you and your brother will grow up!"

"Ah. And do you know what I pray for, sister? I pray one day a ray of sunshine will penetrate the darkness that has stolen you from us, that has taken love from your soul, and run far away into the night."

"Bravo, Paulo! Bravo! Attack the victim! Never the attacker! My, what a strong man you have become!"

"I am not attacking you, little sister," he said softly. "I am asking you to find forgiveness in your heart. I pray you will find your way there -- before the darkness you have embraced eats you alive."

Paulo turned and walked from the hotel, stopping just once to look at the American on his boat -- and just as a group of workers from Margherita's hotel walked by.

"I wonder?" Paulo said aloud. "If I had such money as that man, would all the cares of my world disappear?"

"Don't worry about it, Paulo! That will never happen!" He heard a chorus of laughter as the hotel workers walked away to lunch, and he turned and looked after them as they walked across the piazzetta, a dry smile etched on his weary face.

+++++

"I've found some more, Malcolm, on Google," Mary Ann Doncaster said.

"Oh my, but of course you have. So, what's the latest scoop on our esteemed doctor?" He had been working on the generator under the cockpit since lunch and was tired, grease-streaked, and in need of a long, hot shower. Some human affection from her, he knew, was always just out of reach now. Age had taken even that from them -- yet not so long ago it had been different.

"Never married, went to Stanford and worked under some chap named Shumway, worked with another heart surgeon there, named Crossfield. Let's see, worked at The Texas Heart Institute in Houston for a few years, teaching and performing surgeries, then moved to Boston. Says he was instrumental in expanding the transplant program at Massachusetts General Hospital. Oh, he organized a group that goes to El Salvador and Honduras every winter, they built two small clinics, provide free medical care out in the rough -- it says. Nothing about his leaving medicine, or what might have happened."

"You do of course know you are an incorrigible gossip? I mean, you know that, don't you, dear?" He watched as she scrolled down the screen, thinking what a terrible scourge wi-fi internet was proving to be. She used to have a life...now she had gossip.

"Ah, this might be something. An item in a Boston newspaper..." she clicked on a new link then bent close to the screen: "Here's one from last year..." She read for a while, and Malcolm heard her exclaim "Oh, I see..." several times while she scrolled down the page. When she finished that one, she went back to Google and refined her search, feverishly opening up new pages at a furious pace.

"The poor, daft man," she said at last, closing the laptop.

"And what's this all about?"

"All about nothing, you lout!"

"That's hardly fair, Mary Ann!"

"And you call me a gossip! My, this poor boat is going to sink under the weight of so much hypocrisy!"

"Bah! I'm going to go up to the showers and steam this muck off. What time do you want to do dinner?"

"I suppose that depends on how long Passeggiata is tonight. And why are you always in such a hurry to eat, anyway?" she said, her tell-tale sarcasm in full bloom now.

"Oh, bugger off, you wench!"

"Bugger off, your own fat self!" She laughed as she listened to him stomp up the companionway steps -- then stub his toe on a cockpit winch.

"Stop your laughing down there, woman!"

She sat and thought about what she'd just read. Best not to let the man know she'd been snooping around his personal history, she thought.

"Or should I?" she said aloud. "Maybe he needs someone to talk to." She felt Elsie come close and drop down by her side, and she reached down and started to scratch behind the pup's ears.

"Or maybe he needs something else," she said, looking at the little girl's shining brown eyes.

+++++

Gershwin's Summertime wafted up through an open hatch -- again, and Tom Goodwin drifted along with the music while he washed down the foredeck. He looked over his shoulder at the sun, guessing he had maybe an hour before it slipped behind the trees. Time to start thinking about dinner '...and getting out of these wet clothes...'

He was vaguely aware someone was looking his way, he felt the too familiar pain of intrusion. He ignored the feelings, finished rinsing the anchor rode and windlass, then bent down with a chamois and dried the chrome. He sprayed some lubricant on the moving parts, wiped them down again.

He sniffed the air, took in the scent of the lubricant, and wished once again that someone would make a man's cologne from WD-40. He could see the ads even now... "WD-40! What REAL MEN wear when it's time to get to work -- on her!" 'Whoever does it is gonna make a billion bucks,' he smiled -- at the thought, and at sheer the idiocy of human vanity.

"But hasn't it always been like this?" he said.

He felt something cold and wet on his leg and jumped, then turned and saw the little Springer pup standing beside him, her upturned eyes all shiny and innocent. Her stumpy little tail beat the deck to tempos of unseen, perhaps ancient cycles of instinct, and he knelt beside her, looked into her eyes. This time she didn't growl at him, indeed, now she rolled over on her back and presented her belly to him, and Goodwin grinned at her while he started to rub her soft, pink skin. The tail started thumping away to a slower cadence now, and the pup let slip a long, pure sigh of pure contentment.

"So that's how it's gonna be, Elsie-girl?" He sat down beside her, oblivious to the water on the deck and looked away to the village hovering over sun-dappled waters. The air was almost, just almost warm now, and faint traces of winter tickled the edges of passing seasons, but all he could really feel now was the familiar, easy love between man and dog.

"Oh, there you are!"

Goodwin came back to earth, jolted by the woman's voice.

"Is she bothering you?" Mary Ann Doncaster asked.

"No, not at all. Think she just needed a little belly rub."

"Don't we all!" the woman said, smiling warmly.

"Yeah, I guess we do."

"What did you say your girl's name was?"

"Sarah."

"Sarah! That's right. You did say you had a picture of her, down below?"

"Yup, come on over."

The boats were still rafted together; the woman had no problem stepping across and Goodwin was amazed that someone her age could still be so nimble. He stood and walked back to the cockpit, then slid open the companionway hatch and led her below -- yet Elsie remained in the cockpit.

"Oh my!" the woman said when she turned and looked at the main cabin. "What a beautiful space! I'd never have the patience to oil so much teak. Too much work for me!" She walked over to the painting mounted on the bulkhead. "Is this her?"

"Yes. It was done when she was seven."

"Is it oil, or acrylic? You know acrylic doesn't hold up too well on boats?"

"Oh, yes, so I've heard. It's oil."

"Lovely. I love the way he captured her eyes...the light in her eyes."

"She, actually. The artist's name is Margaret Betancort."

"Was she a friend, Dr Goodwin?"

Tom Goodwin froze. He'd not mentioned his profession to anyone, save for the clearing-in form at the Customs shack...

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry..."

"So, what else did Google tell you me?"

She looked away.

"I suppose it's foolish to think privacy exists in this day and age."

"Or perhaps," she said, gently, "it's foolish to turn and run from simple things."

Goodwin looked at the woman as if for the first time. She met his gaze unflinchingly, almost defiantly.

"So, what's this pasa-gia thing?"

"Oh, the Passeggiata? The evening stroll, Dr Goodwin. Most everyone dresses and takes a stroll along the waterfront, through the Piazzetta -- along the quay, a walk by the sea perhaps, and then everyone breaks away and drifts off to dinner. But more than that, it's is a time to reflect, to talk, even to see and be seen. For some, it's a time to pass-on gossip about friends -- to friends. I also think it's an ancient pathway, a coming together that binds the community in ways most of us have forgotten exists."

"I see."

"You needn't worry about those other things, Dr Goodwin. I should much rather talk to you about that remarkable dog." She turned again and looked at the painting. "And perhaps, the love you lost when she left you."

Goodwin looked up at Elsie in the cockpit. "I'll need to find another Springer one of these days."

"Soon, I'd say. You should do so without delay."

"Probably easier said than done."

"Not at all. We bought Elsie while we were docked here last winter. A decent breeder in the mountains above Positano. English chap, Italian wife. High up in the mountains. Remarkable view, lovely couple. Perhaps they'll have a litter soon. Would you like me to check?"

"Well, that would certainly give us something to talk about. I think I should change into some dry clothes first, then find a place to eat."

"Ah. Malcolm went up to the showers; he should be back soon. We know a wonderful spot, and we'd be happy to wait for you."

"That sounds nice. See you in a bit?"

Doncaster walked up to the cockpit and was gone, yet Elsie stood, transfixed, in the cockpit -- and Goodwin looked at her in that moment -- just as she looked at him. "Well, come on. I'm not gonna bite!"

The dog hopped down the companionway ladder as if she'd done so a thousand times, and walked right over to one of the settees; she turned and looked at him again.

"Oh, by all means. Go ahead, have a seat."

Elsie hopped up onto the green leather sofa and turned around several times before finding just the right spot, then she plopped down and rested her face on outstretched paws -- and sighed, her brown eyes fixed on his.

"Make yourself at home. I won't be a minute."

She continued to look at him, her head now canted to one side.

"Really. Just hang on. I'm sure we can find some nice unspoiled grass out there somewhere."

Tail thumping now, Elsie grinned when she looked at him; this one wasn't as stupid as she had first thought, and there was something in his eyes worth getting to know.

+++++

Margherita walked across the piazzetta and up the Via alla Chiesa and stopped outside her mothers apartment. She hesitated, then rang the bell and waited. She heard one of the boys clumping down the stairs, then fumbling with the door. It was Toni, she saw, and when he saw his older sister he started to cry, then flew into her arms and hugged her.

"Come, come up," he finally said, and pulled her up the stairs as if he'd not seen her in decades.

"Mama, look who has come!"

She sat as she had earlier that afternoon, still drifting in through quiet memories, still staring out the window into mirrors of dreams.

Margherita smiled at her own memories of this room, then walked to her mother's side.

"Mama?"

Silence. A ticking clock, a couple quarreling across the way, dogs barking across the piazza.

"Mama?"

"Did you see your brother this morning?" she said at last.

"Yes, Mama."

"He looks so nice in that uniform."

"Yes he does, Mama. How are you feeling today."

"And then he had to fall in the water. At least you taught him how to swim. You were always so good to him. So good." She looked up at Margherita, a tear on her cheek. "It is going to be cool this evening. Do you have a shawl?"

"No, Mama, I just have this sweater."

"You wear one of mine. You are old enough now to wear a shawl when you walk."

The door opened downstairs, and Paulo walked up the stairs and into the room. When he saw his sister he stopped, then smiled. "I see some prayers are answered," he whispered.

"Yes," their mother said, "sometimes He listens. But only when you speak from a pure heart."

Margherita knelt and lay her head on her mother's lap, held back tears when she felt her mother's fingers drifting through her hair. Even her dress smelled the same, just as it had so many years ago -- rose and eucalyptus, a little garlic that always missed her apron, warm bread and olive oil...

"Mama," Paulo sighed, "are you ready?"

"Yes. It will be good to walk. We should all walk down to the water tonight."

"Yes, Mama. Of course."

They made their way down the stairs and stepped out into the brisk evening air. Paulo wrapped his mother in her best black lace shawl and took her hand. They walked toward the Piazzetta, toward still waters turning black with the coming of night.

+++++

"So this passeggiata?" Tom Goodwin said to Malcolm, taking in the glorious sunset. "It's more than just an evening stroll?"

"Ah, Tom, in a nutshell, the Passegiatta is Italy." Malcolm was helping lift Elsie from the boat to the stone quay.

"Malcolm, must you always be so obtuse?" his wife said.

"Yes, I must," the old man said, looking up at the blazing sky. "In fact, the longer I'm around you, the more I think it's become a deep need."

"That explains things. Like the past forty one years." Mary Ann grinned as she shook her head and looked at Goodwin. "Come on, Elsie. Time to find some grass." She turned toward the Piazzetta and the pup fell in dutifully beside her.

"She'd be happier if it was me on that leash," Malcolm muttered under his breath.

Goodwin laughed. "You think that would do the trick?"

"Bah! Well, anyway, there are about a dozen definitions in the dictionary, and not one of 'em gets to the meat of the matter. I guess if I had to distill it down to the barest essential, Passegiatta means to take an evening stroll, but that sort of oversimplification always glosses over the heart and soul of things."

"Simplifications usually do."

"I've been watching these people for years now, and just when I think I've got a handle on things some new aspect of the thing comes into focus. I guess first, and most importantly, it's a ritual, a tradition, and as such it's taken on an importance, a meaning to these villagers well beyond taking a simple stroll. You hear some people refer to it as seeing, and being seen. For some it's simply ambling down to a favorite bench and watching the world pass by. But I've come to see it as something more elemental. Evening is that odd time of our day -- between day and night. It is a time of passage, a crossing of boundaries. Passegiatta is not simply passive observation either, but active participation in what is a fundamentally communal gathering, a witness to this passage. The people come together and share the passage from day into night, from the promise of another day's work to the solace of family, perhaps to a lover's embrace."

"Malcolm! You're a poet!"

"Hardly, though I taught literature at King's College. Still, I've had little to say that hasn't been said before, and others have spoken far better than I ever have."

"Cambridge? That's kind of the big leagues, isn't it?"

"Piffle. I retired years ago. Mary Ann was a reporter for the FT in London; she covered the Middle East, Lebanon mainly. Between the two of us, we've managed to come to terms with the world. She has Elsie, and I have Diogenes."

"Yes, I meant to ask about that, he was the cynic, right? With the lantern? Why did you name your boat after him?"

"Ah, well, let me digress -- oh, look, there's your swimming companion!"

"Oh, the guy from Customs. Right. Didn't recognize him out of the water."

Goodwin felt a little self-conscious as they approached, and a shy smile crossed the official's face.

"Ah, Doctor Goodwin," the man said when they had closed the distance. "And I see the imminent Doctor Doncaster has conveyed to you a most vital tradition. Oh! Excuse me, I am Paulo Morretti, you remember? This morning? Yes, and this is my family, my brother Toni, my sister Margherita, and my mother."

"Pleased to see you again, Paulo, but perhaps we could avoid taking another swim," Goodwin said lightly, though in truth he could hardly make out the two women behind Morretti. "So nice to meet you all."

The old woman leaned forward and pulled on Paulo's sleeve; he turned and she spoke softly in his ear.

"Eh, excuse me, Doctor, but my mother wants to know from where you have come. Excuse me, she is most direct, but full of an insatiable curiosity about people and sailboats."

The old woman came forward and took Goodwin by the arm and started to walk with him. "Margherita, walk with us, please, and translate."

"Yes, Mama."

And that was when Tom Goodwin first laid eyes on her, when he for the first time truly beheld Margherita Morretti. His heart skipped a beat and his vision clouded. The ancient piazzetta was lit by gaslight and pale candlelight from restaurants scattered about, and the soft light caught her face, carrying an impression of ethereal beauty on the evening's softly honeyed sea-borne breezes.

Her mother began speaking in rapid, soft Italian, and as quietly all of them -- the Morrettis, the Doncasters with their springer Elsie, and Tom Goodwin -- were fixed in common purpose -- joined together in this passage -- and now they walked as one into the night.

They walked quietly, reverently, spoke of things that had filled their day, and Tom Goodwin listened to this music of the night as he listened to stories unfold. They walked in the group from the piazzetta along the Molo Umberto, listened to the water and the wind in the trees, to footsteps on old stones, and to each other. An occasional passersby smiled and said hello, a tug on a shawl from time to time as cool air washed away the remaining warmth of the day, then a pause to turn and look at the lights of the village dancing on the starlight-dappled water.