Passegiatta Pt. 01

"The poor man," she finally said, closing the laptop. Malcolm saw she had been crying.

"And?"

"And 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 many double-standards!"

"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?"

"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 in the cockpit.

"Stop your laughing down there, woman!"

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

"Or should I?" she said out loud. "Maybe he needs someone to talk to." She felt Elsie come close and drop down by her side; she reached down and started to scratch her behind the ears. "Or maybe he needs something else."

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Gershwin's Summertime wafted up through an open hatch, and Tom Goodwin drifted along with the melody while he washed down the foredeck. He looked over his shoulder at the sun; maybe a half hour before it slipped behind the trees. Time to start thinking about dinner . . .

He was aware someone was staring at him and he felt the familiar pain of intrusion. He finished washing off the chain rode and the windlass, then bent down and with a chamois wiped the chrome dry. He then sprayed some WD-40 on the moving parts.

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 for it now . . . "WD-40! What REAL MEN wear!" Whoever does it is gonna make a billion bucks, he thought as he smiled.

He felt something cold on his calf muscle and jumped, then turned and saw Elsie sitting beside him. Her little stump of a tail beat the deck to the tempo of a million ancient instincts and he knelt beside her again. This time she didn't growl. In fact, she flipped over on her back and presented her belly to him, and Goodwin laughed while he started to rub her soft pink skin. The tail started thumping away and the pup let slip a long, deep groan 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. Faint traces of winter tickled around the edges of this forgotten world, 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. "Elsie!"

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

"Don't we all!" the woman said.

"Yeah, I guess we do, don't we?"

"What was your girl's name?"

"Sara."

"Did you say you had a picture of her?"

"Yeah, come on aboard, I'll show you."

The boats were still rafted together; the woman had no problem leaping across and Goodwin was amazed that someone obviously in her seventies could still be so nimble. He stood and walked back to the cockpit, then opened the companionway hatch and led the way down.

"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 varnish that teak. Too much work for me!" She walked over to the painting mounted on the bulkhead. "Is this her?"

"Yes. I had it done when she was about 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. Margaret Betancort."

"Was she a friend, Dr Goodwin?"

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

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

"So, what else did you find out?"

She looked away.

"I guess maybe it was foolish to think I could run away from everything."

"Perhaps it was just foolish to think you needed to run."

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

"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, and then off to dinner. It is a time to reflect, talk, see and be seen. And for some, it is a time to pass on gossip."

"I see."

"You needn't worry, Dr Goodwin. I should much rather talk to you about that remarkable dog." She turned again and looked at the painting. "And 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 wasting another day."

"Probably easier said than done."

"Not at all. We bought Elsie over here last winter. A decent breeder just above Positano. English chap, Italian wife. High up on the mountain. Remarkable view. Perhaps they'll have a litter soon. Would you like me to check?"

"Well, that'll certainly give us something to talk about. I think I should change into some dry clothes first."

"Ah. Malcolm went up to the showers; he should be back soon. We'll wait for you."

"Right. See you in a bit."

She left him to it, but the dog remained in the cockpit. Goodwin looked at her. 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 over to one of the settees; she turned and looked at him again.

"Oh, by all means. Go ahead."

Elsie hopped up onto the green leather sofa and turned around several times before finding just the right spot, then plopped down and put her face on her outstretched paws and sighed.

"I won't be a minute."

The dog looked at him, her head canted to one side.

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

Tail thumping, Elsie grinned when she looked up at the man, for this one wasn't as stupid as she had once thought.

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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 while one of the boys bounded down the stairs and opened the door. It was Toni, 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 in quiet contemplation, still staring out the window into the infinite mirrors of memory.

Margherita walked over to her mother's side.

"Mama?"

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

"Mama?"

"Did you see your brother this morning?"

"Yes, Mama."

"He looks so nice in his 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 ran down her cheek. "It is going to be cool this evening. Do you have a shawl?"

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

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

The door opened, 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 said.

"Yes," their mother said, "sometimes God listens. But only when you speak from the 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 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 began, "are you ready?"

"Yes. It will be good to walk. Can we 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.

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"So what is this passeggiata?" Tom Goodwin asked.

"Tom, in a nutshell, it's 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. "In fact, I think it's a deep need."

"That explains a lot. Like the past forty one years." Mary Ann shook her head. "Come on, Elsie." She turned toward the Piazzetta and the pup fell in dutifully beside her.

"She'd be happier if it was me on that leash!"

Goodwin laughed. "You think?"

"Anyway, there are about a dozen definitions in the dictionary, and not one gets to the core of the matter. I guess if you had to distill it down to the bare essentials it means to take a stroll in the evening, but that kind of simplification always skips over the heart and soul of things."

"Simplifications usually do."

"I've been watching these folks for a few 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 folks 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 time between day and night. It is a time of passage, a crossing of boundaries. Not simply passive observation either, but active participation in this communal 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 and a lover's embrace."

"Malcolm! You're a poet!"

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

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

"Piffle. I retired almost twenty years ago. Mary Ann was a reporter for the FT in London, but 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, he was the cynic, right? Why 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 his face.

"Ah, Doctor Goodwin," the man said when they had closed the distance, "so 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, and perhaps we could avoid taking another swim," Goodwin said lightly, but in truth he could hardly make out the two women behind Morretti. "And 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 soft 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 walked off as one into the night.

They walked quietly, reverently, spoke of things that had filled their day, and Tom Goodwin listened to the music of the night.

End Part I