As I turn onto a silent Via dei Mullini, I pass by Max, a landmark restaurant that plays part eatery, part art gallery, with its collection of antiques and paintings that embellish almost every inch of space. My eyes travel down the stairs I’ve descended countless times when entering the restaurant. A waiter walks past carrying a plate, releasing the sharpness of Parmesan cheese combined with the earthy smell of truffles and mushrooms. The scent quickly ascends the stairway and lands for a brief moment right under my nose. I can almost taste the risotto ai funghi, its soft yet dense texture melting once it hits the tongue.
“Kate! Che sorpresa!”
Walking behind the waiter is Massimo, the owner of Max. Now in his mid-seventies he grasps the banister as he carefully climbs up the stairs. We greet in the typical Italian manner, with a kiss on each cheek.
“Wuat are you doeeng here? Wuere eez Hauward?”
“I missed you,” I tease him. A slight pink hue washes over Massimo’s face.
“Come inside. I geeve you a mangiare,” gently he tugs at my arm.
“No, grazie, I want to keep walking. But I will come by tomorrow.” I smile at this man, who I have known for two decades now. We’ve shared many festive meals with Massimo, his family and numerous other friends, from all over Italy and Europe who like us, ritually vacationed here. Our dinners, with their amalgamation of languages, would transform into full blown-celebrations once Massimo would bring up his favorite bottles of wine from the cellar. Someone would run somewhere to fetch either a guitar, violin or accordion and before we knew it we were all singing and dancing into the wee hours of the night, while the children drunk with exhaustion, would fall asleep curled up either on cushioned chairs, plush white sofas or underneath the tables, directly on the thick silk hand woven carpets.
On one such night, I absented myself from the restaurant for about half an hour to accompany our twin boys, Jamie and Matthew, who must have been around ten at the time, back to the house. After tucking them into bed, I cheerfully returned to the restaurant, where Oliver, our eldest son, and Jacqueline, our daughter, roared with laughter in a corner at the jokes they exchanged with other teenagers. Howard sat at the head of the table, exactly where I had left him. I was about to walk over to him, to tell him that the boys were safely in bed and under the supervision of Maria, the woman we employed as a housekeeper and babysitter during our stay in Positano. But I held back when I saw his gaze fixated on Graziella, a twenty something Roman girl, who was swaying her hips from side-to-side to the stringy notes of the guitars, played by three musicians that Massimo had hired for the night. Instantly I recognized the desire reflected in Howard’s eyes. Their yearning expressed an intensity that I had naively believed was reserved only for me. My eyes shifted toward Graziella. They scanned the snake-like movement of her hips and the sly parting of her full lips, specifically and directly baiting Howard. Throwing her head back and rotating her shoulders slightly, she moved as if charmed by a flute-charmer. But in this instant, she was the charmer seducing my husband. The smile that had been on my face just a few moments ago faded. And instead of moving forward toward my husband I retraced my steps and dashed home.
“Me lo prometti?” Massimo startles me away from my memories. I nod.
“Bene, ci vediamo domani.”
I give him a quick peck on the cheek before he returns back down to the restaurant and I continue on my walk. Breathing in the slight coolness of the late September air, I take pleasure in the street’s tranquillity. Many of the shops opened late into the summer nights are now closing earlier in harmony with the setting sun. I do not miss the sweltering summer heat or the flocks of tourists that clog and scavenge the shops lined along Positano’s main artery. I am comforted by the thought that those who remain after the bustling months of June, July and August are mostly the town’s three thousand citizens, a few of which when I pass by greet me with a warm “Buona Sera Signora”.
With daylight giving way to the somber glow of dusk, I catch my dark reflection in a store window. It is only natural that I no longer am the youthful girl who would lose herself in this village over two decades ago. Yet, I have taken care of myself. Even after four children I have kept my slim, petite figure. Undeniably with the help of a nutritionist and a personal trainer. And I will admit that I have used the helping hand of cosmetic surgery, which has turned my face, as I like to put it, “expensive”. But age is sly. No matter how extreme the methods you use in an attempt to slow down the process, it has a devious way of creeping in. And I am aware that Howard prefers young, want-to-be starlets. Usually, I disregard the gossip that my ears fall upon. It bothers me to the core of my being but I never discuss or complain to anyone. Rather I pretend to know nothing. I play the part of the imbecile wife, who is being fooled. I remain dutiful toward him. Always present when he needs me. That is the role that I have become accustomed to. I see the mix of pity and ridicule in my friends’, most of whom – now that I’m starting to be honest with myself – I can acknowledge, are really just acquaintances. I pretend to notice nothing. Always smiling, laughing. I remain the optimistic, delightful, vibrant woman I have always been. But now, as I descend the stairs down Piazza Flavio Gioia and near the deserted harbor, to the right off the beach, where in the summer hydrofoils shuttle people to and from Capri, I confess that I am tired of this charade.
I discovered that Howard was planning to take his latest conquest to a high-visibility business gala, which for years I accompanied him to. It’s one thing for people to speculate about his meaningless extra-marital affairs. It’s another to confirm rumours by bringing one of his floosies out into the open and introducing her into our social circle. I barged into his office demanding an explanation. For a second Howard froze behind his giant lacquered desk. I had never before so much as mentioned or displayed the slightest sign that I knew of his unfaithfulness. Even though he very well knew that I was aware of it. We had an unspoken understanding, Howard and I. We had come to live separate lives, we never asked questions, we slept in different beds but we stayed married in face of our children, our friends, his business associates. It was easier that way. That is, until that day in his office. As I yelled, Howard sat there speechless, studying me. He didn’t fight back. He offered me no excuses. No promises that he wasn’t going to so blatantly and tactlessly expose his infidelity to our world. I was familiar with his aged eyes. They lacked the passion and love they years ago drowned in whenever they caught sight of me. But now also missing was the respect they usually held in my regard. This was the ultimate betrayal. Only then did I understand where we had arrived, Howard and I, and so I lowered my voice to absolute silence, turned around and walked out the door.
With the sky now a navy canvas adorned with white sparkling gems I start my hike back up to the top of Positano. Howard is convinced that I would never leave him. I informed him that I was coming here in a note sent to him on that very same day I barged into his office. I thought he’d think it out of the ordinary for me to travel to Italy this time of year given that we’ve never been here in the Fall or Winter. But Howard didn’t question my decision. He actually never came home that night. All he did was have his secretary call me to remind me that I had to return in two weeks as my presence alongside my husband was expected at an important dinner. The next morning I was gone.
I may have depended and fed-off our extremely fortunate life much too much. I was convinced that I could never live without it, because if I were to divorce Howard I would remain a wealthy woman but my standard of living would change. I was gravely mistaken. I have forgotten the girl I was when I first married Howard. Behind the sham that I have become I remain somewhat decent. It took time and a sudden awakening but I finally realized that turning a blind eye and accepting infidelity has eaten at my soul.
Oddly, as I near the apartment my wedding dress from so long ago comes to mind. I thought it so beautiful on my wedding day. A few years ago I took it out from the tissue paper and box that were supposed to protect it, just to look at it. I discovered that even with all the precautions I took, a moth had penetrated. It had quenched its thirst by meticulously searching the silk for its moisture and left its destructive marks throughout it. I was so hopeful wearing that dress, on that day, over twenty years ago. Now, what I have become is a broken shell of a woman, who is in need of major repair
The divorce proceedings are on their way. I have hired an attorney and checked with the bank to ensure that I am sole owner of the apartment. I have no need to return to New York. Loose ends I can tie up from here, where I’m starting anew. This is the place I have fantasized of ever since I was a little girl. I know it well. I know its people. I am almost one of them. My kids are grown, all in university. I will see them. As usual, they will come here to spend their summer holiday. Bring their friends. What will I do here I have yet to figure that out. For now, as I reach the solid black wood door, insert the key into the lock and open it, I am certain of one thing: I’m home.
December 15, 2008
Goose Lane Editions Launches New Online Media Resources
December 15, 2008
New From Gaspereau Press
