I instruct him to quickly dip his foot in the water. After he does so, I'm about to tear off another strip of fabric from my skirt's hem, but when he sees what I'm about to do, he shouts, “No, don't ruin your skirt.” First he takes off the linen button-down shirt he is wearing over a plain white cotton T-shirt. Then he takes the T-shirt off and uses it to stop the bleeding from his wound.
“Now you've ruined your shirt. On the other hand, my skirt was already ruined.” I point to my leg that still has the strip I tore from my skirt earlier to stop the bleeding from the cut the gypsy boys gave me.
“What happened to you?” The man looks genuinely concerned.
“Nothing. It's a minor cut.”
I take over pressing on his wound with his shirt. After a couple of minutes, I check to see if his foot is still bleeding, which it's not. I apply some of my healing ointment on his cut with one of the clean corners from his shirt. Tearing off a strip of the shirt that hasn't been soiled with blood, I tie it firmly over his cut.
“That should be fine until you get back home and can apply a more proper dressing.”
“
Grazie molto. Mi chiamo Paulie.
”
“Poli?”
“Paw-lie. Paw.”
“Puhli?”
He scratches his head as if he's trying to remember something.
“Paolo! Come l'apostolo.”
I nod my head. “Ah! Paolo!
Si.
Like the apostle.” I laugh. “Why don't you just go by Paolo then?”
“That's not how they say it in America. It's Paul in America. But everyone calls me by my nickname Paulie. But if it's too hard for you to say, you can call me Paolo.”
“Where in America are you from?”
“New York.”
“Very big city.”
“It is.”
“You're here on vacation?”
“Yes, I'm here on vacation with my parents. I was actually born in Calabria. My parents and I immigrated to America when I was six years old. That's why my Italian is not so good. I didn't keep up with it, and my parents were more concerned with my learning how to speak English.”
“It's enough for you to get by, and I can understand you.”
“That's kind of you to say. May I ask your name?”
“Sarina.”
“Nice to meet you.”
I nod my head. “I should get going.”
“Wait. I'd like to thank you properly for taking care of my cut. Would you like to have an espresso with me?”
My stomach grumbles lightly at the thought of espresso. Of course, I need something more substantial. I feel a bit uncomfortable having espresso with this man I just met, but he was right when he suspected I wasn't feeling well.
“You don't have to do that.
Buona sera.
” I turn and begin walking away, but Paolo calls me.
“Sarina. Perhaps you could tell me more about your cards. Maybe I'll buy a reading after we have some espresso. I promise I don't bite.” Paolo holds his hands up.
Though I barely know him, I sense he has never hurt a fly. And who knows? Maybe he will let me read his cards, and I can make some extra money.
“
Va bene.
All right.”
Â
Paolo and I are seated at a café. Not wanting to be rude, I only order espresso, but Paolo insists I order a panino, too, saying I can't let him eat alone.
“You look better now that you have some food in you.”
As I suspected, this was Paolo's plan all along, to get me to eat. “Thank you, Paolo, but you didn't have to feed me. I work and can provide for myself.”
“I see that. But like I said I just wanted to show my appreciation, and I didn't want to eat alone.”
“You said you were here with your parents. Where are they?”
“They're visiting relatives who moved from Calabria to Sicily a few years ago. There's only so much I can take of the relatives. They talk so fast, and I can't always keep up with the Italian and what they're saying. You're not going to believe this but our surname is Parlatone.”
“Parlatone. That means big talker.” I can't help but laugh.
“I know.” Paolo whistles. “And boy, can they talk forever!”
Ironically, from that moment on, Paolo doesn't stop talking for a good half hour. He talks about everything under the sun, from the amazing fresh produce of Sicily to wondering how his life would have been different if his parents had never gone to America and so on. I let him talk, only too grateful that he isn't asking me questions about myself.
When Paolo pays the check, he offers to walk me home. My face reddens as I try to think of something to say. And for some reason, I decide not to lie to him. I don't have the energy for coming up with an elaborate lie tonight, and there's something kind about his eyes that compels me to be honest.
“I'm afraid that as of today, my home will be on the beach until I can find another room to rent. My purse was stolen earlier today, and my landlady would not let me stay until I have the money to pay her rent. But I'll be fine. This isn't the first time the beach has been my home.”
“Oh. I'm so sorry to hear that, Sarina.” Paolo looks away as if he's embarrassed for me. His hands are in the pockets of his Bermuda shorts. He starts jangling loudly the coins in his pockets and shuffles his feet from side to side.
“Thank you again for the espresso and panino. Have a good night.” I turn around quickly and begin traipsing through the sand.
“But you haven't given me my tarot reading yet! I was talking so much that I forgot to ask you to explain more of it to me,” Paolo shouts to me.
Once again, Paolo has managed to stop me in my tracks. Before turning back around, I ponder whether I should give him a reading. I know I need the money, but I also don't want to give Paolo the wrong idea. It's obvious he is trying to help me without causing me to lose my pride.
I turn around. “I'll tell you what. If you are still interested in a reading tomorrow, come by where you found me earlier today on the beach, and I'll give you a reading then. It's late, and I'm sure you must be tired, too. I really must get going now. It was nice to meet you, Paolo.
Buonanotte.
”
“Sounds like a plan. Oh! What time will you be there?”
“I'll be there all morning.”
“I'll see you then, Sarina.
Buonanotte.
”
As I walk away, I wonder if Paolo will come by tomorrow after he's had some time to think. It won't matter if he doesn't keep his word since he is a tourist. He can disappear, and I'll never see him again. I'll just remain for him the Sicilian gypsy who took care of his cut and kept him company while he was feeling lonely.
Â
Two weeks have passed since I met Paolo. He has been coming to the beach every day for a reading. But after the first week, I refused to give him any other readings. I could tell he had taken pity on me and was merely getting the readings so he could give me money. The other gypsies on Salina would probably think I am a fool for turning away Paolo's money. But I know it's the right thing to do.
I am standing at the shoreline watching the sun begin her descent. My stomach rumbles, but I ignore it. Though I have money, thanks to Paolo, I am being careful and saving as much as I can since I don't know when I'll have a week in which I won't earn any. All I ate today was a blood orange, a roll, and a small piece of cheese. My ribs are beginning to protrude from my chest and my cheekbones are much more pronounced now. Carlo would probably not recognize me if he saw me.
Shaking my head, I stare at the sea. Her waters are calm this evening even though we are in mid-November. I wrap my shawl tighter around me, but it's doing little to keep me warm against the light winds that have been blowing today. How much longer can I continue sleeping out on the beach, especially since winter will soon be here? While the winters do not get that cold in Sicily, by the water it can be quite uncomfortable at night. I need to get away from the beach, from the Aeolian Islands. It all reminds me too much of Carlo. But where will I go? Perhaps I could find employment at a hotel in Messina. I don't care if I'm not hired as a singer, for I've abandoned those dreams.
I was a foolish girl, thinking I could support myself as a singer and have Carlo, the son of a wealthy hotel owner. I was a fool for letting Carlo convince me I was no different from the rich tourists on the islands we visited. Now, the ache of all I have lost in the past few months can be quite unbearable at times. If I had never sung at the Villa Carlotta, met Carlo, and traveled to beautiful places, I would be stronger now. Now, in addition to my family, I ache for Carlo. But it was my choice leaving him. I loved Carlo too much to watch his father destroy him. No. I had to let him go. I just pray someday he can forgive me and possibly understand why I left without saying good-bye.
Tears wet my face as they do every night that I stand here, staring at the sea. It's the only time of the day I let myself lose control. It hurts too much to constantly keep it in.
“Sarina?”
I look up.
“Paolo. What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be with your parents having supper?”
“We ate early tonight. I was bored and decided to take a walk on the beach. I was kind of hoping I'd run into you. Are you all right?”
Nodding my head, I wipe my eyes.
“You miss your family, don't you?”
I told Paolo about my family and how I ran away from home. I even told him about my being a singer at the Villa Carlotta. But I haven't told him about Carlo.
“Yes, I miss them every day and always will. But they're not the reason I was crying now.”
“I see.” Paolo looks pensively at the sun, which is just barely visible before it completely sinks behind the horizon. “Sarina, I hope you have come to think of me as a friend in the short time since we met. If you ever need someone to listen, I'm here.”
“
Grazie,
but Paolo, aren't you going home soon?” I can't help but laugh. Paolo's face colors, and I regret being so callous. “I'm sorry. I justâ”
“No, you're right. It sounds absurd to confide your deepest troubles to someone who you will most likely never see again. I understand. You don't need to apologize.”
Paolo sits down on the sand. He begins tossing pebbles into the water. I sit down next to him and join him in throwing pebbles. Soon, it becomes a game over who can throw the pebbles farther out. Before I know it, we are laughing and my worries from a moment ago have been forgotten.
“What am I going to do when you leave Salina, Paolo? I've had fun talking to you and giving you daily readings.” I smile playfully at him.
“Well, you put a stop to the daily readings. You could've been rich.”
“I suppose.” I laugh. “So when do you return to New York?”
“Day after tomorrow.” Paolo looks as if he wants to say something else, but he doesn't. His eyes darken, and his expression becomes serious. He rustles the pebbles on the ground next to him. I decide to remain silent and wait to see if he is ready to tell me what is on his mind. But he remains quiet.
“You know, Paolo, it goes both waysâwhat you said before. You can talk to me, too.”
Paolo looks at me, surprised. “Thank you. That's very kind of you.”
The silence deepens. I try to think of something to say, but nothing comes to mind. Sometimes it's better to just let the silence be. Closing my eyes, I begin humming softly a song I wrote and sang at the Villa Carlotta about the spell summer casts on lovers. I'm about to cry again as I think that I, too, fell prey to the season's enchantment and let myself fall in love with someone who could never truly be mine.
When I open my eyes, Paolo is staring at me, and I realize I had gone from humming to singing the words of the song softly. Blushing, I say, “I'm sorry. Sometimes I get lost in my head, especially when I am remembering a song.”
“It was beautiful. But you weren't just remembering the song. You were somewhere else.”
I shrug my shoulders. “Another time, another place.”
“Sarina, I wasn't just hoping to run into you tonight. I came here to talk to you about something. You can't go on living like this. I think you know that. You shouldn't be living on the beach, all alone like a wild dog.”
Pain flits across my face, hearing Paolo use such a harsh comparison.
“I'm sorry. But it's true. You're a lovely young woman. I understand why you ran away from home, and that was no life for you, either. Sarina, I want to help you.”
“Paolo, you are too kind. You have already helped me so much by buying readings from me and taking me to eat a few times. You owe me nothing. But thank you. I appreciate your wanting to help me.”
“Sarina, this might sound absolutely crazy, but I've grown to care about you in the two short weeks since we met.” Paolo pauses. He swallows hard. “If I don't just say this now, I might never do it and will always wonder, so here it goes. Marry me, Sarina, and come with me to America. My family has money. I have money. You would never have to worry again about when you can eat or where you will live. I know you keep saying you like to be independent and make your own money. That's fine. You can find a job in New York once you're settled if that's what you want. I can make you happy, Sarina. In time, I know we could have a good life together.”
I'm too stunned to respond, but I'm also moved. Part of me had wondered these past couple of weeks if Paolo was beginning to develop feelings for me. I knew I should have avoided him and not led him on. But I had been so lonely ever since I arrived in Salina. When I talked to Paolo, for those moments, I let myself stop worrying about my fate or aching for Carlo. But I cannot marry him. And leave Sicily? I would most likely never see my family again.