Taking Tuscany (8 page)

“Nope. When I'm swimming, I don't feel like I'm crippled. That's why I love to swim so much.”

Now that just makes me want to sit here on the pool steps and bawl my head off for
ever
feeling sorry for myself. Rosa's mama is heading down the hill to watch her swim, so I excuse myself and leave Rosa with my brothers to dive for rings. I'm no longer needed to play lifeguard, and I desperately need to get some work done on
Moon over Milan.
I'm giving myself two weeks to finish it or I'm just going to burn the whole thing and start a new novel. I'm tired of leaving my main character in Italy for so long. It's high time she went home.

At dusk Rosa agrees to a short walk with me to meet Caesar and Napoleon. Traipsing up the hill, it dawns on me that it's taking twice as long to cover half the distance with Rosa's gimpy little gait. It sure makes me appreciate being able to walk normal. It also makes me want to run and jump, just because I can. I only wish she could too.

Rosa's like me when it comes to animals. Animals can sense when someone likes them too. Within minutes of meeting the farm family, she has Caesar eating fresh grapes out of her hand, Napoleon bringing her sticks, and the chickens pecking at her feet. They all know a softie when they meet one.

Angelo comes out to say hello, then motions with his hand for us to follow him. Rosa and I follow him into the barn where he leads us to the horse stall next to Caesar's. A sheep dog and her litter of puppies are lying in the straw. “Oh, babies,” Rosa whispers.

Just as I'm wondering whose puppies these are, Angelo points to the mama dog. “
Del cane di Carlotta.
” Carlotta's dog. Carlotta is Angelo's sister. Then he points to Napoleon and flashes his toothless grin. “
Papà
Napoleon.” The little farm family is no longer so little.

The puppies are so spankin' new and tiny, it's hard to believe they will ever be as big as Napoleon. A cross between a mastiff and a sheepdog should make for some pretty big shaggy dogs. We give the babies a few gentle pats, but Ci-ci gives us the protective-mama look, so we decide to leave her in peace with her family. People do the same when my Mama looks that way. A few Italian men have nearly had their heads bit off over a lingering glance at Adriana.

On the way home we stumble upon a little hedgehog attempting to cross the road.
“Un riccio,”
I tell Rosa. “We'd better move this little fella. Most drivers won't stop.”

“I've never seen a hedgehog before,” Rosa says.

As soon as I scoop him up, he rolls into a tight little ball. “They do that when they're scared.”

“May I hold him?” she asks.

“Sure—he may stay in a ball though.”

She hands me her crutch, so she can use both hands to cradle him. I place him gently in her open palms. She begins to walk—much more crooked without her crutch—but she carries that little fur ball like he's the most fragile thing in the world. When we reach the other side of the road, she kneels down to let him go. He doesn't budge, so Rosa gently sets him down in the grass. He slowly unrolls himself, and scurries away.

“I love animals,” she whispers.

“I know; me, too.” I know a kindred spirit when I see one.

We sit quietly in the tall grass, enjoying the chirping cricket symphony that surrounds us. They start up every evening and play for hours for anyone appreciative enough to listen. Even if only for an audience of two.

“Are you starting back to school soon?” I ask Rosa.

Her smile quickly fades. “Yeah, September.”

“Do you like school?”

She shrugs. “Sometimes. But sometimes not.”

“Why not?”

Rosa looks down at her leg. “Kids tease me sometimes. They call me Tiny Tim.”

Okay, that does it. I want to slug someone.
“You know what?”

“What?”

“Kids make fun of me, too.”

“They do?” She looks at me wide-eyed.

“Yeah, they call me Yankee Doodle because I'm from the United States, and Barbie because they say I look like a Barbie doll.”

“I wouldn't think anyone would make fun of you. I think you and Barbie are both pretty,” she says.

Pretty.
Wow. That's the first time someone has said
pretty
instead of
cute.

“Well, you, Rosa Bella, are very pretty, too, so you remember that next time someone makes fun of you, okay?”

“Okay. You, too,” she says, smiling back at me.

“Hey, I have an idea.”

“What?”

“How about, every time someone makes fun of you, you remember me and start to whistle ‘I'm a Yankee Doodle Dandy.' It goes like this …” I even sing it for her.

Rosa starts to giggle. “Okay,” she says. “And when someone makes fun of you, you have to remember me and say, ‘God bless us, every one.'”

We both fall back in the grass laughing.

We lie on our backs and watch the clouds together. That's one thing about Tuscany, it has a big sky. “Do you have any pets?” she asks me.

“I have a dog named Sailor, but I had to leave him behind when we moved. I'm planning to go see him again in four years. I hope he'll remember me.”

“I had a kitten at my orphanage. I miss her too, but I really miss my friends there a lot.”

It didn't hit me 'til right now how hard that must be for her to move away from everyone she's ever known. They were her only family before. I tell her that she can write me letters anytime and I will write her back.

A butterfly circles overhead then flutters off. “How do you say butterfly in Spanish?” I ask Rosa.

“
Mariposa.
”

“I've always wondered why we call them butterflies instead of flutterbys. I mean, a butterfly has nothing to do with butter, but it does flutter by.”
Another word to add to my dictionary.

The stars are coming out and I realize it's getting late. “What time do you have to leave tomorrow?”

“Really early,” Rosa replies. “Mama says we have a long drive ahead.”

“We'd probably better start back then.”

“Okay, Barbie,” she says, and laughs.

“Come on, Tiny Tim, let's get on home.”

God bless us, every one.

6

Vascanaza al Mare

(Seaside Holiday)

Our taxi pulls up before the Grand Old Sea Palace. Stepping out of the cab, I stretch from a long day of travel, and turn to salute the sea. A gust of salty sea air hits my senses and I know I've arrived. The Sea Palace is right smack in front of the Mediterranean with a swimming bay and nice sandy beach—a rare find along the Riviera. This is our third summer holiday at the seashore—another tradition in our family. It's still not Indian Island, but if I have to settle for anything less, this is my absolute favorite place to go in Italy. It's also my last big hurrah before heading back to school—my absolute least favorite place to go.

Nothing inspires the writer in me more than being around H
2
O. I am drawn to water like a duck. Maybe it's because my body is mostly made up of the stuff, and like Indian Lake, the sea has this instinctive pull, luring me to its shores. So, alas, here I stand before the sea, mesmerized by the rhythm of the tide—in and out, in and out …

“A. J., get your fanny in gear and help take the bags up to the room!” Mama has a way of squelching the seaside poet in me.

“I'm coming, I'm coming.” Entering the gargantuan lobby, I am quickly reminded of what a
grand
hotel this really is. A
grand
old lobby with a
grand
piano. Even the ornate elevator is grand. There's just no other word to describe it, but grand, grand, grand. Wait, yes there is.
Grandioso!

On the way up to our room, I'm thinking how nice it is to have our whole family here together again. Even Adriana has joined us for the week. She treats me with more respect now that she's moved away from home. I think she's starting to see me more as her equal, rather than just her dumb little sister.

“Move your bags, A. J. I already called dibs on the bed. You get the roll-away cot this time.”

So much for respect
. I toss my bags on the little cot in the corner. I could have sworn I had the cot last time we were here. I think Adriana has pulled this every time we've come. I remind myself I'm only in this room to sleep anyway. My agenda is to be out on the beach from sunup to sundown.

After throwing on my swimsuit, cover-up, sunglasses, and baseball cap, I pack up my beach bag for the day:
Doctor Zhivago
, my travel journal and pen, suntan lotion, dive mask, beach towel, money for postcards, and my novel—the one that I'm writing. Grabbing my room key, I fly out the door and head for the stairwell. I have no patience when it comes to waiting for elevators—even if it means taking five flights of stairs. The beach is calling. In case I forget what my game plan is, I made a list on the train of things to be accomplished today:

1. Go swimming in the pool

2. Dive for shells in the ocean

3. Go for a long beach walk

4. Write the last chapter of my book

5. Eat a greasy Vienna sausage from a beach vendor

6. Burn myself to a crisp from too much sun

Reaching the cabana, I see the twins have already beat me to the pool. This is no ordinary pool—it has a pirate ship built right into the middle of it. The
Buccaneer
looks just like a real pirate ship. Not that I've ever seen one, but I'm sure this is what it would look like if I had. Dino and Benji are in pirate's paradise. A climbing ladder leads to a crow's nest, with a slide that lands you back in the pool. Ropes hanging from the mast swing out over the deep end. There's even a plank for a diving board, which Dino is forcing Benji to walk right now. They appear to be in the middle of a modern-day reenactment of
Mutiny on the Bounty.

“Die, sucker—the sharks await you below!” Dino always finds a way to torment Benji.

Benji makes a quick move to escape, but he trips over his own feet and grabs onto Dino, and they both fall into the pool together. Their two heads bob back up at the same time. “A. J., come dive for treasure with us,” Benji yells.

I loved this treasure hunt game the first summer we came, probably because I went undefeated all week. The game is still the same. There are little gold coins all over the bottom of the pool to dive for. At the end of each day, they tally up your loot and the highest score is displayed on the bow of the
Buccaneer
. By the end of the week, everyone redeems their loot for treasure and the winner gets a bag of “real jewels”—or so they say. But I know differently.

Two summers ago we made our maiden voyage, by train, to the Grand Old Sea Palace. There I was, diving my heart out on the grand ol'
Buccaneer
. All week long I kept picturing this big sack of jewels I'd be toting home with me. Then along comes this kid from Ireland who thinks he's going to beat my score. He was on my nerves from the get-go: a hyper red-headed, buck-toothed kid who was a self-proclaimed leprechaun. He added an exaggerated Irish accent that put my fake Southern accent to shame. I named him Lucky, after Lucky Charms cereal.

Every morning at the crack of dawn, Lucky came prancing out on the bow of the
Buccaneer
, saying, “Aye, mate, me's going to beat yer score t'day.” And every morning he showed up sporting more diving gear—fins, mask, snorkel, professional dive bag to collect his loot in.

“Well, shiver-me-timbers,” I exclaimed, “where's the wet suit and air tanks?”

“Aye, mate, t'day's the day …” he said one time too many.

There was no way I was going to give my championship to an overzealous leprechaun. “Go ahead,” I told him, “they filled the pool with piranhas last night to make it more challenging.”

“Did not.”

“Did so, but they only like the taste of boys—especially Irish boys.” Then I dove in.

Lucky stood on the bow of the
Buccaneer
in his entire diving ensemble, still clutching the dive bag in his little freckled hands. He watched me like a shark while I swam around scooping up the gold. In the time it took him to scan the pool for piranhas, my bucket was nearly full of coins. After asking the pool boy about the piranhas, Lucky informed me, “Ye owes me half yer gold fer lying to me.”

“Listen up, Lucky,” I told him, “I owe you no such thing. It's not my fault you're a gullible little leprechaun. It's part of the game—real pirates say things like that all the time.”

“Then pirates have the right to steal gold from other pirates too,” he says.

“Yeah, a lot of pirates die that way,” I reassured him.

So one afternoon I was up in the crow's nest sunbathing next to my bucket of gold, when a freckled hand reached in and grabbed a fistful of my coins. That's when Lucky's luck ran out. Unfortunately so did mine. Lucky's mom and dad happened to be watching when I grabbed their son by the arm and hurled him from the crow's nest into the pool, still wearing his dive mask. He walked around with a permanent impression of his mask embedded around his eyes for the rest of the week. I was disqualified from the competition, thanks to parental involvement.

At the end of the week, I traded in the gold coins I'd collected. After all I'd gone through to defend my title and bring home the treasure, I was handed a bag of cheap plastic trinkets that supposedly resembled jewels. Lucky walked away with a bigger bag of the same junk. The next year I became a beachcomber instead. My diving days on the
Buccaneer
were done for.

I wouldn't mind rehashing Lucky-the-leprechaun stories with my twin brothers, but I do need to bow out of the game this time. “Sorry, Benji, I'd love to dive for treasure with you, but the beach is calling.” Upward and onward.

Time to set up base camp! Lounge chair? Check. Umbrella? Check. Crowd control? I lay my towel out for buffer zone. Check. I'll follow this routine every day. Same time, same station. Parking my stuffed beach bag on my chair, I head for the water. Fortunately everything is within eyeshot from here: the pool, the beach, the bay, the palace, so I don't have to worry about someone stealing my manuscript if I want to take a swim. It's always a concern until it's published and copyrighted.

I am not a dive-in-headfirst kind of gal. I like to test the waters one toe at a time, then work my way in from there. This routine begins by standing at the shoreline, letting the waves greet me. I'm all for the gradual approach. Once my feet are wet, I inch in up to my waist. Oooo-boy! Not exactly bath water—unless you fill the bathtub with cold water. The hardest part is my shoulders, and I still haven't figured out why. I have the same amount of skin on my shoulders as I do anywhere else. I know the best way to go is to just dive in head first and get it over with.

Nope, can't do it. I think I'll just go and lay in the sun until I get hot.

“Bombs away!” Dino comes charging down the beach from the pool and executes a human cannonball, drenching me in ocean spray.

“Thanks a lot, buster.” I fling a handful of water back at him, and we're into a full-blown water fight. So much for the gradual approach.

Back at base camp it's time to get down to business. While the sun is busy drying me off, I pull out my spiral notebook titled
Moon over Milan
. I've been working on this novel for three years up in my writing tower and really need to end it. That's my goal for the trip—to finish my novel. I'm planning to send the story synopsis off to a few New York publishers as soon as I can come up with the ending. Grandma Angelina sends me writing magazines from America each month to keep me in the know. According to my latest issue of
Writer's Digest
,
Moon over Milan
is the kind of story editors are dying to get their hands on.

BOOK PROPOSAL: MOON OVER MILAN

Complete Story Synopsis

By Angelina Juliana Degulio

Pen Name: Dorothy Jones

Genre: Literary Romance

Length: However long you want it

Competition: “Romeo and Juliet,” “Pride and Prejudice,” “Wuthering Heights,” “Doctor Zhivago”

“Moon over Milan” is a heart-wrenching love saga about a girl named Janeà and her childhood friend, Tanner. Janeà and Tanner grew up together on the tiny seaside island of Boonadogga, meaning “dog bone” in Swanagi (fictional language), because it's shaped like a dog bone. At age ten Janeà is torn away from her beloved little island to move halfway around the world to Milan, Italy, where her father inherited a peanut farm. She has to leave behind her Saint Bernard puppy, Christopher, as well as her soul mate, Tanner. Tanner owns Christopher's sister, Robin, so now he has to raise both Christopher and Robin himself.

As Janeà is being dragged away by her mean peanut-farmer father, she tosses her lucky rabbit's foot to Tanner, making him promise to give it back someday. Tanner promises Janeà he'll come find her when he grows up.

Eight years pass by. One night Janeà is walking through the streets of Milan feeling alone in the world (her whole family died when the peanut roaster blew up). Suddenly, under the moonlight, she sees someone in the park sitting on a bench. He's playing fetch with two full-grown Saint Bernards. She hears him call the name “Christopher.”

That's as far as I've gotten. I'd like to drag it out a little and make it somewhat less predictable. Maybe it will all just turn out to be a coincidence. The guy in the park ends up being someone named Joe, but he's really nice and looks just like Little Joe Cartwright from
Bonanza
. The reader will be torn over what Janeà should do—marry Joe, or hold out for Tanner? I think I'll just go buy a Vienna sausage for now.

Returning to the pool, sausage dog in hand, I find Adriana surrounded by a number of young Italian males. Typical. She's doing her best to ignore them, but they aren't getting the hint.

A small crowd of people have also gathered around the pool cabana, with my Mama in the middle of them handing out little pink cards. They're all smiling and nodding their heads.
What is she up to now?
Looking up, she spies my sausage dog and saunters over for a bite. “I hope you're planning to share some of that with your poor starving mother.”

“Mama, what were you handing out there?” I ask, while offering up a bite.

Half a sausage dog later, she says, “Business cards. I am just letting these traveling folks know that if they ever need a place to stay in Tuscany, Sophia's Villa Rosa is up and running.”

“Oh, now it's ‘
Sophia's
Villa Rosa'?”

“Whatever sells soup.”

“Okay, well, I'm going for my beach walk now. Where's Daddy?”

“Your father is hiding behind his magazine right over there, hoping I don't start another scene. I let everyone know right off the bat that I am not the real thing. Besides, even if I were, beach people are far too relaxed to work themselves into a frenzy. They are enjoying the resemblance though.”

Heading down the beach, I spot J. R. involved in a volleyball game. There seems to be something here for everyone. I'm fascinated by all the different boats out on the water: yachts, sailboats, ski boats …

“
Buongiorno, signorina
.”

Startled, I turn and find a guy walking behind me. “
Buongiorno
, yourself.”

He starts rattling something off in Italian about his uncle's boat, then in English asks, “Want to go up in the air?”

“Um,
non capisco
.” I understand the language, but have no idea what he's talking about.

He takes me by the arm and turns me toward the bay, then points up.

Holy Toledo!
There's a man tied behind a boat, flying in the air like a kite!

“My uncle's boat,” he says, and asks again if I want to go up in the air.

I'm speechless. I recall hearing about something like this when our cousins got back from Mexico. Cousin Nicky said he did it and had a blast.
And now it's made its way to the Riviera.