The House in Amalfi (19 page)

“No, no,” I protested, waving my arms wildly, “take them out; take them
out
, signore. We must arrange something better.” My Italian had fallen to pieces under the stress, and the old boy looked stonily at me from the corner of his eye.

Then, “Okay,” he said,
“necessitan un plastico e della corda.”
And he marched back to the pickup again, with me following, still protesting that I needed
una gabbia
, a cage.

He shrugged his shoulders and told me there was no cage. He grabbed another chicken from under the netting covering them and quickly tied her legs together with a piece of string and set her on the ground. He grabbed another and did the same to that. We watched them flapping wildly for a minute. He took a couple of plastic bags from the cab of the truck, muttered a couple more
“va bene, va bene
s
,”
and was off again to my car.

I hurried after him. How was I going to drive with a bunch of flapping chickens crammed behind me? And how much damage were they going to do to the rental car? And how would I explain that to the Avis lady?

By now the old man had tied up the first two chickens. He spread the plastic bags over the backseat and the four birds sat there, glaring furiously at me, while he went back to get the rooster.

I heard the rooster’s powerful squawk before he’d even gotten the bird out of the truck. He let out another high-pitched protest, flapping his strong wings violently, rising up into the air like a hawk, while the old man held grimly on to the bird’s feet. I held my breath, wondering whether he was going to fly off over Amalfi’s rooftops, never to be seen again, but the man swept the rooster down toward him, quickly wrapped the string around his legs, and shoved him, still squawking, under his arm. He ran toward my car. He thrust the bird in among the hens, who went suddenly quiet, slammed the door on them, then turned and held out his hand.

“Va bene, signora,”
he said.
“Il dinaro.”

I had it folded in my jeans pocket, the way I used to when I went shopping in the Campo de’ Fiori market for Jon-Boy’s supper. Thinking of supper, I asked him what chickens ate.

The old boy’s walnut face dropped in astonishment. “They eat what chickens eat,” he said. “They roam free and choose what they like in the hedgerows, the fields. . . .”

Of course, that’s what
free-range
meant! “Right,” I said quickly. “Right.”

We shook hands again. I climbed into my chicken wagon and started the engine amid a great outcry of anger from my very own egg layers and their husband.

Mr. Rooster tried to flap his wings, crowing angrily. I glanced nervously into the rearview mirror, praying he wouldn’t escape his bonds, because it would be Hitchcock’s
The Birds
all over again. I could see the headline now:
American Woman Found Pecked to Death in Rented Fiat.

I had to stop off in Pirata because I needed to buy them food at Umberto’s. There was no way I could let these birds out to “free-range”—they’d simply take off and find a way to fly home, leaving me eggless and out of pocket. I would keep them in their new cage until they got used to the place and understood it was “home.”

“Umberto,” I said, still breathless from running from the parking lot above town down the
scalatinella
to the piazza, “I need chicken feed.”

Umberto looked like an ex-boxer, with a nose that had been broken in his youth and never reset, shadowy black eyes, and a muscular physique. He was about fifty years old, and like most everyone in Pirata, he’d inherited his business from his father, as had his father had before him. In the murky depths at the back of his narrow store were all kinds of surprises, from horseshoes to curling irons. I only prayed he had chicken feed.

“Ai, signora
, it’s much better to let your chickens roam free,” he said earnestly. “The eggs will be wonderful, sometimes with two yolks even.”

I quickly explained my predicament and he thought for a minute, said,
“Scusi, signora, scusi,”
and disappeared into the back realms.

I stood in the doorway staring uneasily up the hill to the parking for any sight of escapee chickens. Of course, like any good mother, I had left the window open a little so they wouldn’t get too hot.

Umberto emerged from the back, dusting off a large paper sack. On it I noticed was written:
Food for Parakeets.

“This is all I have, signora,” he said. “Perhaps it will do for now. Later you can call the feed store in the city and have them deliver some to you.”

“But
parakeets
?”

Umberto shrugged. “Birds is birds, signora, is all the same,” he said, smiling.

Hoping he was right, I paid my money and ran back up the steps to the car and my waiting chickens.

It was only when I’d parked by the statue of Saint Andrew that I realized I was going to have to carry the chickens down the
scalatinella
myself. I looked over my shoulder at them, still squawking in the back. There was no one around to ask for help.

Taking a deep breath—not a good idea in the now very chicken-shitty car—I coughed my way out and slammed the car door behind me. I took a few gulps of fresh air while figuring out a plan of attack. I decided it would be easier to carry one chicken at a time. I opened the back door a crack, shoved my hand in, and grabbed a bunch of feathers. She shrieked and pecked my hand hard. I let go and slammed the door. I stared at my reddened hand—the peck hadn’t broken the skin, but still it hurt.

“Little bastard,” I said, angry now, “you’re not gonna get the better of this independent woman.” I thrust my hand in again, grabbed a chicken, dragged her out, and in one swift move tucked her under my arm the way I’d seen the old boy do.

She was much stronger than I’d thought such a little thing would be. That chicken kicked and struggled and pecked all the way down the steps. I shoved her into her new pen, cut the string around her legs, slammed the gate shut, and latched it with a piece of bent wire. Nervous, I checked the improvised lock. The chicken sat, feathers ruffled, where I’d put
her, not saying anything for once, so I quickly ran up the steps and grabbed another.

Four times up and down and I had four chickens in their pen, all sitting quietly, waiting for my next move. Or more likely waiting for their boss’s move, because there was no doubt the rooster was the boss.

I hovered outside the car, looking at the rusty-colored bird flapping up and down at the window, still squawking angrily and still pooping regularly all over my car seat. I wondered angrily where it all came from. Deciding I could take no more, I flung open the door, grabbed the rooster’s neck, and gave it a pull. He squawked loud enough to wake the dead, but I didn’t give in. Nor did the rooster; he simply dug in his claws and hung on.

“Come on, you little bastard, get out of there,” I muttered grimly, refusing to give in the tug-of-war.

“Can I help you?” a voice said. I turned to find Lorenzo Pirata standing behind me. An ugly white dog sat beside him, staring eagerly at my rooster. “I hate to see a woman struggle with a rooster,” he said, with an amused little smile. “And anyhow, it seems to be a losing battle.”

He was immaculate in blue shorts, a white linen shirt, and soft expensive-looking suede loafers. He looked like an ad from an Italian fashion magazine,
“What the older man should wear this summer,”
and I was hot and bothered and covered in feathers and chicken shit.

I pulled my wits together. After all, this was the man who’d forbidden his grown children to talk to me, the man with whom I was to have lunch tomorrow, when we were to discuss “my house.” He was a man I definitely did not trust.

“Thank you, but I think I can manage,” I said distantly, trying to look as dignified as a woman involved in a battle for supremacy with a rooster could.

“What you need to do is grab him by the wings,” Lorenzo said. Edging me aside, he opened the door and put both hands fast over the rooster, trapping his wings. “That’s where their power is,” he said, pulling the now silent bird from the car. “Cut it off and they know they are beaten. Now, where do you want him?”

I gestured down the cliff. “At the back of the house. I’ve made a little coop.”

He headed swiftly down the stairs, followed by the dog, with me running after them carrying the bag of food. I darted ahead to open the little wire gate. He took a knife from his pocket, cut the leg strings, then quickly thrust the rooster in. It settled amid a great fluffing of feathers, then retreated behind his clucking harem of chickens to rearrange his ego.

“You’ll have trouble with that bird,” Lorenzo Pirata said, standing, arms folded, looking at my new “family.” “And what made you buy Rhode Island Reds?”

I looked, puzzled, at my chickens. They were just chickens to me. “I don’t know about Rhode Island Reds,” I admitted. “All I wanted were some nice fresh eggs.”

“Much easier to buy them in the market,” he said, sounding amused. “And the chickens will need a proper house to nest in, but anyhow, it’s best if they run free.”

“I have food for them,” I said, hefting the sack, hardly believing I was having an actual conversation with the Pirate of Pirata.

This time he laughed. “Umberto sold you parakeet seed,” he said. “Don’t worry; I’ll have some proper chicken feed sent down. You don’t want to kill them off before you at least get some eggs.”

“True,” I admitted, blushing. This self-sufficiency game was more complicated than it seemed. “And thank you.”

He stood, arms folded, looking at me. Nervous, I dusted a
feather from my cheek. I said, “I’m surprised you helped me, Signor Pirata. After all, you told your daughter not to speak to me.”

He looked gravely at me for a long moment. I noticed how bright a blue his eyes were. He was a tall, broad-shouldered, powerful-looking man. A very attractive man and no doubt fully aware of that. Women must chase after him just the way they chased after his son.

“I apologize for that,” he said finally. “It was wrong of me.” I nodded, still wondering what reason he could possibly have had for asking his children not to talk to me.

“I’m looking forward to seeing you at lunch tomorrow,” he added.

I said I was looking forward to it, too, and he said, “Good luck with the chickens. I’ll have the feed to you right away.” Then he was running back up the
scalatinella
with his ugly dog, looking, I thought, just as good from behind as he did from the front.

Handsome is as handsome does
. . . . I remembered the old saying Jammy’s mother used to quote at us whenever we were moaning about the hot guys on the football team and how great looking they were. We figured it meant they had better be as good on the inside as they were on the out- and if they didn’t behave well to us, Mrs. Mortimer would have something to say about it. I wished Mrs. Mortimer were here now.

Leaving my birds sitting in a sullen heap, I walked around to the front of the house. I felt hot, dirty, and tired, and I still had to go back up and clean out my wrecked car. I sighed. The hell with it. I was too exhausted.

I sank onto a chair, admiring the soothing blue vista below me. I heard the roar of an engine and saw the Riva dart into the bay with Nico at the helm. He didn’t turn to look up at the house and I guessed he had already forgotten all about
the older woman who had amused him for a few hours the other day.

Then on the table I saw a small package. The box said:
ALBERTO E LINA, CAPRI
. In it was the pretty coral bracelet I had admired the other day.

A smile lifted the corners of my mouth. Nico had not forgotten me after all.

I’d been too upset to venture into Jon-Boy’s room since that first evening when I’d found everything exactly the way he’d left it. Now, with my lunch with Lorenzo Pirata “to discuss matters” looming, I thought I’d better take another look around and see if there were any documents regarding the house.

I’d left the windows open, and the fresh air had dispelled the musty odors. Now it felt as though Jon-Boy might walk through the door any minute.