Racing the Sun Read online

  This sounds promising. “And it’s just down the street? It’s a long street . . .”

  Amanda smiles, pulls out the hostel map, and begins to mark up a path for me. “Follow the road all the way to here and then take these stairs here. You’ll come to Bar Darkhouse. Beside it, kind of tucked in the back, is Panna Café.”

  “Thank you,” I tell her, folding the map before shoving it in my bag.

  I walk down the streets with an extra spring in my step. The air is fresh (when you’re not inhaling diesel fumes) and the sun is warm, baking my bare arms. I’m feeling a bit optimistic about the whole money problem now. If Amanda can find work here, I can, too.

  That should also go to say that if Amanda can find love here, I can, too. But thankfully, that is the last thing I’m looking for. I’ve had enough fun and heartbreak during this trip, falling for boys who either have their hearts set on someone else (like Josh in New Zealand) or who love you and leave you (like the Icelandic boy, Kel, who I spent a sex-filled week with in Prague). No, the next guy I was going to fall for was going to be a Nor Cal boy when I returned back home to San Jose. No drama, no heartache, no tragic goodbyes.

  No fun either, I think to myself, but I quickly push that thought away.

  The café is easy enough to find but it takes me a while to get there. The town is so pretty and tightly packed with storefronts, and I want to linger in every single one of them. Eventually, I get there and order an espresso at the bar. Unlike most cafés in Italy, this one actually has tables and chairs where you can sit down and sip your drink, obviously catering to tourists. But at this point I’ve gotten used to doing quick shots of coffee while standing up. It’s at least more efficient.

  After I ask the British barista if they’re hiring and get a big fat no, she points me to the corner of the café where the notice board is. Though most of the postings are actual flyers for parties or advertisements for ceramic sales, there are a few work notices.

  One of them looks fresh—none of the phone number and e-mail strips on the notice have been torn off.

  It reads:

  Need help. Want English speaking woman. Two children. Must be good to young children and help with language. Fluency needed. Italian is helpful to have. Please e-mail Felisa. Locate to Capri.

  I quickly take the notice off of the board before anyone else notices. Like hell I’m going to compete for this job. Even though I’m not really sure what it entails other than possibly teaching English to two kids, or what it pays, or if it includes room and board, I’m not going to give up the opportunity. If it doesn’t work out, then I’ll just put the ad back.

  I immediately connect to the café’s Wi-Fi on my cell phone and write an e-mail to Felisa. I make myself sound as good as possible: Graduated from San Jose State with a B.A. in English. Worked as a receptionist for a prestigious manufacturing company (before I was fired). Great with children (I think I babysat once when I was fifteen). Willing to work on Capri, provided help with housing is included. Spent a great deal of time building up life skills while traveling Southeast Asia. Know how to bake a mean tiramisu.

  That last part is a lie but I thought they might find it endearing.

  I press send and then wait.

  And wait.

  And when I realize I’m not going to get a response right away, I head to the bar next door, taking the work notice with me.

  * * *

  I don’t get a reply until the next morning. I didn’t sleep well, between obsessing over how to get home and trying to ignore the sounds of Hendrik and Ana having sex. You’d think I’d be used to public dorm room copulation by now, but I’m not. It’s one of those things you don’t want to get used to because then that means you should probably reexamine your life.

  When I check my e-mail on my phone, all bleary-eyed, I see that Felisa wants me to meet her at the dock at four this afternoon. It doesn’t say anything else. Not what she looks like or if I need to bring anything or where we’re going. I mean, the dock? She’s not actually thinking of doing the job interview on the island of Capri, is she?

  But as many questions as I have, I’m also excited. Because this is promising. And it was so easy. One e-mail and bam! I might just be teaching English to two cute Italian children. I bet they’re just darling and say mama and eat politely. Sure, I don’t have a lot of experience with children, but I figure I might become a mother one day so this is good practice. I mean, the maternal instinct has to be in me somewhere.

  I tell Ana and Henrik that I’m meeting someone down at the dock. I haven’t told them about my financial problems and don’t plan on it, so they’re a bit suspicious about this meeting, even when I try to play it off as if I met a guy yesterday and I’m meeting up with him again.

  I mean, it could be true, in a way. I assume that the children will have a father and he might want to interview me, too.

  I leave at three o’clock because the hill takes its time to wind down, and Italians walk slowly (yet drive frighteningly fast). I’m at the dock with plenty of time to spare.

  Positano is absolutely gorgeous from the water and the pebbled beach is packed with bronzed men in Speedos and brightly-striped umbrellas and chairs. Tiny boats and Jet Skis zip back and forth, sloshing the low dock with water. I stand there and wait, my face to the sun, still pinching myself that I’m here, in Italy, and it’s a gorgeous day.

  Time seems to drag on a bit. I look across the dock and slowly realize that no big ships are docking here, only small boats. I look over to my left and notice a large hydrofoil pulling out from the area around the rocks.

  Oh shit. Is that the dock she meant? Have I been standing in the wrong place this whole time?

  I whip out my phone and look at the time. Four ten. Just fucking great.

  I’m about to start running across the beach toward the bigger ships when a woman yells out. “Hey you!”

  I stop in my tracks, pebbles flying everywhere and getting in my sandals, and see a woman striding toward me. She’s short and round with gray hair pulled off her face, showcasing her very sharp nose. She’s still beautiful, though, in an older, classy woman way. Or she would be if she didn’t look so scowl-y.

  “Show me your hands,” she says in a thick accent, stomping over to me, and for a moment I’m afraid that this is all a misunderstanding. Is she mistaking me for a thief or something?

  But I have no time to say anything. She grabs my hands, turning them over and back again. “Okay, fine,” she says and peers at my face. Her eyes are a light gray. “You will do. Come on.”

  And then she starts to storm away, hiking up her skirt so it doesn’t brush against the pebbles.

  What the fuck was that?

  “Um, excuse me,” I call after her, unsure whether I should follow or who she even is. “I think you have me mistaken for someone else.”

  She shakes her head and keeps walking. “No. You are Amber. Come or we miss the boat.”

  “Felisa?” I ask and then run after her, my soles slipping all over the place. “How did you know who I was?”

  “Only tourists would go to wrong dock,” she says. She eyes me over her shoulder. “Also, I Google you. You have many pictures.”

  Well, I have been updating my travel blog quite often. At least I know someone’s looked at it.

  I walk fast to keep up with this woman. I’m a short girl with short legs, and though Felisa seems to be the same height, she walks like a giraffe, with impossibly long strides. It’s not long until I’m panting, totally out of breath, and we’re standing in front of one of the hydrofoils. A few people are dragging their luggage onto metal ramps that move with the swell of each wave.

  “What are we doing?” I ask.

  Felisa hands two tickets over to the man collecting them.

  “You come to the house, you meet the children. And Signor Larosa.”

  So many things happening at once.

  “Wait, wait,” I protest, reaching out to grab Felisa’s elbow.

  S
he shoots me daggers so I quickly let go, but at least I’ve stopped her.

  “Sorry,” I say quickly. “I didn’t know I would be going to the island. How would I get back?”

  “Tomorrow there is a ferry. Many ferries.”

  The ticket guy is eyeing us warily now.

  “But where do I stay? I don’t have any money. I’ve paid for my hostel here in full.”

  “You stay in the house.”

  “What house?”

  “Signor Larosa’s. Where the children are.”

  “Is he their father?”

  She shakes her head. “Older brother. Long story.”

  “How much older?”

  “Older!” she yells. “Now come on, we will miss it.”

  The ticket guy clucks his tongue in agreement.

  I sigh, feeling all out of sorts, and follow Felisa onto the ramp and inside the ferry. She takes a seat on one side of the main aisle in the middle of the ship. I notice that everyone is kind of arranged the same way, with few people on the outer edges. I wonder why but there are bigger things to wonder about.

  I sit down next to her. “Okay, let’s start again.”

  “You start tomorrow, when you get your things back from Positano.”

  “But you haven’t interviewed me yet. You don’t know if I’m right for the job.”

  “You are on the ferry right now, aren’t you?” she asks, giving me a sharp look. “Then you are right for the job. You could have said no. Also, you have nice, strong hands and you need those when handling children. Now I have to bring you to Signor Larosa and see how you are with him. And the children.”

  “Why is it important to see how I get along with him?”

  She sighs, as if I should know all of this. “He is difficult. So are the children. But he is even more so. Hopefully he will pretend you don’t exist. If you annoy him, you will know it well.”

  “And who are you?”

  “I am the housekeeper,” she says with a slight tip of her chin. “I have kept the children and the house in line since their parents died. But now is time for the children to learn proper English. Signor Larosa speaks it well, as do I, but it is not good enough for them.”

  “Them?”

  “His parents, who made it their wish in their will. So we are looking for a teacher. The last three we had all left. Stayed one week.”

  Oh, Jesus. This is starting to sound like the beginning of a horror movie.

  “In the ad I asked if you were good with young children. You said you were.”

  Actually, the ad said, good to young children. And of course I thought that meant if I spoiled them with candy and gave them gold stars for effort.

  She waves her wrinkled hand at me. “It doesn’t matter. They will be less of a problem.”

  “Than?”

  “Their brother. Desiderio Larosa,” she repeats impatiently. She turns her head and peers at me, as if searching for cracks. “If you can handle that man, then you can handle the children. Then you can handle anything.”

  At that she presses her lips together, closes her eyes, and appears to fall asleep right in front of me. She doesn’t even wake up when the hydrofoil picks up speed and starts to rock back and forth violently, waves splashing high against the sides of the boat. I spend the whole ferry ride wondering if I can make it to the bathroom to puke in time and if we’re all going to die on the high seas. That would be a change from falling to my death.

  I’m also wondering who this mysterious Desiderio Larosa is, and just what the hell I’ve gotten myself into.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Amalfi Blue. It’s a color that’s been used to describe shades of wall paint and eye shadow and nail polish, but even then it doesn’t hold a candle to the real thing. The water around the Amalfi Coast is an extremely jewel-colored, saturated blue that literally takes your breath away.

  The water around the island of Capri takes it one step further. It’s so clear and vibrant and changes from the richest royal blue to shimmering aquamarine; it looks like a pool of sun-splashed glass. I’m so engrossed with the color of the water as we approach the narrow marina that I barely notice the island rising up from the ocean in front of me. When I finally do look up as I’m getting off the ferry, I feel as if I’m being hit over the head with it.

  “Come,” Felisa barks at me as she stomps off the teetering ramp and onto the cement dock. If it wasn’t for the couple behind me, bumping into me with their giant suitcases, I probably would be standing in one place, staring straight ahead forever.

  I know I’ve been here for a second but Capri is fucking gorgeous. Brightly colored gondolas dot the turquoise water while pastel houses crowd the bustling shore, stretching up onto terraced green stone hills. The focal point is Mount Solaro, an overwhelming monolith smack in the middle, like a jagged tooth sticking out of a giant’s jawbone. If I squint, I can even see cars navigating its razor-thin curves.

  I shiver despite myself, remembering the road to Positano, and quickly hurry off the boat before Felisa yells at me again. Since it’s the start of summer, the crowds are thick and anxious and I feel like I’m being swept down the dock, losing sight of Felisa, until I see her stern eyes peering at me from beside a taxi. Not just an ordinary taxi but a convertible.

  “Are we taking this?” I ask her, super excited about riding in a topless taxi. Now, this is something to put on Instagram.

  “No,” she says coolly. “Come, hurry.” And then she turns, crossing the street filled with a melange of awestruck tourists, fast-talking locals out to make a buck, and an array of cabs and motorcycles. Somehow they all seem to clear a path around her. This woman must be known about town, or she has some supersonic people-repelling shield around her. I wouldn’t be surprised if the latter were true.

  I adjust my purse on my shoulder, suddenly aware that a crowd like this could be a breeding ground for pickpockets, and race across the street after her, bumping into people and nearly colliding into the wall of a street-side café.

  She walks through an arcade, and when I follow I discover we are in some half-underground tunnel, and a streetcar is slowly sliding down a track toward us.

  Felisa quickly pays for our tickets—which I guess is nice of her, since I’m so discombobulated by everything—and soon we’re in a packed funicular car, gliding up a hill. Within minutes we’re out of the dark and into the light, the wide windows of the car displaying the island below. I can see the marina with its myriad of ferries, hydrofoils, and boats and the rustic houses that cling to the sides of the cliffs.

  When we reach the top and exit the funicular, I find myself stupefied once again at the view. It’s much more apparent at this height that Capri is one giant, magical place filled with villas, culture, and pretty people. Oh, and shops. All the shops. As I follow Felisa through the pedestrians-only street through the maze of what is known as Capri town, I’m floored by the shopping opportunities. Dolce & Gabbana, Fendi, Gucci, Balenciaga line the elegant paths, beckoning even the cheapest person to peruse their window displays.

  I am that cheapest person, especially now, but Felisa’s glare overpowers my urge to see Prada’s latest offerings, so I hurry after her down the long winding lane until the shops turn to cafés and restaurants and the tourists begin to peter out.

  Here I am again stunned by the views. The so-called “street,” Via Tragara, takes us past house after gated house, where glimpses of the dramatic south coast of the island come into view between patches of lemon trees and climbing vines. The houses here all have names like La Gentilina, Villa Celeste, and Villa Grotta Azzurra and tease you through the gates. I want to stop and marvel at them and think about who lives in them and what it must be like to wake up each day with a view like that, to have breakfast and coffee on the edge of the world.

  But Felisa is now making a clucking noise like an angry chicken and I keep up the pace. I’ve only got my handbag on me and I’m starting to wonder, if I have to spend the night here, what the hell I’m going
to wear. I don’t have my face wash, my toothbrush, deodorant—nothing. It’s enough to send me into a bit of a tizzy but I take a deep breath and keep walking.

  “Do cars ever come down here?” I ask. The lane seems barely wide enough for even one car.

  She shakes her head. “No cars here, only carts.”

  “Like golf carts?”

  “Only carts.”

  “How do you move, though? Like, with all your furniture?”

  “Carts,” she repeats, exasperated. “Hurry.”

  I don’t know why we’re hurrying. It’s not like I had an appointment or anything. In fact I think it’s pretty commendable on my part that one moment I was standing on the beach in Positano and the next moment I’m here on a job interview gone rogue.

  As the road dips down a bit toward massive outcrops of rocks that jut out over the sea, the houses that flank the hill above and below us spread out. Soon, it’s just cypress, eucalyptus, palm trees, and fragrant periwinkle bushes. The air hums with cicadas.

  Finally, we stop by an impressive cast-iron gate, bookended by a massive stone wall. The number 33 is done up in fancy tile and a copper plaque reads Villa dei Limoni Tristi.

  “The house of sad lemons?” I ask, doing a poor translation in my head, but Felisa is ignoring me, sticking a giant skeleton key into the lock. I’m about to ask why she doesn’t have a modern keypad but realize she’d ignore me anyway.

  The gate swings open with a dramatic creak and I step inside. While she locks the gate behind us, I take it all in. It’s like we’re in the middle of a garden run wild. The grass is coarse and knee-high, weaving around overgrown shrubs and pomegranate trees. There are lemon trees, too, and in keeping with the house’s strange name, they do look a little sad. The lemons are huge—the size of your hand—and weigh down the trees, their boughs reaching out to us. Overripe fruit litters the ground, bees swarming happily around it. Back when I was in high school and full of hopes and dreams and shit like that, I actually fancied going into botany, or at least flower arranging, so all the beautiful flora here was doubly exciting for me.