14. He Who Appears as a Man is no Ghost, Unless You Look into His Eyes
Chapter 14
He Who Appears as a Man is no Ghost, Unless You Look into His Eyes
T he entire ride back to my apartment, I kept looking over my shoulder, to the left and to the right, the handlebars shimmying with my excitement, hoping to catch a glimpse of my ghost. I knew it had been him standing behind me, but what I didn’t understand was the hasty exits of the men who all had their eyes on me.
Was it because the young boys were being obnoxious? I called them “young boys” even though they were probably around my age or just a little younger. They weren’t acting their ages, so… That still left Dante, who was older than me and acted his age. He’d left without a word to me, too, his ravioli growing cold and hard on his plate.
Pondering this, I parked the Vespa in the garage and removed my things from the basket. I stopped abruptly when I got to the threshold of the apartment, and a pang hit me in the chest that Pisolino wasn’t there to walk me up. The fat tabby was there, though, flicking his tail, giving me one stink eye.
“You’re next, buddy!” I pointed at him. “Dr. Accolti will be by to check on that eye of yours.”
He crouched low and did this weird tail wag thing, and I had a feeling he was going to use it like a propeller to launch himself at me. I took off for the door, getting inside a breath before he hit it with a resounding thump! and rawwwr!
“Psycho cat,” I whispered to myself, taking the steps up two at a time.
In my apartment, I took a quick shower and dressed in a floral, laced-trimmed, blush-colored cami and short set. I twisted my damp hair up in a hair clip and went into the kitchen. I’d decided on the ride to the apartment from the trattoria to make my ghost an offering. Nonna was famous for her focaccia bread, and she had taught me how to make it just as she had. We always added toppings that made the bread look like a Vincent Van Gogh painting. I had everything I needed for the bread and the toppings.
Green, white, and red onions. Yellow bell peppers. Basil leaves. Tomatoes—a few different varieties. Olives. Rosemary. Thyme. Pepperoni. Parmesan cheese.
I set my dough up to rise, knowing that, since the room was warm, it wouldn’t take as long to puff up. I left it on the counter while I wiggled my fingers, sat at the desk, and picked up where I’d left off in the story. Two or so hours later, I felt satisfied with the overflow of words, and I knew the dough was ready. I took two focaccia pans from the cabinet, greased them with olive oil, and added the dough to each. After a night in the fridge, I’d finish them off with the toppings and bake them.
It was hard to fall asleep. I kept thinking how close I had been to my ghost, and how, if I had turned around just a second before, I would have seen him. The thought energized me and made my heart rate skyrocket. There was no way I could sleep, and since I was satisfied with my words, and the bread wasn’t done yet…what to do? I looked through all the pictures on my phone, knowing sooner or later I’d have to check my messages. Before I arrived in Italy, my mailbox had been full. Remy kept leaving me messages.
You know you love me, Ari! Give us a chance!
It felt pushy, borderline…obsessive. I was glad I was away from him, too .
Yawning harder this time, I settled on the picture of the ghost in the window. I set my phone on the pillow next to me and fell asleep while starting at it, romantic music playing in the background. And even though I was intending to sleep late, I woke up early, even though it was my free day. It felt like a strike of lightning had gotten caught up inside of me, a human bottle, and it was keeping my heart racing, my feet moving at the same pace.
After breakfast, I finished the dough, dimpling it, coating it in olive oil, and then decorated it. On one sheet, I created sunflowers out of yellow peppers, using green onion and basil as stems and leaves. On the other, I just went wild. I set both pans in the oven, and while they baked, I changed into a cream-colored bathing suit and a pair of jean shorts. I kept my hair up, tying a scarf around it. I packed all I’d need for a day at the beach. I pulled out the bread before I left and set it on the counter to cool.
I’d drop off the bread tomorrow before starting at the red-pepper stall.
A rush of butterflies invaded my stomach at the thought and made me almost breathless. I had to force myself to take the steps one at a time (the stairway was narrow) as I raced toward the garage. I decided to take the car instead of the Vespa. It looked fun to drive, and there was less of a chance of the psycho cat surprising me and getting in a swipe or two. He reminded me of Garfield.
In Italy, I decided, he’d be…Garfielio. Glancing out the door, I didn’t see him, so I rushed to the garage and opened the door.
The car didn’t start the first time I turned the key over, but on the second turn, it sputtered to life, and I took off. I rolled the window down—yeah, rolled. It had a turn knob instead of a button. I let the fresh air flow through the interior. It smelled like someone might have gone fishing on its last trip and left a catch in the backseat. I hit the horn when no one was around and it went MEEP, MEEP! When I passed the same two wives and two husbands still arguing about the dead car, I hit the horn again, and they all gave me blank looks before they waved.
I laughed, then left the car running while I ran into Dante’s clinic to pick up Pisolino. The doctor couldn’t speak to me, one of his nurses told me, but Pisolino would be fine and was ready to be picked up. Dr. Accolti had stitched up the worst of the cuts and was sending him home on antibiotics. The tech at the front desk gave me directions on how to use them. The other tech went to grab Pisolino, but instead of her carrying him out, she brought the carrier. His paw stuck out of the metal, claws out, and he was hissing. We decided to just open the door and see what he did.
We released him outside.
He darted out but then stopped, giving me a look, as if to say, triple traitor! He disappeared, proving to himself that he was still king of wild cats. I gave him an Italian wave and said, “See you at dinner!”
Then I headed in the direction of the beach. It was packed, but I decided to brave it anyway.
The beach had rocks leading out to the water. I lucked out by getting a chair and umbrella. I set up shop and just napped in the sun before I decided to give the water a try. It rocked me, and I lifted my toes above the surface, wiggling them, before I leaned my head back, opened my arms, and closed my eyes.
My thoughts were on the ghost again. The story.
I floated for a while before I made it back to shore to eat lunch—fresh seafood and a beer—and take an even longer nap.
At first, I thought the shadow moving over me was the umbrella, waving in time to the wind, but when I opened my eyes, everyone was fleeing from the beach. A lifeguard was making his way over to me.
“ Signorina ,” he said, gesturing to the sky, “bad weather is upon us.”
“Okay,” I said, already getting to my feet. “Thank you for letting me know.”
I packed up all my things and trekked behind everyone else to the area where most of the cars and Vespas were parked. This beach was reserved for the workers. Some of them were walking in groups. I looked up at the sky. It was dark, but I was from New Orleans. We had surprise tropical downpours that seemed to come out of nowhere. Throwing my things in the backseat, I turned the key over, and it didn’t start. I did it again, and again, and again, until I knew it was no use.
My car seemed to be suffering the same fate as the one the two old men and two old women kept arguing about. Grabbing my crossbody, leaving my towels and things like that in the backseat, I decided to walk back to my apartment. It seemed like the weather might be like this all day, and I didn’t want to stay holed up in a dead and humid car that smelled like fish after it had been out on the dock too long.
I wasn’t sure how long I walked before the entire island turned dark. It was like night was upon us, and the only light was the streaks of lightning flying across the sky accompanied by booming blasts of thunder. Rain was falling so hard I wished my sunglasses had come with windshield wipers. A few feet ahead of me, a strike of lightning touched the ground, picking up a hefty rock and electrocuting it.
I’d never seen anything like it before.
The tension in the atmosphere was palpable, and I could smell burning earth in the air. It smelled like charcoals that had been lit on fire.
“Shit,” I said, looking around, like maybe I could tell where another strike was going to touch down.
Since I didn’t have a weather app inside of me, I started to run. I didn’t know where I was running to, or where I was. This was the first time I’d visited this part of the island. But I saw a humungous villa up ahead and decided to climb the hill to get to it.
At first, I was just thankful to see something other than road. But what I failed to notice was that the other side of this villa was the seething Mediterranean Sea. I ran to the edge of the hill and looked down. The muddy road was flooding.
“Shit,” I said again.
I turned back to the villa and knocked on the door. Even those these people were Faustis, they had to have some kind of compassion, right? I probably looked like a wet cat. No one answered. I knocked harder. A few minutes later, still no answer. Another strike of lightning picked up an outside table and, just like it had done to the rock, shocked the shit of it. I could have sworn the nonliving object was crying out for help. Or it was the lightning, screaming like a crazed woman.
Turning toward the villa again, I peered inside the window. This area of the island had no electricity, so I expected it would be dark. But it was more than that. It felt empty.
Two choices then: face the Fausti family for damaging one of their properties, or face Mother Nature for daring her.
It was no contest. I picked up a rock and threw it through the window. The glass shattered and I climbed through, feeling a piece of glass snag at my leg. It stung, and blood started to run.
“ Hello ?” I called out, pressing my hand against the cut, the burn intensifying. Maybe from the salt on my hands. “ Ciao !”
No one answered me. The house was filled only with the violent sounds of the storm. And it was mostly dark, except for the areas where moody light connected with the voids and created shadows.
“Creep- Y, ” I whispered, kicking my feet out some to guide me further into the villa. I couldn’t see all that well, and I didn’t want to trip over anything. I made it unscathed to the opposite side of the spacious place and looked out the window.
What I saw was worse than looking down from an absurd height.
Water.
Miles of it.
Frothing.
Lightning forked in the distance, and it seemed like it was churning the water. A crack of thunder that sounded like it had snuck inside with me made me jump clear off the ground.
My nerves felt like they were suddenly exposed—I was turned inside out .
I wasn’t usually this person. Like I’d said, being from New Orleans, I was accustomed to unexpected weather, including flooding, but this, this would be truly spectacular to someone who studied storms. I wasn’t even sure if what I was seeing was normal. But I had nowhere to go, and I was going to have to wait it out.
If something were to happen…I had no one looking for me. Maybe Scarlett, but how would she know?
In the dim light, I searched for anything that could be lit. A fireplace. A candle. In the dining room, I found a five-handle candelabra with its candles still intact. Next to the fireplace, matches. So thankful! I lit the candles with trembling fingers, and their tiny fires swayed a little, shadows climbing up the walls like dark liquid. One of the flames hissed out when a droplet of water from my hair fell on it.
It had only been five or so minutes since I’d been inside, but…I was almost ready to brave the storm. Deep in the pit of my stomach, something didn’t feel right. Even though the villa looked empty, it didn’t truly feel that way. It felt like I wasn’t alone.
“Hellooo?” I called out again.
Nothing but the returned voice of the angry storm. I could hear the water beating against the rocks outside. Turning, with the heavy silver candle holder, I started to walk closer to the front door. At the same time, a rush of wind surged inside from the broken glass, and the candles hissed out. The voice of Rosaria Caffi seemed to come through the walls in a chilling tone that sent goosebumps scattering on my arms.
Suddenly, my neck felt too exposed.
Vulnerable.
The ghost who had taken his position behind me at the trattoria hadn’t even made me feel that way.
This was the opposite of that.
This was my gut screaming at me to run for your life!
I didn’t run but picked up my pace—substantially. I couldn’t see for shit, and didn’t want to trip over anything. But the closer I came to the door, the faster I moved.
I screamed when I collided with what felt like a boulder blocking the doorway. The heavy silver candelabra hit the wooden floor with a thud that I knew had gouged it.
Lightning lit the world from behind the strong figure, and rain came down in sheets. His head was bowed down, and he was dripping water like a sieve.
His head.
A man.
Not a ghost.
Until he looked me in the eyes.
They were flat. Dead. Maybe even already buried.
Looking into those pools void of life, I found my ghost.
“Oh my God.” My voice trembled, but my feet refused to move.
He stared at me, the color of his sea-green irises almost neon in this light, but they were dilated, black forcing out the glass color, and it didn’t even seem like he could blink. He was as still as a statue carved by some legendary artist, the rain sliding down his face like tears, making a liar out of the void in his eyes.
My eyes devoured him. The panic in my heart was already forgotten, considering his arrival. It was that rush again, the dopamine flooding my system and causing my heart to overreact. I grabbed for the pendant, feeling it safely still around my neck.
Something hard—the candelabra, probably—hit me in the back of the head. What was this? The effing phantom of the opera!? The thoughts spun through my head as I flew forward, right into his arms. After I was safely in them, hanging like a damsel in distress, I inhaled the faint scent of blood on his chest, and then the world faded from gray to black.