“When does the next hydrofoil leave for Ischia?”
“In thirty minutes.”
“And for Capri?”
“Five minutes.”
“Give me a one-way ticket to Capri.”
“Si, signore.”
“What’s this ‘si signore’ crap?” Robert said in a loud voice. “Why don’t you people speak English like everybody else?”
The man’s eyes widened in shock.
“You goddamn guineas are all alike. Stupid! Or, as you people would say, stupido.” Robert shoved some money at the man, grabbed the ticket and walked toward the hydrofoil.
Three minutes later he was on his way to the island of Capri. The boat started out slowly, making its way cautiously through the channel. When it reached the outer limits, it surged forward, rising out of the water like a graceful porpoise. The ferry was full of tourists from a variety of countries, happily chattering away in different tongues. No one was paying any attention to Robert. He made his way to the small bar where they served drinks. He said to the bartender, “Give me a vodka and tonic.”
“Yes, sir.”
He watched the bartender mix the drink. “There you are, signore.”
Robert picked up the glass and took a swallow. He slammed the glass back down on the bar. “You call this a drink for Christ’s sakes?” he said. “It tastes like horse piss. What’s the matter with you goddamn Italians?”
People around him were turning to stare.
The bartender said, stiffly, “I’m sorry, signore, we use the best …”
“Don’t give me that shit!”
An Englishman nearby said stiffly, “There are ladies present. Why don’t you watch your language?”
“I don’t have to watch my language,” Robert yelled. “Do you know who I am? I’m Commander Robert Bellamy. And they call this a boat? It’s a piece of junk!”
He made his way to the bow and sat down. He could feel the eyes of the other passengers on him. His heart was hammering, but the charade was not over yet.
When the hydrofoil docked at Capri, Robert walked over to the ticket booth at the entrance to the funicular. An elderly man was in the booth selling tickets.
“One ticket,” Robert yelled. “And hurry up! I don’t have all day. You’re too old to be selling tickets, anyway. You should stay home. Your wife is probably screwing all your neighbours.”
The old man started to rise in anger. Passers-by were giving Robert furious glances. Robert grabbed the ticket and stepped into the crowded funicular. They’ll remember me, he thought grimly. He was leaving a trail that no one could miss.
When the funicular came to a stop, Robert shoved his way through the crowd. He walked up the winding Via Vittorio Emanuele, to the Quisisana Hotel.
“I need a room,” Robert told the clerk behind the desk.
“I’m sorry,” the clerk apologized, “but we are fully booked. There is …”
Robert handed him sixty thousand lire. “Any room will do.”
“Well, in that case, I think we can accommodate you, signore. Would you register, please?”
Robert signed his name. Commander Robert Bellamy.
“How long will you be staying with us, Commander?”
“One week.”
“That will be fine. May I have your passport?”
“It’s in my luggage. It’ll be here in a few minutes.”
“I will have a bellboy show you to your room.”
“Not now. I have to go out for a few minutes. I’ll be right back.”
Robert stepped out of the lobby, into the street. Memories hit him like a blast of cold air. He had walked here with Susan, exploring the little side streets, and strolled down Via Ignazio Cerio and Via di Campo. It had been a magic time. They visited the Grotta Azzurra, and had morning coffee at the Piazza Umberto. They took the funicular up to Anacapri, and rode donkeys to Villa Jovis, Tiberius’s villa, and swam in the emerald green waters at the Marina Piccola. They shopped along Via Vittorio Emanuele and took the chair lift to the top of Monte Solaro, their feet skimming over the vine leaves and leafy trees. Off to the right they could see the houses sprinkled down the hillside toward the sea, yellow broom covering the ground, an eleven-minute ride through a colourful fairyland of green trees, white houses and, in the distance, the blue sea. At the top, they had coffee at the Barbarossa Ristorante, and then went into the little church in Anacapri to thank God for all their blessings, and for each other. Robert had thought then that the magic was Capri. He had been wrong. The magic was Susan, and the magician had left the stage.
Robert went back to the funicular station at the Piazza Umberto, and took the tram down, quietly mingling with the other passengers. When the funicular arrived at the bottom, he walked out, carefully avoiding the ticket seller. He went over to the kiosk at the boat landing. In a heavy Spanish accent, Robert asked, “A que horn sale el barco a Ischia?”
“Sale en treinta minutos.”
“Gracias.” Robert bought a ticket.
He walked into a bar at the waterfront, took a seat in the back and nursed a scotch. By now they would have undoubtedly found the car, and the hunt for him would narrow. He spread out the map of Europe in his mind. The logical thing for him to do would be to head for England, and find a way to get back to the States. It would make no sense for him to return to France. So, France it is, Robert thought. A busy seaport to leave Italy from. Civitavecchia. I have to get to Civitavecchia. The Halcyon.
He got change from the owner of the bar, and used the telephone. It took the marine operator ten minutes to put his call through. Susan was on the line almost immediately.