Awakened by an odd cry. I rise and go to the window. On the beach a pair of seagulls stand, about three feet apart. Light is in the sky but the sun has not yet appeared. The sky and water are a soft pale blue. Building facades are suffused with a gentle rose-tinted luminescence. I'm in desperate need of some strong coffee, but the streets are empty and nothing will open for an hour. I look at the map and debate whether I should set out immediately on the hike, or wait an hour and a half for the boat. All right, a decision. I will go to the monastery by sea, and then afterward walk through the mountains on to Portofino, then back here by boat. Yes. That's exactly what I'll do today.
I was reading about Virgil last night before I went to sleep. The great poet once went to a certain remote town to "gather color" for a section of an epic poem he was working on. Likewise, I need to see the place where old man Nicola took my Vittoria. I imagine him hiring a boat for the journey. But I can't quite picture Vittoria sitting quietly, just going along with no protest. What did they talk about in that boat chugging along beneath steep, rocky cliffs? Probably everything but the subject at hand, which was his plan to lock her up for a year.
Yes, of course. This might well be still another of Vittoria's fabrications, one of a succession. But in New York Mary described to me the letter Vittoria had written her. The envelope, Mary said, was postmarked Portofino. "Tell James he's been a great bridge," Vittoria wrote. That hurt. It was one of my own comments thrown right back in my face. Early in the relationship I suggested to Vittoria that perhaps God had put me in her life more as a bridge than a destination. Which I thought was rather clever.
I should ask the fellow at the book shop about this. He has lived here in Camogli a long time. Quiz him about the concept of a father putting a daughter away for a year. I'll ask: Where would such a thing be permitted? I'm just assuming it's San Fruttuoso. But it might be some other less conspicuous monastery, one not on the map.
The gulls have returned, and one makes a strange sound like a cat in heat. Something is on his mind this morning. Perhaps he's trying to tell me something. What is he saying? He's saying, "Carry on!"
###
Arrive safely at San Fruttuoso. Near the gothic monastery and bell tower, facing the small protected bay, is a restaurant, and a gift shop. I ask the waitress for an espresso. When she returns I ask her about the nuns, the monks in the monastery. She looks at me, puzzled. "There are no nuns or monks here," she says. "It is now a museum!"
I should have known! But I pretend this is no more disturbing than a weather report. I lift the cup to my lips. "But perhaps there are a few monks hidden away somewhere," I say. She smiles, thinking I am making a joke.
A large boat pulls into the crystal blue-green water of the bay. Thick white nylon lines are tossed, secured. Gangplank lowered. The crowd comes ashore. I finish my coffee, and walk over to where they have assembled. A blonde woman named Lucia, of Trumpy Tours, is delivering a lecture. The tourists fidget. Some snap photographs.
Lucia, in heavily accented English, tells the group that the crypt of the 13th Century Doria family, in the basement of the abbey behind her, is made of white marble from Carrara, and black slate from quarries in this region. A unique juxtaposition of white and black stone, which is very interesting.
Carrara was among the towns I passed a few days ago on the train from Naples. I saw the signs: Livorno, Pisa, Viareggio, and Massa. Along the way numerous lots were filled with blocks and slabs of the gleaming stone. Carrara is the marble Michelangelo selected in 1513 to carve the likeness of Moses for the tomb of Julius II, and I recall visiting the church of St. Peter in Chains, in Rome, and seeing that massive, brooding sculpture in the darkness. Nearby was a metal box with a slot for coins, which turned on lamps to illuminate the statue.
Carrara was the word I used long ago to try to explain to a young Roman woman I encountered how exquisitely pale-white and smooth her skin was, but of course she did not understand me. Afterward I took a bath in her gleaming white tub, and she was amused that I cleaned the tub myself, something in her experience a man would never bother to do, since that was woman's work.
Black slate was the medium used by an artist I knew in New York. His studio was full of intricately carved tower-like sculptures he'd fashioned from the material. Odd, isn't it? That someday I'd end up here, in this place, where that slate is pulled from the ancient ground.
Michelangelo's Moses. This shining marble sculpture troubled the great Sigmund Freud when he first saw it. The horns coming out of the prophet's head deeply disturbed him. Also those massive arms and veiny hands entwined in his beard. Perhaps to Freud the horns were phallic. Or the cigars that he always kept between his lips. Which led to the throat cancer that eventually killed him. Cigars. Horns. Phalli. All chipped from the same block.
"In the chapel," Lucia says, "is a magnificent bronze statue of Christ. He stands with his arms open, his face tilted upward, invoking his Father's mercy. Now, this statue is but a copy of the original that is out there, submerged in the water of the bay."
People in the group frown. They do not understand. What is she saying? What does it mean? "Christ is in the beautiful clear water, put there many years ago to protect the fishermen's boats," Lucia says. "Every year is a festival, and many people--including the Monsignor--put on diving equipment and go underwater, where a mass is said in tribute to our protector."
"Click," says the camera of a large man in tan shorts, sandals and a New York Yankees baseball cap.
###
The trail through the mountains from San Fruttuoso to Portofino is marked every quarter of a mile by two red painted spots, either on rocks or the trunks of trees. The path climbs up an extremely steep incline, and there are many stone steps of inlaid rock or ledges carved into existing rock. A dense forest of pines and various species of other trees is in full leaf, and there are sprays of yellow, purple, pink, and red wildflowers. Birds chirp. Bright green lizards skitter across the path, or stand motionless on rocks, taking the sun.
A most steep and difficult climb, that soon makes me short of breath, heart pounding, and covered with sweat. It is most pleasant to feel the cool breeze as I pause every now and again. Soon I am up on the top, looking out at a panorama of cliffs descending, arching into the blue sea. I lean over and look down the precipices to the ragged shore washed by the waves.
I resume my walk. Despite careful steps, my foot twists on loose rock and I tumble into tall grass and bushes. I am going to drop over the edge! In this split second I can see myself falling, flailing my arms, and then striking the rocks far below. But I manage to grab hold of a gnarled tree root, and suddenly stop. I rise slowly, test my ankle. It is okay. I brush the dirt off my trousers.
As I walk I think of the submerged statue of Christ that was sunk into the bay at San Fruttuoso, and of the divers who descend in August, a priest among them, to celebrate an underwater mass. Perhaps it would be possible for a couple to marry there. But how would they say "I do"? Perhaps sign language. Or perhaps they would write on a white board with a grease pencil.
Soon the path levels off, and gradually starts downhill. Ah, this is much better. With less expenditure of physical effort, it is easier to appreciate the beauty. I feel the breeze, carrying with it the sweet scents of wildflowers. I pass a vineyard. There by the side of the trail, up on the slope, is an old woman sitting in a chair, next to a line on which hang beautiful white embroidered tablecloths.
I turn a corner and see--to my great surprise--an ass standing behind a wire fence. When he spots me he begins an extremely loud and harsh braying. Like a honking. He trails off in his bleating, as if he has said all he needs to say, and lowers his big-eared head to munch at some grass. Up the trail comes a German hiker, and his wife who are followed by some Italian hikers. And now comes a sweaty, pink faced woman with a backpack.
"Portofino?" I ask pointing behind her.
She pauses a second. "Oui," she says.
Finally through the trees I see the port, and masts of ships. I am getting close. The steps are steep and it is hard work going down.
###
At the edge of the village of Portofino there is a milling crowd, and a fire truck, and a couple of black Alfa Romeos with black red bands along their length and the white letters: CARABINIERI. Four dark young men with black, red-banded trousers and white web belts holding automatic pistols stand talking, smoking. A television cameraman aims his camera at the crowd, and then at the entrance of a building with a large, green-painted door. He holds the shot for a few seconds, then pans upward. A young blonde woman with a notebook approaches the Carabinieri. The cameraman follows.
"So what is the plan now?" She wants to know.
"The pig has been shot," one says. "He is trapped between a wire fence and the hillside. There is nothing to be done."
"He is still alive?"
"Yes."
"Why do you let him suffer?"
"A gun may not be fired within the village."
"But surely in this case an exception can be made."
They shrug.
The pig, now dying on the hillside, was very aggressive. It would come down from the mountains and root in garbage containers. Several tourists became frightened and complained to the authorities. The hotel owners insisted something had to be done. A meeting was held, a long discussion had taken place. They finally decided the pig had to be hunted down, shot. It was a threat. Not only to safety, but also to the tourist industry upon which this village and many others along the coast depend.
"But you must do something!" the woman repeats.
Again they shrug.
I follow her and the cameraman as they leave the Carabinieri and enter the building through the green painted door. In a passageway are several uniformed local policemen, and a fireman, and a captain, talking quietly. The journalist informs them she has come to photograph the pig for the evening news broadcast. The captain nods, and leads us up a stairway and along a passageway, and then out onto a balcony whose floor adjoins the roof of a shed. The captain cautions us we must be careful to step only on the boards, otherwise we will fall through the flimsy roof.
There, behind the thin webbing of a wire fence, framed by the dark green leaves of very thick bushes, is barely visible the textured, brown furry face of a pig. The cameraman focuses his videocam. The journalist leans to get a better view.
The pig's glistening black eye stares through the dark green leaves. Its eyelid is covered by crawling flies. The pig blinks. The flies take off, but again quickly descend and again crawl about the poor animal's eyelid. The pig is silent. It again blinks to briefly drive away those relentless flies.
It is just a matter of time. A wounded pig, an obscured pig. A silent pig, down from the mountains, from where I had just arrived. I'd heard no gunshots. No squealing. Just the chirping of birds and earlier the loud braying of an ass.
###
In Portofino I find what I think might be the bar where old man Nicola and Vittoria sat waiting for the boat to take them to a monastery, obviously not San Fruttuoso. The bar is named "Il Molo." I imagine Vittoria and her father sat right here where I am, at a table very near the place where tickets for the ferry back to Camogli are sold.
It's a sprawling open area on the waterfront, with wide sidewalks along the harbor and in the background are the varied colors of the buildings' facades. Tones dark and pale, red and yellow ochre, bright white, soft blue and pink. A thicket of boat masts waving. The slurp of water. The laughter and shouts of the people huddled together at nearby tables. The sweaty waiters in black vests and white shirts and black bow ties. The cute bobbing ponytails of the waitresses. What did the sight of this upscale tourist village bring to Vittoria's mind as she waited with her father for the boat?
Perhaps she overhead the Australian accents of that billionaire boat owner, who holds court at a table, who is able to elicit laughter from his entourage with just about anything he says. Just beyond, tied to the pier, is that huge white boat of his, a ship actually, complete with a mast and a radar antenna rotating slowly, and weather instruments, and even smart young men in white polo shirts and dark blue shorts manning the little inflated rubber shuttle boats with outboard engines.
Vittoria might have seen such things, until it was time to go. The final leg of her journey. To what would be her home for twelve months, perhaps longer. Time enough for her to get her head straight.
###
I find a seat in the bow of the sleek white boat, and settle back. The trip back to San Fruttuoso from Portofino is but a fraction of the time it took me to walk that distance. The sea is calm. We soon pull into the now familiar bay.
A young couple climbs aboard and sits opposite me. As we wait, the young man looks at the facade of the monastery, and up at the Doria tower, and at the olive and lemon trees that cover the terraced slope. He is very still, very attentive, as if he is taking care to imprint these lovely images permanently in his memory, because perhaps he knows he will never again look upon this scene.
His partner, an attractive slim woman, has been watching him closely. She understands and is touched by the deep emotions that possess this man, her husband. I imagine it was this kind of esthetic sensitivity that drew her to him in the first place. She loves him even more now for his awe, his humility before the magnificence of God's creation. She watches him look up at the tower, and at the faded fresco that once contained the coat of arms of the Doria family, an eagle, a traditional symbol of Imperial power, now faded and gone. She gently strokes his back as he looks down toward the beach at the café where just two hours ago they'd held hands and drunk white wine.
And then the bell in the tower tolls quattro. A crew member shouts toward the beach. "Camogli! Camogli!" His final call to board.
Our boat pulls slowly away from the pier and into the bay, and then out past the bright orange marker buoys into the open sea. As we move slowly along, the young man gazes at the looming cliffs, the tops of the promontories covered with umbrella pines that stand clearly in relief against the sky. He puts his hand on his wife's leg, and she covers his hand with hers, and she pats him gently, to soothe his sadness that they will never see these sights again. Here, so clearly visible in this open boat in the gold afternoon sun, is what eludes me.
I turn, stare out at the sharp-edged horizon. Spray stings my face. I squint. I have traveled a long distance--to the monastery and to Portofino through the mountains and then back again toward Camogli--and yet I have achieved nothing. Except to realize that love has been, and perhaps will always remain, just beyond my reach. I dare not ask why.
