Beyond The Island Read online

  Beyond the Island

  Brenda Mackenzie

  © Brenda Mackenzie 2015

  Brenda Mackenzie has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published by Endeavour Press Ltd in 2015.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 1

  Not for the first time, Joanne decided she’d acted rashly. What had prompted her to accept this invitation from a middle aged business man she hardly knew? Joanne ran the scene through her head and her thoughts flew back to that business function at the Rome Chamber of Commerce.

  She recalled instructions before she attended.

  ‘E necessario introdurre la nostra orrganizzazione a persone importanti!’

  ‘You must introduce our organisation to these influential people,’ the Principal of the School of English emphasised. ‘Make sure you publicise us to those who might wish to perfect their English.’ He’d given Joanne a searching look as he emphasised, ‘Tenere vostri spiriti circa! – You comprehend?’

  ‘Si, Dottore.’ Of course she understood; she must keep her wits about her. Had he regretted taking on an unqualified teacher? It happened the Principal had obligations to his sick mother otherwise he would have attended. His deputy and other staff were busy or Joanne would not have been there. The School’s lack of funds reflected her meagre salary but she’d decided it worthwhile for the experience of living in Italy.

  The Chamber of Commerce was an impressive venue with its marble pillars, mosaic

  tiled floors and tall windows that overlooked the Piazza di Navona. Joanne mingled

  with the stylish guests and breathed in aromas of perfume and cigars that wafted

  about as she focussed on her task, so at odds with her usual working life.

  Champagne slipped down her throat and buoyed her confidence as she conversed in English and attempted to identify those who might be encouraged to take lessons. She became aware of a man whose presence drew a large group about him.

  ‘Ah!’ he exclaimed, detaching himself and arriving swiftly at her side. ‘You are Inglese? My name is Renzo Balzarin. And you are, please?’

  ‘Joanne Holt,’ she replied pleasantly.

  ‘You have business interests here in Rome?’

  ‘I’m employed by the Language School,’ she stated, put out by his somewhat brusque manner. Ignoring any slight, Signor Balzarin began to chat in perfect English. His face displayed that envious light tan Italians are graced with and which nothing applied from a bottle can compare.

  Clearly he wasn’t a candidate for lessons. Before she could politely excuse herself and move away, he asked abruptly, ‘So what brings you to teach English to our Roman citizens, Joanne?’

  He was certainly direct and she swiftly assessed him. His fine nose was slightly hooked and though he smiled she couldn’t avoid the intense gaze of his heavy lidded brown eyes, fixed upon her own. Her first thought was of a hawk, and a flicker of annoyance flew in that he seemed to control their conversation. A clever man and yet his demeanour, head tilted while he awaited her response held a certain deference which Joanne was sure most women would find attractive. For her he was too much the urbane, assertive man to appeal.

  It seemed Signor Balzarin had singled her out – although for what reason she couldn’t tell. Even amongst other important people, Renzo Balzarin’s presented an impressive persona; as though relaxed in his skin, alert, his calm gestures with open palms that suggested an acceptance to be taken seriously.

  She sensed his half close brown eyes had quickly taken her measure. Annoyed with herself for drinking several glasses of champagne, she was slipping out of her depth. Signor Balzarin had the knack of teasing out responses.

  ‘You know how it is,’ she murmured evasively. ‘An opportunity came - a complete change – work in Italy, a different occupation...’ Common sense made her wish to retract her comment. It wouldn’t do the Language School any favours if word got out they employed unprofessional staff.

  ‘Ah, I understand these things,’ he responded as though reading her mind.

  ‘It’s just a temporary job; I love to travel and figure out what goes on beneath the surface of a place.’ Whatever made her say that? She was talking too fast as though to fill a vacuum for Renzo Balzarin remained silent and his gaze did not waver. ‘Package tours are too restrictive and don’t allow time to explore freely.’ Fool! - hardly a qualification to teach English to foreigners. Rallying, she threw him a pointed question. ‘So what brings you to this function Signor? By the way, your English cannot be faulted.’

  ‘I find it useful to meet other associates,’ he said calmly unperturbed by her change of manner. ‘I have business interests both here in Rome and Naples.’ He seemed not to notice her urge to get away from him. ‘You have family back in England? Maybe someone special awaits your return?’ he persisted.

  ‘No! No one at all!’ she snapped. His question was intrusive. Without knowing how, she found another glass in her hand and drank the wine too quickly. Her head grew fuzzy but she couldn’t afford to be rude. With an effort she stretched her mouth in a smile. ‘I’m very happy to be free from commitments.’ Now she was making that seem an excuse!

  ‘Ah,’ he drawled, shaking his head. ‘No family or someone close. I admire your spirit, Joanne.’ With no apparent relevance he added, ‘I myself am fortunate to find time to relax by sailing.’

  His comment held a question which she ignored. Huh! She thought; lucky you. Nevertheless, relieved to talk of a general topic, she found herself agreeing that sailing offered a pleasant escape from stresses of city life. She didn’t disclose her own sailing amounted to dinghy sailing on the Norfolk Broads some years before, under a scheme for young unemployed or that she was passionate about learning to sail.

  But in the way conversations go, Renzo Balzarin assumed her to be an experienced sailor.

  ‘So where do you take your sailing holidays, Joanne?’

  ‘Well,’ Joanne thought fast and believing it would put him off, revealed she’d booked a holiday on the Island of Ischia - but failed to mention with the futile hope of joining a sailing course. This had proved more than she could ever afford.

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘Well Joanne, my yacht is moored in Porto d’Ischia.’

  Even before she took this in she caught the pride which softened the aggressive thrust etched by the business world on his strong features.

  ‘She’s 38 foot, a fine traditional vessel.’ He nodded and without preamble said, ‘You are welcome to crew for me during your stay on the Island.’

  Taken aback by his sudden proposal her head spun. Was he a mind reader? Instinct told her she’d be proved a useless crew, besides the risk of losing her independence – and maybe a lot more? Unwilling to be discourteous she replied lightly, ‘Thank you, that’s very generous; I’ll have to bear it in mind.’

  Nevertheless, an enchanting picture flew into Joanne’s mind of sailing a yacht in the Mediterranean. Well too bad if she regretted her caution. ‘Will you please excuse me?’ She smiled and indicated, ‘Work hat – must introduce the School around.’

  A frown creased his brow but since he wasn’t
a candidate for language lessons she assumed it was unlikely they’d meet again.

  Afterwards, within the suffocating confines of her rented room in the poor district behind Piazza Vittorio Emanuel II, Joanne knew she’d not been honest in allowing him to believe she had sailing experience. But hey! She excused herself - that was merely the way casual talk went with a stranger.

  Caution gusted in her head when a week later Renzo Balzarin phoned, having persuaded the receptionist at the Language School to provide her mobile number.

  ‘Do allow me to escort you to dinner; I have a matter I’d like to discuss with you.’

  A pulse throbbed in her ear as she struggled to find excuses. Why her? Didn’t something warn her against him? Surely one of those stylish young women who zipped about Rome in their flighty little Fiats were more the type a wealthy business man might wish to escort? The fact he’d discovered she’d booked to stay on Ischia seemed insufficient reason to invite her to crew his yacht. All this busied her mind as she decided; I’m not going to cancel my three week’s holiday just to avoid him.

  Even so, her fertile mind was teased. Whatever had Renzo Balzarin in mind to discuss? He’d already made his offer of crewing to which she’d not responded. Then as her curiosity overcame qualms she accepted his invitation to dinner.

  ‘I shall be living on my boat,’ Renzo explained before sampling the dish of veal in tuna and anchovy sauce. ‘Even on holiday I am interrupted by urgent calls which need attention. His mouth firmed with a rueful expression as he added, ‘It may be 2am, but some clients around the world ignore the time zone difference.’

  Right, so that was cleared up; he’d be sleeping on his boat. Joanne was pleased that he’d brought her to La Spinoza, an unpretentious bistro where she felt comfortably relaxed in her simple black linen dress. As the challenge for adventure took a hold, she agreed to crew. Besides, she thought, with three weeks holiday on the Island there would still be time for her own pursuits.

  ***

  Three weeks later Joanne arrived at the hotel in Naples for an overnight stay before taking the ferry to the Island of Ischia. She needed a shower and then to grab some sleep. The Naples-bound Intercity Plus train from Rome had been crowded with boisterous families visiting relatives who’d been squashed against her, over-burdened with kids, bulky bags and even a wailing cat in a cardboard box. At Naples Stazione Centrale, she’d had to dodge gypsies, touts selling lottery tickets and run the gamut of itinerant Senegalese with their tote bags of plastic combs and cheap cigarette lighters. Then the taxi driver overcharged, arguing that this was a holiday price.

  Most importantly, her luggage had failed to arrive at the hotel as Renzo Balzarin had personally arranged.

  Joanne’s wide brow furrowed. Her love of Italy was often challenged by unexpected delays but she did need her luggage. The ferry departed Naples for the Island of Ischia at 8.15am the following morning.

  Uncertainties almost edged away anticipation for her holiday. Could this suave business man be trusted? Maybe his yacht was a myth! Despite her qualms a sudden rush of adrenalin fired her at the prospect of sailing in the warm Mediterranean; the endless blue and white of it, the scorching heat and her lungs filled with salty spray. Damn! She cursed as a struggle with the shower tap produced only dribbles of cold water. After the train journey amongst over-heated bodies with the smell of spicy salami and ripe cheese prickling her nose, she was desperately in need of a shower.

  Joanne grabbed her satchel and left the room, determined to confront the desk clerk again about her missing luggage. As she hurried down the gloomy staircase, Renzo Balzarin’s words flew back.

  ‘If you won’t permit me to pay for first class rail or a decent hotel then at least I can book your luggage ahead and have it delivered.’ He shook his head at the cheap hotel she booked but then as though respecting her independent spirit he added, ‘I’d do the same for any business colleague, Joanne.’

  She assumed this suave business man was accustomed to smoothing the way for associates and yet was left to ponder if others he hardly knew were offered the chance to crew his yacht.

  Renzo Balzarin had made it clear in the most charming way over dinner that it would be a mutual arrangement not intended to curtail her holiday plans. The business he wished to discuss related to plans of opening his own sailing school. Joanne listened and when the opportunity arose, mentioned her lack of sailing experience and was surprised when this seemed not to deter him.

  ‘Then I shall make sure to give you excellent sailing instruction,’ he replied, looking up with a wide smile.

  She pushed away lingering doubts regarding Signor Balzarin’s motives as her immediate problems surfaced. Affronted by the night clerk’s earlier lack of interest and resolve to find her luggage, Joanne strode to the reception desk and asked crisply, ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Antonovich, Signorina.’ The young male clerk shifted from one foot to the other.

  ‘Well, Antonovich, I need my luggage tonight. Will you please get someone to find it – pronto?’

  ‘No, impossibilita!’ He scowled at her over the desk and continued to pick his teeth. ‘Baggage office shut, open tomorrow, Monday,’ he offered in broken English. ‘Impossibilita,’ he repeated.

  Joanne had met his type before and did not intend to be put off. She tapped her fingers on the desk. Although he spoke Italian she was familiar with the language having worked eight months in Rome and detected his Eastern European accent.

  Seen in the dim light, Antonovich’s face looked sallow as if from lack of fresh air. Maybe he’s suffering bad toothache she thought, spotting gaps amongst his blackened teeth. She felt a tinge of sympathy but nevertheless fixed him with a stare as he lapsed into lethargy, seeming unconcerned about her predicament. ‘Signor Balzarin made specific arrangements to have it delivered here!’ Hell - she sounded a shrew.

  Antonovich’s head jerked up. He dropped the tooth pick and gabbled in heavily accented English.

  ‘Scusi! Please to wait, Signorina. I call Alfredo – he take you to Railway Depot - fetch your luggage!’ he flapped his arms, came around the desk and ushered Joanne to a worn, leather sofa. ‘I bring you glass of prosecco.’

  Her eyes widened. It appeared Renzo Balzarin’s name had quite an effect. Joanne tried to picture Renzo as a favoured guest but knew this unlikely. She leaned forward as Antonovich fired off orders to someone on the telephone.

  ‘Si, si, rapporto – al’Istante!’ And slamming down the receiver he darted off.

  Joanne gave a start when he returned with a tray holding a glass of chilled wine, anti pasti and a white damask napkin which he spread over her knees.

  Surprised, her tone softened. ‘Thank you Antonovich, this is very welcome.’ It occurred he could be an immigrant forced to work unsociable shifts in order to survive. She took a sip of wine. ‘Have you found someone to fetch my luggage?’

  ‘All O.K. Alfredo come.’ He turned and flipped several switches on the wall but the dim lighting still left pools of darkness. This late Saturday night, a transient feel permeated the place with its shoddy furniture but this hotel was all she could afford, even for one night’s stay. She began to tackle the bread sticks, figs and olives.

  Joanne jumped as Antonovich, appeared again at her side. ‘What’s happening about my luggage please?’

  He merely nodded and raised his shoulders, ‘Non e problemma.’

  Something always warned her against enquiring about Renzo’s business. She knew nothing about him at all. At this moment Joanne wished she’d not been so quick in accepting his offer - despite forgoing the chance to crew. But there was still the Island of Ischia she longed to explore.

  She stared around the foyer as her concern deepened. It seemed unlikely two cheap suitcases would attract a thief so why hadn’t they arrived? Exhausted, she looked at her watch and got to her feet. It was 10.40pm. Whoever it was Antonovich had phoned was taking his time. Had she been fobbed off?

  Joanne was shaken out o
f her reverie as the hotel entrance doors swung open and a draught of cold night air rushed in with traffic noise. A honk and screech of brakes followed this person.

  ‘Buonsera’, the gruff voice caught her attention and she stared at the person who waddled up to the desk. Not reaching high as the counter he stood on tiptoe and peered up at the clerk while listening to rapid instructions. She noted the sagging scruffy jacket and trousers rolled up at the hems as if he wore a giant’s cast off clothing. A pulse throbbed at her temple as she waited, alert.

  ‘All well.’ Antonovich looked across to her and murmured shamefacedly, ‘Alfredo take you Railway Depot. You have baggage ticket?’

  Alfredo came towards her and Joanne tried to disguise her alarm at the dwarf. With a bob of his large head he grinned and gestured he was here to assist. She’d assumed someone would fetch her cases without her having to accompany them and tried not to stare. His bulbous nose reminded of a misshapen toadstool. And yet reassured by his soft brown eyes which seemed to beg her approval, Joanne looked down and returned his smile. There was no alternative but to go with him. Picking up her satchel she followed Alfredo’s hobbling fast pace out through the hotel door and into the darkness.

  ***

  With her satchel gripped under her arm, Joanne stumbled over the cobblestones in her thin soled shoes and tried to keep up with the dwarf. It was odd how fast he careered along on his bandy legs.

  ‘We must take a taxi!’ she raised her voice over the noise as a truck rumbled past. The response was a violent shake of his head.

  ‘No good, Signorina. Taxi no take me...’

  Her forehead puckered as she followed him, certain she could remonstrate with any Italian taxi driver. Something she saw in the dwarf’s demeanour changed her mind. Maybe it was that old superstition that a dwarf had a jinx.

  Alfredo had gone ahead into the gloom and she broke into a run. Darkness swallowed the dusk, smothering the narrow alleys in shadow. This low class district would be Camorra territory, the Naples Mafia!