Free Italy to Die For by Loretta Giacoletto Page B

down the same street.
    “My apologies, Elena,” were his first words to me . His second showed some concern. “You do not look well. Your leg, it is giving you pain?”
    “Wors e than that, I just had a weird encounter with two gypsies.”
    He cocked his head, hes itated before speaking. “Gypsies … here in Cinque Terre? It is possible, of course, though not a daily occurrence.”
    “But wherever tourists gather, there are bound to be gypsies, according to every guidebook I’ve ever read. You must’ve seen those two, a middle-aged man and woman. They headed up the same street we both came down.”
    “But Elena, I saw no gypsies.”
    “That’s because they were dressed like ordinary tourists, not the gaudy clothes many gypsies wear, especially the women.”
    “Then what made you think these two were gypsies?”
    “The woman had one brown eye and one blue eye.”
    “This is unusual, si. But not necessarily the sign of a gypsy or of someone you should fear.”
    “ I beg to differ. Two days ago I met this same gypsy on my way to La Spezia. We exchanged words in the parking lot of an Autogrille. Everyone, I mean the Italians, who saw her backed off, except one man who came forward and did this to ward off the Evil Eye.” I showed him my forefinger and pinky pointed downward. “I made the same gesture to this couple but the woman just laughed at me.”
    Lorenzo covered my hand with his, a gesture too intimate for me to ignore.
    “Not everyone believes such nonsense,” he said.
    “Nor did I before the Autogrille. But both gypsies knew about my unfortunate mishap on the motorboat.”
    “Perhaps they were on the same excursion.”
    “No and double no.” I shook my head. “Those two I would’ve noticed. Although, now that I think about it … the woman who stole my wallet, perhaps she was a gypsy disguised as a tourist.”
    “Monterosso is a small village, Elena. People talk. Perhaps this man and woman heard about your misfortune from someone else.”
    “The man offered to sell me an amulet. He knew I’d lost my money.”
    “It is a common excuse that tourists give to gypsies.”
    “But you said there weren’t any gypsies in Cinque Terre.”
    “Highly unlikely would be more accurate.”
    Arguing with Lorenzo was as frustrating as arguing with Margo, perhaps worse because he’d been patronizing me without realizing it. If that wasn’t enough, a surge of pain radiated from my hip to my ankle. My eyelids started to droop.
    “Are you all right, Elena?”
    “Not at the moment. Would you mind if we postpone our excursion? I really need to rest for a while.”
    ***
    Back in Lorenzo’s apartment I went straight to the bedroom, slipped off my shoes, and stood beside the bed, undecided as to whether I should lie on the comforter or pull it back first, all the while fighting my eyes on the verge of closing. I heard the front door close. Good, Lorenzo could take care of his business; I would take care of mine, starting with a careful folding of the comforter. From there I stripped down to nothing, slipped into the comfy robe, and lay crosswise across the bed. I slept for an hour before getting up and laundering my clothes in the bathroom’s deep pedestal sink. After hanging what little I had to dry on a line running the length of the tub, I put on my new undies and knitwear. Boring by those standards set by Margo, who never wore boring clothes or allowed so much as an inkling of boredom to creep into her life. Still, I hoped she would find a non-boring someone to help her forget Giorgio, if only for the time it took us to meet up again. Whoever heard of breaking up over pasta cooked too long, so much for the macho men of Italy.
    I’d been si tting on the balcony for a short time when Lorenzo came walking up the hill. Not alone but with the same gray-haired man he’d been talking with earlier. Stocky and dressed in business attire, he wore an air of assurance that set him apart from the locals as well as the