Sorrento Pizza

I just got back.

It was about 5:31 pm.

Sweating like a sauna.

I burst into the hotel lobby; having spent the day gloriously climbing Mt. Vesuvius. Tomorrow: Pompeii. I was 28. I’d wanted to see Pompeii since I was seven. Ever since I passionately did that school project on it. It was within reach.

I saw Roberto.

Roberto the Hotelier was unforgettable. Resembling a pale Tom Cruise but with light eyes blue; he never cracked a smile. All business. All of the time. After our past two days and with two more nights to come, he liked me. Though you could never tell below his nose.

“Simon.” He sternly, taciturnly commanded. “This is no appearance for a gentleman. Get ready! Immediately! Dinner is at 6:00 pm in the garden. I expect you not to be late. Prepare yourself. Tonight is pizza night. Subito! Presto!”

I nodded. “Okay, thanks, Dad!” I thought, but again his face was not to be argued with.

I rushed back to my room. Shaved and showered. I thought: It was PIZZA night?! In southern Italy?! The motherland of Pizza? Oh boy! How fresh and delicious will this pizza be?? My salivating drool evaporated nicely into the shower beams. Put on one of my few good shirts I still liked after these past three weeks of traveling Italy.

28 minutes later: I arrived into the garden.

Pressed and groomed for the red carpet of this Sorrento hotel’s vast, beautiful garden; alit by elegant patio lanterns; and with eight or so fine, patio metal tables and chairs; I saw everything was arranged into tables of two.

I was a high-flying single fox, traveling by myself. I still am.

Arrived at a podium and was met with, again, a no-nonsense Roberto, who was now maître ’d; directing seating.

Amazing how someone can get complete approval from an authoritarian without any smile, as Roberto saw me immediately with a relieving nod. “Simon. Come with me.”

(At home, I’m a seater. I am not used to being shown to seats!)

Roberto, efficient at quelling questions quickly, read the room with a pilot’s navigation.

He showed me to a table where another person was indeed already seated.

“Miss Princesa: it is with honour I introduce Simon. He is from Canada. He will be dining with you this evening. You will laugh.”

It must’ve been the swelling June Italian heat; or the vertiginous Mt. Vesuvius; or that I suddenly could no longer speak English as well as I already could not speak any Italian: but confusingly seated at the other end of my table was one of the sexiest women I’ve ever seen!

Dressed in an elegant purple dress that augmented her natural, voluptuous curves; long, stunning black hair; a smile that radiated confidence; and a natural swarthy skin tone that could’ve stopped seaside Sorrento’s schooners.

Her dress: it was no patch on an old blanket. It was high-class.

She glanced. She assessed. Fast. “Roberto: Grazie. You do not disappoint!” She spoke in a thick, unidentifiable accent. She slipped Roberto a bill so big, there was never one of those in my wallet.

Roberto thanked her in his talented non-smile.

Time to drive in Standard; when my energy had learned on Automatic.

“Hello.” I blustered, taking my chair.

She paused. Somehow the approval of a second ago took a reconsideration, but reinstated.

“Good Evening. I am Esmeralda Princessa. How do you do?”

That smile/smirk/… I couldn’t tell anymore.

“Hello! My name is Simon Travelle. I’m from Canada, where we’re not funny, just funny-looking. And I don’t disappoint.”

She laughed. Not sure if where she was from the term “dad jokes” existed, but they nonetheless have a proven universality to them.

She adjusted a perfect hair behind her ear.

“Hello, Simon. You feel you have a diplomatic mission for all to think Canadians are funny. Is that correct?”

“If I’m a ‘diplomat,’ Canada has a lot more problems than it realizes, then!”

She giggled.

Roberto came by and set two tall glasses of wine on the table. Both red. She nodded.

I motioned a wordless “How did he know?”…

Esmeralda smiled and indicated that when she’d been shown to her table before I “arrived”, Roberto told her she would not be dining alone, and that red would go well with her “guest.”

“Who is this guy? Roberto? Sorrento’s ‘James Bond?’”

Esmeralda held up her glass.

“Saúde!” she said with a smile that went from smirking to sultry.

Not understanding the word she used, I reciprocated by saying “Cheers!” Still puzzled and played, and playing…

“You ask a lot of questions. I like that.”

“Thanks. Well, I like people. It’s true. My friend once said: ‘People are people, people.’”

Esmeralda suppressed-laughed, not-quite understanding. Her confident smile said she didn’t feel she had to, either.

“Is that friend here with you?”

“No. The only friend I came here with is my passport.”

“That is a good friend. I agree.”

There was more to this smile and dress. She curled her free index finger into her neck a little bit. A small bead of sweat met her fingernail.

It’s hotter at night in Italy…

“Where are you from, Esmeralda? I’m guessing not Canada, or Europe….”

“You guess correctly.”

“Well, gonna guess by the dress you come from a place of undeniable beauty. Having been to Argentina and knowing how beautiful it is, I’m going to say… South America. So, I’m gonna say, either Argentina, Peru, or Brazil.”

“Canadians are good at guessing, I see.”

“Guessing yes: being right, well, we do live in the snow, so how “right”-in-the-head-could we all be? Really?”

She giggled.

“I am from Brazil.”

I smiled.

“Brasilia? Iguazu? Or Rio de Janeiro?”

“Most don’t know all three. Wonderful… I am from Brasilia. Iguazu… wow!”

She couldn’t take her eyes off of me. Strange: I do that all of the time to me!

* * *

Roberto returned.

He poured more delicious, fresh wine.

He instructed now was the time for Pizza.

That meant:

On a nearby table, over by the huge, open-faced oven of his garden, had all of the fresh ingredients and tools we wanted, and that we each were to then walk over: and to make our own pizzas.

The place of the best pizza in the World, and I had to make it myself.

“Cosmo Kramer’s” “brilliant” ideas resounded in my head.

…. but this was Roberto talking: No-nonsense.

Esmeralda looked displeased.

My brain went from “Cosmo Kramer” to “Indiana Jones:”

“Don’t worry, Esmeralda. This is how it goes: I see how lovely your dress is. So: You tell me what you want on your pizza. I will go and make it for you. Ain’t no dress as Brazilian and beautiful as yours is getting near ANY ovens! I’ll make your pizza for you and then make my own. How does that sound? You just make sure that sexy smile of yours doesn’t travel away….”

(Where did THIS confidence of MINE suddenly come from???)

“Lots of tomato, please hold the green pepper. That will do perfectly.” Now she curled her finger on the side of her glass.

* * *

I brought us our pizzas.

They were the freshest and most delicious pizzas ever ingested. Not overcooked because I did seek a little guidance from Roberto, who, again: nothing gets screwed up on his watch!

Just before I set them down, I made her laugh by saying: “Yes, Esmeralda: you’re a Brazilian who went to Southern Italy only for the best pizza you ate to be made by a Canadian.”

She laughed. “but he was guided by an Italian!”

“She saw…” I thought…

But: I cut the shape of the pizzas, so I cut ours into hearts. Like pizza valentines.

She roared. “That’s so ‘cheesy!’ More ways than one! NO more wine for you!”

“What can I say? Italy has taken a ‘PIZZA’ my heart!”

She laughed so hard some of her perfect hair came undone. She saw no need to brush them away.

We finished the extraordinary dinner of laughter.

How impressed she was that I’d been to Iguazu went very, very far…..

* * *

Lying in bed. In her hotel room.

It was not one of the “cheaperinos” like mine. Hers had a window.

Naked and smiling, she leaned in: “Simon, tonight was wonderful. Not like any I’ve experienced. Tomorrow, though, I must go away. To Spain. My boat is in the harbour. My yacht.”

“You have a YACHT?!”

“Of course! I loaned one for the summer. Very spacious. Tomorrow I go to Ibiza. I want to ask you: would you like to come with me? To Spain? Tomorrow? It will be an honour if you to travel with me more…”

That was the greatest question I have ever been asked.

Sigh….

To this day, as that was 2012, I still stand by my decision.

I drew a long pause, and it was the first time she did not smile.

“I cannot, Esmeralda.”

Her eyes went from disappointment to a predator’s anger.

“I have to see Pompeii.”

“Pompeii.” She repeated.

“It has been a dream of mine since I was a little boy. I am serious. Since I was seven. To see Pompeii.” My voice did not quiver once. “It’s been a dream. It’s within reach. I can taste it. It is less than a day away. A day! To see its ruins, feel its history; its stark, horrifying beauty; to see it... finally! For the pages to become real… I must. I am so deeply flattered by your offer, I truly, undeniably am, and you are so very, very beautiful, but I can’t. I’ve gone this far, to turn my back on Pompeii….. I don’t know when I might be back. Please understand: you’re amazing to ask me such a thing but, but my heart calls out to see what I have longed to see ALL OF MY LIFE!”

She breathed.

She stared into my blue eyes.

Her green eyes continued her confidence.

“Simon, your passion is real. You are a man of passion. The World needs men like you. There are dancers who do not dance with the conviction you hold. But, you must understand: NO ONE says “NO” TO ME! I DO NOT hear that word! EVER!”

She saw the fear in my eyes.

“I repeat: I get what I want. That is final. My yacht was spoken for, but I told them the yacht I wanted was what I was leaving with. I got it! The very fact you said “no” to me, after we made love, too,,,” I was trembling. ”…makes me respect you more than I did before. I do. Now: I will give you a parting gift. I am certain you have other dreams. You prove you make your dreams real. This I respect. More than just Pompeii.”

I was speechless.

“Where is she going with this?” I thought.

She got out of the bed. She walked toward her luggage.

She turned around, facing me, letting me take in the voluptuous, beautiful sight of her and see what I was turning down for one last time. She took out her purse.

She took out a small, black notebook. She took out a small piece of paper and a pen.

She wrote something.

She came back to me, and handed me a cheque.

My jaw hit the floor.

“This.. Esmeralda.. this is… a cheque… THIS IS A CHEQUE FOR 20 000$!!!!”

“It is for you.”

“I-I, I don’t know what to say… NO!”

She dove in.

She clutched my cheek.

Leaned in hard. Close.

Eye-to-steely-eye.

Her intensity could shake Roberto.

Staring into her unbreakable eyes, I began to shake in both fear, confusion, defeat and jubilation.

She held her eyes, and me, for a good minute.

“Simon: that pizza you made, was very, very delicious!”

Then she kissed me.

“You take this money. You do something passionate with it, Simon. The World needs the Passionate.”

“Thank You, Esmeralda!”

Thank You, Esmeralda!

THE END