Gina

A Chapter by cman

1. GINA

Hassan, next to the fish market on the wharf, first heard the howling while stacking paper-wrapped parcels in his moped’s carrier. It was a trawler’s foghorn, sounding strange, out of the ordinary: repetitive, like a trumpet announcing exciting news. His black eyebrows furrowed in irritation under his Stetson as he lay a large tuna over the parcels: only those damn Cosa Nostra smugglers would risk such a dense fog at the crack of dawn.

Curiosity urged him to kick-start the moped and head over to the quay where a black DeSoto waited near the entrance. He was right. Mobsters! He braked in panic, not wishing to witness their foul, despicable deeds, and the tuna flew off the carrier onto the concrete. “S**t-s**t-s**t!” He glanced around to see if anyone noticed his minor mishap. Carlo would be screaming mad if he knew the fish he was about to serve came off the stinking pavement. But all dockworkers’ eyes were fixed on the fog from where the haunting sound came. As if unzipped by the hands of God, the mist parted, and the boat slowly chugged into view.

The woman standing on the bow took his breath away: she was a goddess, a Venus, virginal in white.

The trawler slowly maneuvered until its fenders kissed the piling of the slip, and the woman disembarked. She walked with a long stride, her plump breasts bouncing and her swaying hips rhythmically playing against her white dress. With each step, thick, black curls bounced around her shoulders. She couldn’t hide her youth, or her appetite for life.

Wolf-whistles and shouts erupted from the hot-blooded young dockworkers. Every man stopped working. They dropped their tools and absconded carts and trolleys to applaud in admiration; some even following her, clapping hands and making suggestive moves with their hips.

Hassan shifted on his moped, trying to hide the hardness growing in his trousers. Who the heck was this woman? He had never seen anyone as sexy, not even in the picture magazines in the barber’s shop. There wasn’t any woman on the island who could come close to matching her looks or her proud sexual flaunt.

Next to the DeSoto, a man in a camel coat took off his hat, revealing salt and pepper hair. He held the passenger door open. “Buongiorno Signorina, sono Mustafa, il tuo autista. Ti porto alla villa.”

The woman removed her sunglasses. Red lips accentuated her pale complexion; her eyes, ice blue, pierced those of the man and twinkled. “You lost me after ‘buongiorno,’ amico. My Italian is�"let’s say, limited.” She flicked the butt of her Gauloises cigarette into the turquoise water next to the pier.

The man didn’t flinch. “I’m sorry, miss. I am Mustafa, your driver to the villa. I take you there now.”

She smiled. “Hi Mustafa,” she said. “I’m Gina.”

The huskiness of her voice left Hassan breathless. He revved the bike’s throttle in applause as the DeSoto pulled away with stately dignity. “Welcome to Isola del Tesoro, pretty lady!” he shouted after the sedan. “Watch out for randy old farts!” With a chuckle, he pulled his Stetson over his brow and chased after the sedan until after a kilometer it turned west. He stopped the moped at the curb and watched the vehicle driving off to the villa, his boyish grin fading. Sexy or not, this woman was out of his league, way out.

She was one of them�"a Moretti.

“We’re having a party tomorrow, darling! In the piazza,” Signora Eleni Moretti declared with her broadest smile. The bossa nova tune blaring over the transistor on the veranda inspired her to spontaneously wriggle her hips. Her red hair swayed from side to side, and with fingers clicking above her head, her heels tapped the deck like a flamenco dancer. Gina’s looks came as a shocker: feminine, seductive, fresh�"her transformation from a plumpish teenager with braces, remarkable. Not that it changed Eleni’s opinion, though�"it reconfirmed her distrust.

Gina rested the Vogue Italia bumper issue in her lap. She forged a smile as she reached for her glass. “Why?”

“Tomorrow is the 20th, darling. The moon landing! We simply must celebrate!”

“Tomorrow?” Gina’s husky voice turned every syllable exotic. “A bit of shy notice, I’d say.”

“Mustafa’s on the phone, spreading word, ordering supplies. Oh, darling, it’s going to be wonderful, just like the old days!” Eleni leaned over the table for the big scoop: “I spoke to Vito,” she whispered. “He’ll fly in by noon.”

Gina reached for her cigarettes. “Oh. And who else is coming?”

For a moment, Eleni was puzzled. Then she laughed. “Oh darling, I forgot�"you have no clue how we do things here on the island. Everybody is invited.”

Gina’s eyebrows raised. “Everybody?”

“Yes, darling. Every man and woman, every gran and gramps. The kids�"” She waved to include the entire island. “Those filthy rich sheikhs on their yachts down there; the tourists. Everyone!” She added an afterthought: “Even the damn paparazzi!”

Gina lit the Gauloises. She shook her head. “I don’t�"”

“Of course, darling, I know!” This was Eleni’s moment to shine. “You didn’t bring your party dress. Not to worry, I’ve got plenty of designer dresses. Lovely little black dresses. Givenchy. Chanel. Laroche. Balenciaga. Quant. You name them.” The consternation in Gina’s eyes pleased her. She knew exactly what Gina thought. “Hayat will alter whichever one you want. Think of her as your tailor, your very own designer. Now, darling, I must go. So much to do!”

Mustafa entered with a silver tray and more champagne.

“Bon appétit, darling! And welcome to our little island.” Eleni snatched a flute from the tray, humming along with the bossa nova�"something about a stupid woman on the beach, swaying her stupid a*s to attract a stupid man.

When Eleni Moretti disappeared into her inner sanctum, Gina remained on the terrace, smoking her cigarette while Mustafa set the table for her. He placed a rolled damask napkin in a silver ring on her side plate and lifted the dome over her plate. The smell of bacon and sunny-side-up eggs, hash browns, and black pudding spread through the air. A good old-fashioned English breakfast. Gina picked up the knife and fork. After the arduous journey aboard the stinking fishing trawler, she was famished.

When the squawk of a peacock pierced through the hot morning air, she pushed her empty plate aside and stood with a child’s excitement. A slate tile footpath led her into the garden as she breathed the heavy mix of lavender and jasmine. She gazed back at the villa. With its view over the Tyrrhenian Sea, the sandstone structure dominated the hill like a castle. Cypress and canopy pine trees surrounded the main house. On every windowsill, red geraniums bloomed. Further down the hill, fields of golden wheat and orchards created an intricate puzzle of irregular shapes and colors in the gentle, flowing landscape.

She followed the path until it reached a maze garden. In a hidden courtyard, she discovered a bronze sundial showing the time of day to a marble angel. In another, a copper astrolabe pointed at the sky. Statues of gods and soldiers, saints, and abstract artifacts, cubes, and obelisks hid around every corner. At a small pond, Gina touched the cold water spouting from a mermaid’s lips and ran along the stream to a pool alive with yellow and red koi and purple water lilies. Next to the pool, a peacock spread his fan in a dazzling and hypnotic invitation.

A hard black bug zoomed out of nowhere and crashed into her face.

“S**t!” She slapped her cheek.

The peacocks’ fan collapsed, and he dashed off with an indignant shriek.

Gina looked up at the cloudless blue sky and smiled in appreciation. “Thank you,” she said to the universe, “this will do perfectly.”