Page 3 of Nantucket Reflections
But as Ingrid continued to readA Journey into the Nightto the audience members and fans who’d purchased costly tickets to this sensational night, Julia couldn’t help but find herself with a niggling seed of doubt.
What if the journalist was right? What if the “memoir” was all a lie?
ChapterTwo
Summer 2015
Positano, Italy
There was no use setting an alarm because Alessandra couldn’t sleep anyway. It had been this way for months—Federico asleep by ten thirty at the latest and Alessandra staring into the darkness beside him, her heart thumping. Their air-conditioning was on the fritz, which in Southern Italy was a borderline disaster. It was eleven forty-five at night, and it was still ninety degrees. Alessandra wore a pair of black linen pants and a black tank top. She packed her things in a bag, then slipped out the back door. A part of her wondered if she’d ever come home again. But that was reckless and stupid. It wasn’t the kind of thing she’d ever do. Not really.
The moon was a sliver in the night sky and hardly illuminated anything, which would be beneficial for later, Alessandra thought. It was of no use now as she tried to slink out from the outskirts of Positano and toward the inner area, the sharp decline that went from midtown to the water below. For decades, Positano had been a tourist site, a place that locals once inhabited but had since relinquished in pursuit of the money that tourism brings. Sometimes this broke Alessandra’s heart, especially when she considered the fact that her grandparents had lived and worked in the center of town, living as Southern Italians in what was probably the most beautiful place in the world. Their homeland, where they were meant to be. Now, tourists stayed in an Airbnb where her great-grandmother had given birth to her grandmother. It didn’t feel right.
When Alessandra talked about her rage about this, Federico always said, “Okay, but what are we supposed to do about it? It’s not like we can storm the city and destroy tourism. Besides, how would we make our livelihood without the tourists?”
This was true, Alessandra knew. She and Federico were both artists, with Federico creating pottery and also teaching workshops to tourists who paid a high price to learn from the master. Alessandra also threw pots occasionally and managed social media (a task she hated!), as well as painted portraits of people and Italian coastlines, which she sold in various high-end hotels across the region. She hated nothing more than her paintings of the coastlines, of various Italian sites, because she thought they were clichéd and unimaginative. Thousands and thousands of paintings looked just like hers. She felt that nobody truly understood her unique artistic perspective, as people were more interested in buying paintings that resembled the ones already owned by others. But Alessandra had gone to school for art! She’d met Federico there! They’d been young and idealistic and in love! And now, they just needed money? It felt so lame. So stupid.
But that was what getting older was, she guessed. It made you do things for grown-up reasons rather than for the morally right reasons.
Now in the year 2015, Alessandra was thirty-four years old. She was lithe and soft-spoken and still smart, and she moved through the dark edge of Positano until she reached a bar, where she planned to wait for the city to die down. At the bar, she ordered a glass of water and a cup of tea and watched as the tourists milled up and down the stairs, dipping in and out of bars. She adjusted her bag on the stool beside her, hoping she’d remember everything. She wasn’t sure exactly what had gotten hold of her. Maybe she wanted to prove something to herself. Perhaps she wanted proof she was still alive, still creative. Maybe she just wanted to cause a scene.
It wasn’t till three fifteen that the city felt dead enough to enact her plan. Paying up, she said goodbye to the bartender and waded through the night, heading for the dock. The stairs were steep, but she was agile, and she found herself at the bottom in no time. It wasn’t hard to remember that when she was a child, she’d raced up and down these very steps with her friends, screaming and singing. She’d always been quick, but especially back then, overstuffed with pasta and life. She was still friends with some of those kids: Rafi owned the hotel just down the street, and Stefano owned a restaurant where they sold overpriced pasta that made his mother shake her head in shame.
Near the dock was a long stone wall, an ancient wall that seemed, somehow, to hold up the rest of the massive city. On the left-hand side, tourists bought their ferry tickets to travel to other parts of the Amalfi Coast. On the right-hand side was the entrance to the rest of the city. It was here that Alessandra had decided to paint a mural, one that, by the first light of dawn, tourists and Italians would see. In her spare time, she’d drawn up a sketch, one she felt illustrated her anger at her family being priced out of their home in Positano alongside her pride at being from Southern Italy. The style she’d opted for was unique and entirely different from anything she’d ever painted before. She didn’t want it getting back to anyone, least of all Federico.
As she worked, Alessandra thought about the most famous of the anonymous street artists, Banksy, who came from the United Kingdom and had painted murals all over the world. His first was in Bristol in 1999, sixteen years ago. She wondered why he’d decided to remain anonymous for all these years and decided it was probably for reasons similar to hers: she wanted to carry on with her normal life. She didn’t want to call any attention to herself, and she wanted her political message to take center stage. Additionally, she worried that if her Italian friends discovered what she was doing, they might have mixed reactions. Some might take offense, especially because they made their wealth on tourism (as did she, although she and Federico were far from wealthy).
It took Alessandra nearly three and a half hours to finish the mural, which was longer than she’d hoped for. Gray light spilled over the wall as she made her finishing touches. Rather than waste time, she packed up her things and scuttled to the side, just as she spotted the first tourist boat coming in for the dock. But it was then that she realized something. She’d forgotten to tag her name. It was essential. Back at home, she’d pondered over a good pseudonym, something memorable like “Banksy” was, and she’d decided on CAT. Italy was swarming with cats, for one, but for two, she liked the idea of herself as a cat, slinking through the night. This was how she imagined herself, hurrying up the stairs as the first of the tourists and their ferry boat drivers saw her massive mural for the first time.
But rather than hurry home to Federico immediately, Alessandra couldn’t help herself from staying in Positano for an hour or two, just in case people started talking about the mural. (She was reminded that most criminals come back to the scene of the crime because they’re so proud of what they’ve done.) She grabbed an espresso at a café with a partial view of her artwork and watched as tourists formed a half-circle around the mural, taking photographs of it. An American couple at the table nearest her asked each other what all the fuss was about and leaned over the side of the stone wall to see what the mural was. Soon, everyone at the café was talking about it, with many of them saying, “I think the paint’s still wet.”
Pleased with herself, Alessandra paid for her espresso and hurried back home. Her initial plan had meant she’d get home before Federico woke up, but when she got there, she found him on the back porch, sipping espresso and scowling at a crossword. He flinched up and looked at her. “Where have you been?” he asked.
Alessandra couldn’t stop herself from smiling. “I went for a walk.”
“Did you sleep last night?” Federico asked.
“You know I can’t sleep.” Alessandra bent to kiss him on the cheek, then stepped into the kitchen to make herself another coffee. Federico followed her.
“You know you need to rest,” Federico said, rubbing his chin.
“Everyone needs rest,” Alessandra said, her back to him, “but like I said, I can’t manage it.”
Federico was quiet as the espresso ground to dust, a sound that Alessandra loved and Federico hated. As it brewed, Federico stepped toward her and put his chin on her shoulder, then kissed her ear. A shiver went down Alessandra’s spine.
“You know what the doctor said,” Federico offered in a small voice.
Adrenaline shot through Alessandra, and she spun around and glared at him. Federico looked both sleepy and wounded. “I know what the doctor said,” she repeated. “Yes. I was there.”
Federico raised his shoulders as if to say,That’s that. But Alessandra was enraged that he’d brought this up, especially on a morning when she’d managed to forget. She wanted to scream,How dare you! But she knew it wouldn’t do any good. More than that, she knew that Federico loved her, that he was watching out for her well-being, and didn’t know any other way to be. She took a breath, spun back around, and filled her tiny cup with fresh espresso. Federico went back to the porch table, where he continued to work on his crossword and left her alone.
Alessandra had lost the initial passion and excitement she’d built just that morning. Exhaustion fell upon her like a pile of rocks. Rather than drink her espresso, she went to the bedroom, pulled the curtains, and finally fell asleep. Mercifully, she didn’t dream.
ChapterThree
Summer 2025
Nantucket Island
