Open Writing

The summer I stayed at the Casa Bianca Hotel in Jesolo, on the Adriatic sea, I used to spend an hour on the beach, before breakfast. The manager arranged for my beach umbrella and deck-chair to be set out early.

On the third day I walked all the way to the lighthouse and looked forward to resting on the deck-chair. To my annoyance I found a child digging a trench. I coughed and waited for her to look up.

'What's your name?' she asked, continuing with her work. The breeze played with her hair, rolling and unrolling short black curls. Finally she turned to look. Her eyes were the same colour as the sea.

'Tell me your name first,' I replied.

'Mietta,' a man's voice said. 'I'm sorry she's invaded your territory. I'm her father. Pleased to meet you.' 'Look,' Mietta shouted, pointing to the trench, face aglow.

'We must fill that in, right away. Signorina . . . '

'Anna,' I said. 'Pleased to meet you.'

'But it's for her feet, to keep them cool,' Mietta objected.

He made her kneel beside him while they filled the hole, levelling out the sand. 'Now it's time for breakfast.' He nodded as they left.

In the dining-room I found myself seated at a table next to Mietta's parents. Her mother smiled and ate in silence while Mietta and I kept exchanging looks. When coffee was served Mietta's mother apologised for her child's behaviour.

The following afternoon, eyes protected by a scarf, I was sunbathing when I felt a tap on my shoulder.

'Do you know where I can find nice shells?" Mietta lifted my scarf and waved a plastic bucket. Her bikini was all frills and ribbons.

'Yes, but go and ask your parents first.'

Not far from the hotel was a strip of beach where we were able to collect different kinds of shells. Mietta eyes grew larger when she found an unusual one.

A scorpio shell, on top of a refuse heap, caught our eyes. It was smooth on the surface, orange inside, with a beaded keel. She held it to her ears. 'What is it saying?' I asked.

'That you are my best friend.'

I was flattered. Mietta was five, I twenty-five. To deserve the gift of such friendship I paid more attention to my appearance, delighting in her precocious remarks.

Her parents, noses hidden behind newspapers, hadn't noticed that Mietta blushed when Sandro, our student-waiter, came into the dining room.

She stared as he served her parents but lowered her eyes when he stood behind her. 'Half a portion for the child,' her mother would say.

'Could you look after Mietta for a day?' her father asked. 'We want to see the Guardi exhibition. She gets sick on the bus.

'I'd love to,' I said. Then to the child, 'What can we do together?'

'Bathe for an hour, eat ice cream, granita and go to the pictures.'

We began the day with a walk. I was trying to sort things out. 'I'll tell you a story, first. Then you tell me one.'

'Can Sandro come with us?'

'No. He must work.'

'Will he be here tonight?'

'Of course. He needs money to pay for his fees.'

'I've got a secret', she said, pulling me down towards her lips. 'I'm in love with him. Don't tell anyone.'

After bathing I showered her and blow-dried her hair. 'You'll make a good mother,' she said.

She refused to have a nap and we waited for Sandro in the hotel foyer. When he arrived she had eyes only for him.

After dinner we sat on the balcony of my bedroom. I felt sad knowing that soon I'd be leaving for Australia. I listened to her breathing and the rhythmic heave of the sea. Her parents found us both asleep on the easy-chair.

© Carla Sari