That summer in Arenzano

By Fayza Hassan
My father took no nonsense from anyone and especially not from me. This is probably why, that day long ago, on the train from Zurich to Genoa, he did not believe me when I announced that we were arriving at the station. He simply stared at me over his book and told me that since I was not in charge, I should be quiet and follow his lead. It was early morning and as the train came to a halt, the platform looked deserted. "This is just a suburb," my father decided, casting a glance at the few sleepy passengers trundling their luggage towards the exit. "It is a very long stop," my mother ventured timidly, but she knew better than contradict my father, in particular when in conflict with one of us children. As the train gathered speed once more, the quasi-rural landscape outside the window finally alerted my father. The controller was summoned. Even with my scanty knowledge of Italian, I understood the gist of the exchange: We had just passed Genoa. Arenzano, a very pretty little village, would be our next stop. There were no other trains to Genoa that day, but why not spend the night in Arenzano, said the man. He even recommended a good pensione.
He helped us off the train, and in no time we were settled in a charming hotel, in the medieval little city. My father was giving me the cold shoulder nevertheless, as if he held me responsible in some way for the inconvenience.
At dinner however, the food was so good that he forgot me, concentrating on the delicious pasta instead. At the end of the meal, he had decided to stay on, for a week at least, maybe more, if the chef kept his prowess up.
Arenzano had a small pebble beach and lots of young men my age, but very few girls. I was an instant hit, with several suitors vying for my undivided attention.
Enzo was a real Mafioso who came complete with armed bodyguards, and pistols hidden in his car. He asked me to marry him an hour after we met. This was the way it was done in Sicily, he explained. Since it was the first time anyone had proposed, I was understandably flattered. Unfortunately Enzo was given to wearing white shoes, a faux pas that I found unforgivable, and I therefore felt compelled to refuse. He did not take it well. The following day, his face was swollen and he looked in considerable pain. One of his bodyguards explained that he had a terrible toothache; it usually plagued him whenever he was upset. By the unfriendly way Enzo looked at me, it was clear that he thought I had something to do with his discomfort. Since there were apparently no dentists in Arenzano skilled enough to be entrusted with his precious jaw, he left for Genoa, where he could find a higher standard of professional help. Piero, who was blond, athletic and was not partial to white shoes, soon replaced Enzo. Actually, he wore no shoes at all, and as far as I remember, I only saw him in bathing trunks. He had a boat and wanted to take me fishing at three in the morning. The idea did not appeal to me and when firmly informed, Piero became inordinately distressed. That night he went fishing alone and his boat capsized. He almost drowned. When he appeared on the beach in the afternoon, he ignored me. "He thinks you have jinxed him," said one of the boys, "he thinks you are bringing him bad luck."
Whether true or not, there were many more fishes in the pond and soon I was deep in conversation with Roberto, a slightly older man, who could speak some English for a change. I rather liked Roberto, who was definitely more mature and more versed, I thought, in the art of courting. It was not long before he offered to take me for a spin in his car. "I am not allowed to ride alone with a man," I told him. The others, he said, would follow us in another car and we would all go together to San Remo. Technically, I was disobeying on two counts since not only would I be alone with Roberto, but I would also be leaving Arenzano without my parents' knowledge. I hesitated for a few minutes but temptation was too strong. As soon as we were outside the city limits, Roberto picked up speed, distancing himself from the other car. I was beginning to regret my rash decision, when smoke billowing from the hood forced him to stop. "It is nothing," he said, "I'll fix it." The next thing I knew, he was jumping up and down, hollering in pain. "I just wanted to check the water," he sobbed, waving a rusty lid in his scalded hand. Even I could have told him that he had just done a foolish thing. When the others arrived, he instructed them to drive him to the nearest hospital. "And take her back," he said, adding something that I did not quite get, but, considering the sign he made with his fingers, meant that I had given him the evil eye.
I thought that no grown man should fuss so much about a minor injury and was rather happy, when my father announced that he thought the chef had come to the end of his repertoire and was beginning to repeat himself. We left the next morning and arrived this time in Genoa with no more accidents. Unfortunately, and to my greatest dismay, since that summer, I lost my supernatural powers.
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