In Italy, I’m a Lover, a Sinner and a Time Traveller by Ana Prundaru

1.
Nardo and I leave the thud of the waves behind us. From the back of his bike, I savour the juicy summer treats. I try not to think of a million reasons why a woman in a foreign country should refrain from going on a bike ride with a man she just met.



2.

That morning, a taxi picks me up at the airport. We drive through sloping vineyards and stop in front of my half-sister’s wedding venue: a lakeside villa straight out of a fairytale. We exchange pleasantries and before she points me to my room, she says: ‘You know, it’s a relief you didn’t bring the guy who cat-fished you.’


I skip the winery tour to explore the gentle hills on my own. Not too long and I hear the faint sound of waves crushing on cliffs. Pushing shrubs along the way, I try to get her words out of my head.



3.

Colton and I met through Facebook. A reverse image search tells me his profile picture is of someone else. These days, he recites Sylvia Plath and plays Heart songs on his guitar, when we curl on the couch after a long day. I don't regret giving him a chance, but occasionally, the third person in our relationship makes me run away sometimes. Colton is not so secretly obsessed with Sean Flynn, the Hollywood actor-turned-war correspondent, who disappeared fifty years ago. Before Colton, I’d only heard of the dreamboat with questionable morals that was Errol Flynn. But Colton set me straight. Sean fought against being stereotyped as a version of his amorist swashbuckler Dad. His hope to be defined by his achievements alone likely fuelled his photo-journalist career. After all, he didn’t have to go to war. A doctor kept him out of the draft.



4.

I struggle uphill, but I am rewarded with a sense of discovery. The feral scent of wildflowers. The steep coast that separates me from dark waters. A shimmer in the rugged sand off the path. I get on my knees and dig with my hands. It occurs to me that it could be a needle, or something else that should stay buried. Eventually, I unearth a corroded camera, with an S engraved on its black lid.



5.

On the plane, my jaw tightens, as an action movie reminds me of a naive Sean arriving in Saigon. It’s one thing to forge employment letters on fake Paris Match stationary. It’s another to parachute into war zones, when your only combat experience is sword fighting pirates in Hollywood.



6.

I decide to drop the camera off at a police station. The barren road leading to the next village is quiet, until a cheerful man on a bicycle begins to string beautiful foreign words. I glance at his front-mounted basket, which is loaded to the brim with fruits. He offers me a handful of pink grapes.



7.

By the time I finish recounting my peculiar first day in Italy, a jagged citadel comes into view. Nardo makes a sharp turn and stops in front of a cottage enclosed by climbing wisteria. The bubbly woman who emerges throws her hands to her mouth, as if she recognised the camera. My eyes begin to water. I’m not sure if I should blame my sensitivity to the grapes, or my attachment to the mysterious camera. Hesitantly, I release the camera from my grip.



8.

Colton was incredulous that Sean’s sister sold his Leica M2 a few years into his disappearance. The camera came with the custom strap that Sean fashioned, using a parachute cord and hand grenade pin. Though it accompanied him on most assignments, he swapped it for another one on the day of his disappearance. It was John Steinbeck IV, who collected the Leica and delivered it to Sean ́s sister in France, while word of his kidnapping spread.



9.

Nardo and the woman inspect the camera. Meanwhile, a throbbing sensation makes its way across my temples. At this point, I’m convinced that even a few grapes might take me down. I should look for a pharmacy. I remind myself of the guts required to ride off into enemy territory and face Viet Cong soldiers. I take out my iPhone and snap away, teary eyed. The midday sun is blinding and I can’t see how the photos turned out. If Colton were here, he’d encourage me. He’d say: ‘Sean’s first batch of photos were overexposed, but at some point he got the hang of it and so will you.’ Eventually, there is a pat on my back. I turn my head and there is Nardo, who pushes the old camera back in my palms.



10.

Nardo takes me to a ragged promontory and we watch the sun retreat behind the horizon. He points to the camera in my lap. I shrug and already plan to take it apart and scatter the pieces across the sea. Maybe the ghost of Sean's past goes away with it.


We are gazing at the stars when the ground begins to shake. While we rush away from the coast, the camera rolls down my leg and fades into darkness. Nardo pulls me close as the earth rages. Perhaps the camera wasn’t supposed to surface into my world. I think of Colton and of Sean. How their lives might have turned out if Sean had remained a beachcomber in Bali. Some things are impossible to predict.

………………..

Ana Prundaru lives in Switzerland. Her recent work appears in North Dakota Quarterly and the Suburban Review.

Twitter: @the_anamaria