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Birthed from the deep,
Vulcan’s thunder-forged pearl
Floats serenely
-#8, In Blue Solitudes, S. Wilson-Osaki
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Two hours later Seb craned so far over the rail of the ferry’s upper deck that he almost swan-dived onto the boardwalk. A lava flow of tourists poured out of every door and archway in Capri’s Marina Grande, bubbling around the bus stops, docked boats, and funicular entrance as a wave of newcomers drained out. Beyond the row of multicolored shops and restaurants across the way, a lush green landscape wrapped around one middling and one soaring peak. If the Amalfi Coast was a paradise fit for a queen, this was its crown jewel.
The clunk of the ferry against the dock signaled their arrival. Andrea, nonplussed by a place he’d been to a thousand times, chatted with one of the stewards. He gestured in Seb’s direction in answer to a question, shrugged in that Italian way. The steward put his hands up like paws and stuck out his tongue.
“What?” Seb called over.
“He says you are like a dog out a car window.”
With last look at the view, Seb pushed off the rail and joined Andrea.
“Nothing wrong with a little enthusiasm.” He added as much innuendo into his tone as he could, but Andrea only rolled his eyes. “Haven’t heard you complain.”
“Don’t be cheesy.”
The steward did his best impression of a deer in the headlights.
“Aren’t you going to translate that?” Seb asked, smirking.
“Let’s get going.”
They followed the steward and snuck off the boat first, not that the advantage helped in navigating the dense crowd. Andrea clamped a hand on his shoulder to better steer him toward the transportation hub, squeezing tighter and tighter as the stress of the afternoon returned. Seb had managed to distract him during the ferry ride with his puppylike antics, but now that they closed in on his aunt’s restaurant, his jaw was so tight Seb feared he might crack a tooth. To say nothing of how he dug his palm into the muscle of Seb’s shoulder blade. If Andrea got any tenser, Seb would have to find a toilet stall where he could perform some mouth-to-cock resuscitation.
“Are we going dick or balls?” he asked as they huddled into the line for the funicular, which spilled into the street, blocking traffic.
“Huh?”
Seb pointed at the big hill, then at the two smaller hills. Andrea huffed a laugh, shook his head.
“Come on, smile, bello.” Seb surreptitiously pinched his ass. “You can do it.”
“We’re going to be late.”
“You’re doing them the favor. I think they’ll forgive you this time.”
“You haven’t met them yet.”
Seb scrutinized him. “Was this a bad idea? Do you want me to play tourist till you’re done?”
The immediate panic that splashed across Andrea’s face relieved Seb.
“No, no. I...” Andrea let out a heavy sigh. “I want you to meet them. I just see all these people, and I know they must already be drowning.”
Seb glanced around for a quicker way up the hill, but the clogged roads and endless lines for the bus made the funicular line—which, once you were in the thick of it, moved regularly—their best option.
“Which is probably what your cousin thought when he hightailed it for the mainland this morning.”
Andrea scoffed. “Si.”
As they neared the door, the crowd shoved them close together—not that Seb minded in the least. Using lack of space as an excuse, he moved behind Andrea and wrapped his arms around him. Only those directly beside them might notice the intimacy of the gesture, and they were too frustrated by the wait to care. To Seb’s relief, Andrea uncoiled enough to lean back against him, at least until they stumbled through the turnstile.
By the time they reached the Capri Town station, Andrea had to pry Seb off the window, partly due to the overstuffed car, but mostly because of the spectacular views of the island and the sea beyond. As soon as they broke out into the Piazza Umberto I, Seb made a beeline for the lookout. Andrea caught him by the shirt and veered him down the packed cliffside road. Restaurants hung off the edge like bushels of grapes, the windows of their lower stories reflecting the blues and purples of the sky.
Seb peeked in the first few, full of empty tables. “Not too busy yet.”
“Those ones, no.”
“Is your aunt’s place popular?”
“Number one for midpriced restaurants on Trip Advisor.”
Seb whistled. “You don’t say.”
“It’s a smaller place, only forty tables, so she maintains quality. Small staff too, and she owns the building. Everyone tries to poach her chef. Thankfully he’s a loyal control freak with not much ambition.”
“Better to be king of a small kingdom than knight in a large one.”
“Precisamente. Also, I’m pretty sure they have a thing going.”
“Whatever works.” Seb slowed as they approached a pink-washed two-storey building with iron-railed balconies and a faux-marble archway for a door. Slinky black lettering inlaid into the front step announced they’d finally arrived at Fabiana’s. “Wow. Okay, tell me again.”
“Marilena is my mamma. Though I’m not sure if she will be here. She likes to help out in the kitchen, and Chef Mauro, well...”
“King in his kingdom.”
“Si. The pregnant lady yelling at everyone to not help her will be my sister, Savina. Just call her Vina. Her husband is Enzo. He’ll probably be working the bar. I’m not sure who else is on tonight, but my aunt, of course, is the fabulous Fabiana.”
“No uncle?”
To Seb’s delight, Andrea dropped his voice to a whisper. “She never married. To this day only she and my mamma know how Bruno came to be. Which explains everything about him. They say the father was a tourist, but...”
“You’re worse than a tabloid.”
Andrea chuckled. “This is Italy. We invented the paparazzi.”
“Any more tea you care to spill before we go in, Hedda Hopper?”
Before Andrea could answer, the lithest and most soignée woman Seb had ever set eyes on floated out to greet them. Swathed in an elegant but curve-hugging blue dress rippling with gemstone winks and glimmers, Fabiana radiated the warmth and welcome of Grace Kelly in her royal era. Her dark hair clipped into a sensible chignon so as not to steal the focus from her long-lashed black eyes, Seb suddenly wanted nothing more than to gaze at her for hours, adoringly. Or maybe keep her portrait in a locket around his neck, the patron saint of all his culinary fantasies.
Instead he took her delicate hand in his, bowed, and kissed it, ignoring Andrea’s snort.
“Zia, this is my friend Sebastiano.”
“Sébastien,” he corrected, emphasizing the French pronunciation. “Osaki. From Montreal. An honor.”
“Such a charmer you’ve brought me, Andrea. I like him already.”
“The night is young,” Andrea teased, finding his smile at last. “How many are we?” Seb didn’t miss how he offered his aunt his arm as they strolled into the restaurant, which was, as predicted, empty except for two lingering tables.
The main dining room betrayed the same subtle feminine grace as the lady herself. Wall-to-wall windows showcased the main attraction: the view. The decor, the creamiest of whites and the palest of pinks with silver accents, acted as supporting player. In place of the usual watercolors of local landscapes, sepia-toned pictures of Capri taken by celebrity guests adorned the walls. A wine cellar the size of a walk-in closet enclosed the stairs to the lower-level bar, where tan leather banquettes and animal-skin armchairs complemented the starry late-seventies light fixtures.
A column of framed reviews by the door to the downstairs kitchen caught Seb’s eye while Andrea and Fabiana slipped into Chef Mauro’s domain. He recognized the names of famous newspaper and magazines critics on most bylines. But the tiniest one, slotted in beside a rave from GQ writer Alan Rickman, he remembered from his dog-eared copy of the Lonely Planet Guide to Naples and the Amalfi Coast by one Henry Wilson.
Typically Henry captured the swinging atmosphere of Fabiana’s and the glamour of the lady herself in two brief but tantalizing paragraphs. Little wonder Seb fell for his writing as much as the man himself. Seb felt that telltale tightening in his chest but fought against it. Part of him wished Henry could be with them tonight, and in this small way, he was. But his sadness settled into a peaceful coexistence with his attraction to and affection for Andrea, who swung back out of the kitchen door, only to stop cold when he spotted Seb.
To his credit, despite the nervousness that thrummed off him like sound waves, Andrea fell in at Seb’s side. Waited for him to say something, make a move before freaking out.
“So this is where you met?” Seb asked.
“Si.” Seb’s gentle hip-check pushed for more. “He cheated a bit because he liked this place so much. He would go to another restaurant early, take a few bites of the food, have a drink—”
“And then come back here for a real dinner. Wasn’t the first time, wouldn’t be the last.”
“Does it bother you?” Andrea asked.
“What? No.” Seb leaned his body into Andrea’s. “Like you said, I’m not really alone here. Not that I’m not enjoying getting to know new people. But it’s nice to have someone familiar around, if only in spirit.” Seb counted out a few beats to himself before asking, “Does it bother you that Henry is... well, kind of everywhere?”
Andrea shook his head. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned, Sebastiano, it’s that you cannot change the past.”
“Precisamente.” Seb grinned in the wake of Andrea’s laugh.
He slipped a hand into nervy Andrea’s as they made their way into the kitchen, not surprised Andrea dropped his when a cry burst out from the far corner. The Sophia Loren to Fabiana’s Maria Callas, Marilena Sorrentino exuded that earthy Italian sensuality her son had handsomely inherited. That was about the only thing he got from her, other than luxurious hair. Where Andrea was fine cut, Marilena was rounded; where he was fit, she was voluptuous. Throughout the evening, Seb would catch an echo of her infectious laugh, belted out of her throat with her head lustily thrown back. She embraced him like one of her own, whispering some Italian wisdom into his ear his soul understood, if not his mind.
Andrea completed the introductions by presenting him to his brother-in-law Enzo, a bear-cuddle man with a furry mustache, and Chef Mauro himself. The maternal gene for wide, lush-lashed black eyes had leapfrogged over Andrea to his sister, Savina, who twiddled her fingers in Seb’s direction as she cut little pillows of gnocchi. He tried to figure out if the mischief in her smile qualified as little sister or something more, decided he didn’t want to know what that something more might be. Then Fabiana waved them over for instructions as another waiter handed out aprons.
Seb had worn his dove-grey linen pants with a pale-blue dress shirt—not quite the uniform-white shirt with black trousers most waiters wore, but it was the nicest thing he’d brought with him. No one on staff came close to his size, and Fabiana couldn’t afford to be picky at the last minute. He’d stuffed a selection of ties in his backpack, but unless the other men waited till the last second to put on their own, they’d stay there. He watched the others spread out. The waiters folded the top edges of their aprons over a few times before fastening them. When Seb attempted to do the same, Andrea snatched his away with a click of his tongue.
“Hey, hey! You are a guest!”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Seb chided, tugging his apron back. “I came to help.”
He almost laughed at Andrea’s outraged look. “No, no, no. Sebastiano—”
“I worked at a sushi stand in a food court for two years in college.”
“Oh, really?” Fabiana tutted away any further protests from Andrea. “Where was this?”
“In Vancouver.”
“Bene. You speak only English?”
“Also French. And Japanese.”
“Worldly and charming. Andrea, why haven’t you brought this magnifico young man to meet me before?”
“I knew what you’d do with him.”
She patted Andrea on the cheek. “Ah, cucciolo, you know me too well.” She turned to address the staff. “Everyone, if any of your tables are more comfortable in French, please have Sébastien second you.”
“But you’ll keep any tips I make. I’m just here to help.”
All the female members of his family shot Andrea a look that said, See? He rolled his eyes.
“Now please gather round so Mauro can explain the specials.”
A sous chef lined up four steaming plates of food per server, which looked too gorgeous to eat but smelled too enticing to not. Fabiana insisted Seb stand so close beside her he wondered if they would be recreating that scene from Lady and the Tramp.
“Don’t worry,” she whispered, mouth inches from his ear, “I will translate.”
“Fabi,” Marilena warned in a tone that required no interpretation.
Andrea and Vina poorly swallowed their laughter. No one else dared make a sound.
“I’m sure the food will speak for itself,” Seb assured her, tucking in to the first plate.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Andrea asked for the umpteenth time as he carefully ran his comb through Seb’s unruly mane of hair, man-buns being inappropriate for table service and Seb being incapable of fastening a tight ponytail.
The antiseptic smell of the staff bathroom stole the last lingering taste of the specials from his mouth, probably for the best. Seb had to focus on serving the food to other people, not drooling all over their plates. Also, Fabiana had promised to pay him in pasta and torta caprese.
“You need to calm down.”
Andrea sighed. “A quiet spot at the bar. You could do some writing.”
Seb caught his eye in the mirror. “Is there something you’re not saying?”
That spooked him. “No! It’s just... You’re supposed to be on holiday.”
“I am. I’m having fun, with you.”
Andrea opened his mouth to reply, settled on a bashful smile. “Okay.”
“Are we good now?”
A shrug. He muttered something about “Canadian people” Seb didn’t pay much attention to. He gave over to the strokes of the comb, the feel of Andrea’s hands gathering and shaping his hair. For all his anxiousness before, Andrea didn’t seem to be in too big a rush to tie that ponytail, instead running his fingers through the silken strands.
“Having a moment back there?”
“Mmm.” Andrea finally secured the elastic, cinched it with a tug. “It’s nice to be on your level for once.”
Seb chuckled, tapped the overturned crate Andrea stood on with his ankle. “You enjoying the view?”
“A bit too much.”
“Oh?” Seb turned around, took advantage of Andrea’s added height to gaze into his eyes. He ran his fingers along the edge of his fresh-shaven jaw—Fabiana liked her waiters groomed and tidy. To that end she had rustled up a uniform for Seb from former staff castoffs. The crisp white shirt hung open at the front; Andrea reached for his top buttons, made to fasten them, but ended up cupping Seb’s neck.
Seb thumbed the slight cleft in Andrea’s chin, the thick of his bottom lip. Their heavy breaths mingled as they swayed closer together, eager for more of the other’s touch. They fell into a slow, sensuous kiss, as if they had all the time in the world to tease and explore. This was, Seb thought, the magic of Andrea: his ability to freeze time, to delay grief and guilt until their moment had passed, washed away by torrents of sensation. Seb pulled their bodies together, massaged his hands up and down Andrea’s back until that anxious rigidity softened into tension of a different kind, a tripwire of need begging to be set off.
Someone pounded on the door. They wrenched apart, panting, grinning.
“An-dr-ea!” came Vina’s taunting voice. “Zip up your pants and get out here. A busload of Japanese tourists just came through the door.”
“Merda.” He launched at Seb anew, this time to do up his shirt. “Andiamo, Sebastiano.”
“Be there in two shakes,” Seb shouted at the door. Then to a frazzled Andrea, “Rain check?”
“We’ll see.”
“We’ll see?”
“After a night at Fabiana’s, most people are lucky if they can crawl into bed.”
“I can do crawling. At least I’ll be on my knees.”
Andrea let out a flustered breath, shook his head. “What am I going to do with you and your naughty mind?”
“Anything you like.” He stole a kiss from Andrea’s smirking mouth. “Later.”
Seb took a deep, centering breath, then plunged into the fray with Andrea close on his heels. Chef Mauro barked orders at his sous chefs, readying their stations before the first tickets came in. With a wink in their direction, Marilena sang to herself as she put the finishing touches on her mouthwatering desserts. The atmosphere resembled that of a kettle that had just started to percolate, with the occasional burst of steam erupting from different parts of the kitchen.
Vina grabbed Seb before they shot out into the dining room. “Is there anything special we should know?”
“Be professional, not friendly. Serve plates with both hands. Don’t touch the food in any way. And if you have some hand towels, preferably cold ones, make a tray and give them out before they start their meal.”
She and Andrea nodded. Andrea steered him back to the main dining room, where a group of twenty Japanese tourists waited for the busboys to rearrange the tables for them. Though they appeared unassuming in simple clothes a bit too casual for the restaurant, Seb could tell by their jewelry and gadgets that they came from serious money. Not to mention the Japanese media mogul in their midst. Fabiana conferred with the mogul’s personal attaché, who confirmed Seb’s suspicion that this was one big, extended family.
He flew into action, bowing deeply to the collective and each of the elders among them. When Fabiana gave him the signal, he introduced himself in Japanese. With a look of relieved amazement, the attaché waved him over and launched into a whispered explanation of their needs. After reassuring the young woman everything would be seen to—and praying it would—he drew Fabiana aside.
“Do you know who that is?” He attempted to point with his eyes since their guests would consider even the slightest gesticulation vulgar.
“Mr. Kawamata,” she said. “Is he someone important?”
“He’s a senior executive and major shareholder in Fuji Media. More importantly he’s a well-known philanthropist and supporter of the arts in Japan. He’s here with his entire family for an anniversary trip. But I didn’t tell you any of that.”
“Of course not.”
“In Japan customers don’t speak about personal things with wait staff. Don’t make a big deal of it or put on the charm. They want professionalism, brisk and efficient service.”
“And they will get it.” She turned her body, her sly smile just for him. “Santo Dio has blessed us tonight, and I am blessed to have you here. I hope Andrea knows how lucky he is.”
“With a family like yours, he’s the lucky one.”
She indulged in a quiet laugh. “Such a charmer.”
The next four hours tested not only Seb’s language skills but his endurance. Orders and other instructions were relayed to Andrea in Japanese, with Seb hastily scribbling down an English translation at his side, which he would give to Andrea once they were out of sight so as not to shame their guests. Andrea would then translate that into Italian for some of the wait staff and cooks. Discussions or explanations were trickier to navigate. Guests would voice these to the attaché, who would hurry to steal a private moment with Seb.
Unaccustomed to the bustling tempo of a restaurant, Seb struggled to keep pace while pounding up and down the stairs a dozen times a half hour or stay balanced when armed with four meticulously composed plates, all while making like Andrea’s shadow, there to learn and serve except when his one special skill was needed, more of a ball chained to his wing-sandaled heel than an angel on his shoulder. By the time they took the dessert orders, Seb felt like he’d rode the entire Tour de France in one go. As Andrea’s bicycle.
But all was forgiven when Kawamata-san thanked them personally for dedicating themselves to their table, a huge honor Seb still reeled from as he swung back into the kitchen.
And barely dodged a tray frisbeed at his head. A skunk-drunk Bruno, doing his best impression of a bull in a china shop, yanked out a utensil drawer and shot the contents across the cooking area floor. Chef Mauro’s nimble sous hopped around the sharp objects, never breaking concentration as they continued to churn out plates. Bellowing like an ornery giant despite being shorter than Andrea, Bruno spit in a sauce pot and grabbed for his belt buckle before Andrea intercepted him, shoving him into a corner.
A Vesuvian argument ensued. Marilena charged forward with an accusing finger—two guesses where Andrea got his temper from—and barely avoided getting hit with a wine glass. Seb almost got beaned by the door when Fabiana slipped into the kitchen, hissing for quiet. Seeing the state of her son, she sighed, flicked her fingers at him, and left.
Bruno roared at her dismissal, lobbing glass after glass at the door. Seb scurried over to shield Vina as Andrea attempted to tackle him to the wall. Fury sparked Bruno’s fifty-proof blood, and he reared, grabbing one of the glass shards and swiping at his cousin. Andrea jumped back. Bruno raced for the door and the customers beyond.
When he thought about it later, Seb couldn’t really explain the impulse to block the exit, standing tall, arms crossed, face granite. Misplaced chivalry? Death wish? Bruno skidded to a stop, snarled. Seb stared him down. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t glower. He didn’t dare him to fight. He just stared, impassive, down into Bruno’s bloodshot eyes, repeating his inner mantra: You shall not pass.
Bruno shouted at him in Italian, curses and invectives that, perversely, made it easier to ignore him. He got right under Seb’s chin with his stinking breath, flecks of spittle spraying his neck. As his volume rose, Bruno’s face swelled, purple and sweaty, until he resembled an evil beet. Seb became fascinated with the two inches of roots of his bleached-blond undercut hair, marveling at how some people actively worked against their own attractiveness. He suppressed a yawn as Bruno continued to spew his bile and, if his gestures were anything to go by, homophobic filth. Seb was the anvil, and he was the relentless hammer. But Seb had customers waiting, not to mention the smell was getting to him, so he searched for an endgame.
Bruno punched him point-blank in the stomach. Once, twice, a few wild jabs; Seb stumbled, grappling for a wall to avoid falling on the shattered glass. Bruno spat on his head, tried to dart past him, but Seb kicked out his leg and tripped him. That one judo class his father forced him into finally paid off. Bruno toppled into the no-longer-so-cuddly arms of Enzo, who grabbed him by the scuff of his neck and threw him into the supply closet like a rabid cub.
Breathing rapidly through his nose, Seb struggled not to vomit up all those specials. It felt as if his diaphragm cowered under his rib cage and his stomach had gone ten rounds with a meat tenderizer. His chest ached, cinching in his lungs whenever he tried to draw in an extra dose of much-needed oxygen. A pair of gentle hands helped ease him over to a stool. For several minutes his entire world winnowed down to inhaling, exhaling, clenching through a spasm of pain.
Someone—Vina—brought him a cold glass of water. Seb managed a few sips; the acid searing up his throat retreated. Slowly he forced himself to relax, found more space in his lungs. The world around him came crashing back: Bruno scratching at the supply closet door like a cat in a bag; Andrea berating himself in a corner, still shaking with fury; Vina stroking Seb’s back as Enzo prepared an ice pack; Marilena muttering as she swept up the glass.
“Just another boring night at Fabiana’s,” Seb rasped out, if only to hear Vina laugh.
“Andrea!” His sister unleashed a blast of Italian that smote the last of his ire.
He spun around, gasped, and sped over to Seb’s side.
“Ay, Sebastiano...”
“My own fault. I shouldn’t have gotten in his way.”
“Don’t be stupid.” Vina tapped the back of his head in a way that would have been a slap if he’d felt better. “He would have terrorized the guests. Dio knows what might have happened. You saved our customers and our reputation. I’m sure my aunt will agree, if she ever decides to clean up her own mess.”
Seb expected at least a cursory protest from Andrea, but he preoccupied himself with examining Seb’s middle.
“Do you mind?” he asked, grabbing the slack in his shirt.
“Go for it,” Seb agreed, wishing it were under sexier circumstances.
Andrea winced at the bruises that already bloomed on Seb’s navel. His cautious prods didn’t do much to pluck out the stitches that cramped Seb’s front and left side.
“Nothing is broken, but I would like to call a doctor.”
“You are a doctor. Do you really think there’s a chance of internal bleeding? He didn’t hit me that hard.”
“I think I’ve taken enough chances where you are concerned, Sebastiano.”
Before Seb could answer that, Fabiana swanned in.
“Mr. Kawamata’s assistant is asking about the desserts. What should I tell him?” Seb grit his teeth through the pain of holding Andrea down. Fabiana gasped, having finally got a good look at Seb. “O Santo Dio! Are you hurt?”
Seb didn’t think he was the only one wondering if she was more concerned about his ability to serve the rest of the meal than his health. He began to sympathize a bit with Bruno, seeing this snapshot of his life.
“Someone will have to carry the trays, but I can finish the table.” He shushed Andrea’s protest before it left his lips. “I’ll just need a minute or two. Can you offer them a digestif?”
“Ah! What a treasure you are!” Fabiana pinched his cheek. “Pity you don’t live closer. You could be here every night!”
With that she fluttered off, a pretty cloud onto which you could project shapes and shadows, of no more substance than air. The three of them—himself, Andrea, and Vina—gaped at each other, then burst out laughing.
Better that than crying over broken glasses and spoilt sauce, Seb thought.