[Fiction] Lala on the Shores

by Ken Been

The first thing he noticed was her hair. That was what shook Alan’s memory in the yellow lighting of the bus. It was chestnut and leaped toward her shoulders. But when she turned, he saw that the hair framed an old face, one that he had seen before. Or maybe one that was only within, an image, a hope, an animation of a woman. He could not decide which. The tension between the options was as imperfect as the lighting.

She was sitting in the front of the small bus in the only row with a single seat. The driver knew his passenger and her stop. And she was familiar with the driver as one knows the clerk behind the counter where you pay for a cappuccino. When she stood up from her seat, just about at her stop, Alan saw the face again, more clearly this time as she gripped the chrome-plated pole for balance. The bus slowed, pulling over along the narrow route. An elegant man with thin eyebrows stood up from his seat and began his approach up the aisle, eventually taking his place behind her.  He carried a black waiter’s apron that was rolled up just so, the ties secured with a tight, short bow.

Alan got up from his seat and joined in line behind them, a sudden change in his dinner plans. When the driver opened the door by pulling on a lever, Alan peered around the elegant waiter to get a better glimpse of the woman, so close, he could nearly touch her. Alan felt an equilibrium about her. And he was beginning to feel it, too. It was as if pressures were pushing between them – and on them – from all sides.

She was young enough to be sure-footed. There was not even the slightest pause before taking the first of the three steps down to the hard concrete of Viale Pasitea. He had gotten to know the streets of Positano.

When the bus pulled away downhill along the hairpinning, old-world road, the waiter followed in an easy, low-gear stroll, happy to walk the remaining distance to the small restaurant at which he felt honored to serve fine patrons. The woman had to stop and redistribute all that she was carrying. She hung the gold chain of her purse around her neck, then she looped the straps of her bulky, canvas bag over her shoulder. Her belongings positioned, she proceeded uphill past a shop, which advertised linen dresses on sale, maybe to take advantage of the last of the tourist season and the nice weather remaining, even in September.

He was careful to follow a safe distance behind her. The canvas bag had a picture of boulders pushed by the powerful sea to the Positano shore. How far would she be going from the bus stop? The blocks in Detroit, in New York… they were measurable, numbered distances. But here, distances were not defined in the same way along the narrow routes that sloped upward from the Tyrrhenian Sea, which he had thought was the Mediterranean when he first arrived in Positano early in May. He guessed it was like going roughly from 9 Mile Road to Granzon along flat Parklawn street in Oak Park, the small Detroit suburb where he grew up a half century ago. Yet that walk might not be exactly as he remembered it. Dimensions are peculiar, especially the older you get. Sometimes you add feet, or yards or football fields, just as you might add gloss or color to how an object really looked. Memory mixed with hope was not dependable.

She turned into the entrance of the Salacia Hotel. He knew the place. He had eaten lunch there, maybe back in July, and had sat outdoors at the single row of tables that stretched along the stone wall directly across the narrow road from the hotel’s beige-pink facade.

Over the stone wall was the steep-- actually frightening--descent down the rocks. Alan didn’t like heights. But he could see the beauty, the pinball route of the road heading down toward the sea, the bus twisting up and down the sole path to the shoreline. He remembered eating mozzarella, tomatoes, and walnuts off a wooden platter and drinking a bottle of mineral water while watching five men who played some game of dice and cards at a table reserved just for them. Each of the men would take their turn to sit out, as it was apparently a four-handed competition. He remembered how it had become clear that one of the men was the husband of the woman who operated the hotel. The round-bellied husband had some authority over the wait staff -- when his wife wasn’t around -- and he occasionally pointed out a patron, letting a waiter know that something had to be done and that he was in charge. 

Alan took a seat at a different table than last time. The same men were there, competing in that dice and card game. He watched them drink and laugh. Did they pass away the time like this every day? He did not know if he should envy them or not, as this type of day could seem futile, more so than his.

The just-out-of-reach woman he was following did not come out of the hotel while Alan waited. He decided to pass the time with a plate of risotto al limone and a chardonnay, an unusual wine choice for him.

The disappointment in not discovering the woman was not overcome by the meal. He thought about her, tried to place her in his life, but came up empty. Part of him knew to just forget about it. Another part of him knew he was going to return to the Salicia.

The next morning, he set out early for the hotel. It was a reasonable walk from the room he was renting. His landlord, an older woman who carved out a living in the hard rocks of the Amalfi Coast, saw seasons come and go in Positano. She liked Alan because he was renting the room by the month. It was already September, she thought, and he was giving no indication of leaving. The room, at one time her daughter’s, was perfect for somebody like him. There was a bed with a wrought iron headboard and a round, wooden table with two chairs. On the table was a plug-in tea kettle. There was a small refrigerator near the bathroom. It reminded Alan of his apartment in Soho. He couldn’t really say if he liked living there. New York City was so different from Detroit, and that was good… and bad. But the job with the treasurer’s office did not get offered more than once. His bosses were not happy about him requesting a leave of absence, but they saw his need and gave him the time off.

It was a cool morning, which was good for walking. The skies were overcast, but didn’t look like they would be giving in to rain from the seas. But the winds were picking up, which kept some tourists from dining outdoors, leaving Alan a wide selection of tables. He chose one at the farthest point from the door so he could keep an eye on it without much trouble. He ordered tomato juice along with a caffè Americano and hard bread rolls that he split and stuffed with cheese that came on the plate. He had the same English-speaking waiter who served him last evening.

“Your coffee, sir.”

“Thank you.” The waiter, although just a kid, perhaps no more than seventeen years old, had perfect service manners, a way about him. Those were the same personality traits that got Alan his first job. He was good at first impressions and leading people on. He was beginning to realize that about himself. “Himself,” he thought, a funny word.

“Prego.”

He sipped. And she came out! She was carrying the same canvas bag, but was wearing different clothing that made sense to him now. Of course! She was a night employee of the hotel, maybe somebody who worked in the laundry or at the desk!

Her hair was tied back, no longer framing her face, and by the way she was securing the bag with her arm closing over it, she looked like she was transporting something you could not fight, a stack of diary pages, reminders, incurable flashes that would torment you if they got loose. Where was she heading now with that old face? To the ends of the seas again? He watched her walk down the street and was not surprised when the bus followed behind her by just a couple minutes. She was a woman on a schedule.

He asked the waiter for the bill. In Positano, they were never in a hurry to bring it to you.

“Thank you, sir. I will bring it shortly.”

“Tell me. That woman who just left the hotel. I’ve seen her before.”

“Do you mean Lala?”

“With the longer hair?” Alan confirmed.

“Yes, that is Lala. She is our dinner chef. And baker, too!” He paused before continuing. “Long, long hours,” he added. “She bakes bread and pastry and cakes through the night, and when she’s done she readies the kitchen for the next day. If for some reason you happened to be walking by after two or three in the morning, you would smell the baking. She is very good, no?”

“Very good. Yes!” Alan said, “Too bad I rarely have room for a treat after a meal.”

“I have heard many Americans use the phrase that life is too short to not have a treat. I hope someday soon you leave some room. Even just a small taste.”

“Someday… I promise.” Promises, for Alan, were confusing. And stressful. Intention balanced with pleasing someone. “But for now I will stick to the ravioli. So incredibly different than I’ve ever had before.”

“It is the sauce. Her secret recipe. She arrived here with it.”

Alan nodded. Everyone seemed to have a secret recipe. Even Lala the dinner cook and night baker.

“Well then, I won’t ask what’s in it.”

The young waiter smiled.

Alan thought of one last question, “Where did she arrive from?”

“From Russia, sir.”

“Russia?” He was not expecting that answer. Maybe Naples or Rome or Florence. But not Russia.

“Yes. I’m told she was a great cook there once and brings us this secret.”

“Please tell her how much I enjoyed it.” Secrets were at war with revelation, thought Alan. Someone always lost.

“I will do that for you, sir.”

Lala, Alan thought as he walked up the street, not sure what his day would bring. Russian? That explains the name. Although, on second thought, it maybe sounded more like from India. Who knows where she was from, and where she was from before that.

Alan waited three days so as not to be conspicuous. He stood under the awning outside the ceramics shop next to the Salicia when Lala got off work— about ten o’clock. He followed her to the bus and sat right behind her, confronting his obsession. The smell of food in her hair, quite possibly the ravioli, made him think of secrets as he remembered them. They were off side streets in Detroit. Down avenues in New York. In homes, between friends, between lovers and ghosts. And they caused great tension between the secret keepers, pushing on each other, pushing away from each other, pushing on the truth.

Her bus — their bus — arrived at its last stop on its descent. The stop was in the square among all the shops and restaurants. The driver shut off the engine, waiting for the schedule to catch up to him. Lala barely even looked down at her feet as she took the tricky steps off the bus, then walked carefully down the cobblestones toward the sea. Alan followed behind her along the walkways past the endless gift shops selling jewelry, linen, pottery, and Murano glass. Then came the art galleries and restaurants. The streets were already full with tourists and, by the Church of the Santa Maria Assunta, he almost lost her.

What was he even doing here, he wondered. What did he want to find out about this woman who was so familiar to him on levels he didn’t understand. It was like the sky and sea all at once, sinking and rising at the same time. There was no horizon— just the threat of parallel surfaces collapsing against each other.

The promenade was already fairly congested with tourists who were renting beach chairs for the day, or waiting in lines at the marinas for charters and fishing boats. So, he had to keep tight watch. There were many twists and turns, weaving through groups of people. He watched as she entered a restaurant along the walkway on the beach. He fixed his eyes on the door, hoping it was the only door, so she could not escape with her bag. What was she doing there? What now! Why now?

He approached the restaurant slowly and indirectly, forming a perimeter that closed in— an arc that separated the present from the past. It was tiring, all this walking on the cobblestones, among rocks, cliffs, and the sea.

Through the window he saw Lala moving between the tables. A server! What could she bring him?  What did he need and what did he need her to bring? Inside, an older man was in charge.

“How many?” he asked Alan.  “Maybe you are meeting someone?”

“No. Just me. I’d like a table by the window, if possible. That small one would suit me just fine.” Alan pointed to it. It was covered with red gingham and there was a flower in a glass vase.

“Very well.  Yes, please follow me. Lala will be your server. It is your lucky day.”

“Thank you.” Is it luck that we need, Alan thought? He positioned the chair so he could view the sea and also Lala. She brought him some warm bread in a basket covered with a linen.

“Perhaps a dry wine today for looking out at the Tyrrhenian?” she asked. “The waves are bad today. Much safer in here.”

“The waves are certainly kicking up. Poseidon at work?”

She understood. “Those crazy sea Gods,” Lala said. She was Russian and literate, Alan thought.

“Well, then, yes to the dry wine,” he said, smiling. “I will drink to the sea Gods. You choose the wine. But red, please. And oh, what is your name?”

“It is Lala.”

“Thank you, Lala.” He watched her pouring the wine into the glass behind the bar. The barometric pressure was something he never quite understood. The pressure between the air and the surface of the sea? Was that it? Is that what caused waves and fishing boats to take cover? Push and pull. Love and hate. Sanity and insanity. Reality and things made up. He would get right someday. Just not yet. But, for now, he promised himself he would leave some room for dessert. 

Ken Been’s writing is published or forthcoming in journals internationally. You can find his work in LIT Magazine, The Primer, Slab, New Croton Review, The Brussels Review, The Opiate and Aethlon, among many others. His work also can be found in anthologies including Remembering Lawrence Ferlinghetti and Remembering Gerald Stern. He is from the Great Lakes State.