Sarah had her epiphany in a place called Ventimiglia, an ancient sea town a few kilometers from Genoa. She had left her husband in Rome after an argument, and she had driven the small rented Fiat up the coastal highway, up the left side of the boot, the car radio blasting rock music to help her forget her miseries. She had a vague notion of driving as far as Nice, but when darkness approached she found herself exhausted. A sign said Ventimiglia and had an arrow pointing over the cliff. Was there actually a town down there?
Another sign, one corner bent and its red paint peeling, said HOTEL SOPHIA. It was the name of the hotel that did it. Sarah had known a girl in college named Sophia. Sarah's first and only lesbian experience. Sultry Sophia, the girl with broad hips and a tropical liquid cunt. The affair had been brief, intense, completely divine, and had ended only because Sarah had been convinced she wanted a man as a mate and not a woman. So the affair with Sophia ended, and a week later Sarah met David. He was good-looking, had a job waiting for him in Wall Street, and he seemed to enjoy going down on her. They were married a month after they graduated.
That was three years ago. Now David was snorting coke in Rome with his British friends and Sarah had left him for good. Tough shit, Sarah thought. She started crying as she turned into the narrow road that led down the cliffs to Ventimiglia.
* * *
The hotel had three stories, ten rooms, and a lovely slanted red tile roof splattered with bird droppings. All the rooms had balconies and faced the sea. The view from the rooms showed no beach, only a line of large yellow boulders and fishing boats and the waves coming in to crash against the rocks and die. The sound of the waves, relentless, the unending heartbeat of the sea, was everywhere, in every room, in your ears, in your belly, and in your head. No need for blasting rock music in Ventimiglia, no need for blasting rock music to forget your life. Sarah thought she had arrived in heaven, and after the ancient porter dropped her bags in the room and limped away with his tip, she went to the window and looked out at the sea and told herself she wanted to live here forever. I'll marry a count, she thought. She would marry an Italian count and he would build her a castle in Ventimiglia. But no count, no castle, and no marriage. She was finished with that. She would settle for the waves.
* * *
The woman who ran the hotel was called Signora Maldi. She was in her forties, with pale skin, black hair, dark flashing eyes, and heavy breasts that threatened to burst through her dress. She spoke broken English and she apologized for the absence of airconditioning.
"Always broken," she said. "Stupid machine."
She made a gesture with her hand. Sarah said she didn't mind, the room was cool enough. Could she have a lemonade outside? She walked through the tiny lobby and into the garden behind the hotel. She chose one of the white tables, and she sat down to wait for her lemonade.
When Signora Maldi arrived with the lemonade on a tray, she found Sarah crying.
Signora Maldi put the lemonade on the table, then put the tray down and placed her hands on her hips.
"What's the matter with you?"
Sarah dried her eyes and looked up at her. "I'm all right."
"Why are you crying? You are too beautiful to cry."
"I left my husband. He's in Rome."
And she told Signora Maldi everything. Signora Maldi sat down and held Sarah's hand as she listened. The older woman kept nodding her head, her dark eyes fixed on Sarah's face. When Sarah finished by calling David a bastard, Signora Maldi laughed and said:
