Do You Trust Me?

The following day, Angelo’s boat went south, almost on its own volition, without Angelo willing it to do that. Guido’s boat was still in the harbor when he left—as it had been the previous morning and in the afternoon when Angelo returned to Positano. The fishing had been very good, but Angelo hardly noticed that. His mind was completely elsewhere.

That night, when Angelo came from the back of the café to play his second set, the American was sitting at a table well removed from the small platform on which the musicians performed.

One of the waiters, a saucy, flirty little thing named Luciano, who Angelo had always thought was much too flamboyant in manner but who the solitary men tourists of a certain aspect seemed to appreciate, hovered around Brett’s table. While Angelo was playing—although he was so tense and frustrated that he hardly knew what he was playing and singing—Brett pulled Luciano down into his lap for a few minutes, and Luciano squealed and pretended to be much flustered. But that little demonstration didn’t last for all. All of the time he was manhandling Luciano playfully, the American was staring at Angelo.

After the set was over, Angelo came into the audience and sat down at the American’s table.

“You came to the café,” Angelo said, knowing it was an idiotic thing to say, but the American didn’t seem at all concerned about opening the conversation.