ITALIAN INVASION...CHAPTER SIX...FINAL CHAPTER...

                                   "Moonlight Lady"...Julio Iglesais...It was "our" song.....

Being a member of the management team at Ramada Reef Resort my office was situated among an enclave of over-inflated egos upstairs on the second floor, above the foyer.

To the left of my niche, across a narrow common area, the secretary of the General Manager reigned in all her glory. This “supreme being” flitted back and forth from her monarchical throne as she rapaciously held the destiny of the resort and all those who served in her claw-like hands... or so she believed.

Often, taking a break from her despotic duties, she would lean against the door frame of my office, or pull up a chair in front of my desk to share her wealth of gossip.  Then, now, before and in between, I’ve always shunned gossip and those who marvel in the unnecessary, unbecoming, vulgar hobby.

I’ve never been so naïve to think I’m immune from flippant, loquacious tongues. Why should I believe I was unique – the only one not to be the subject of such inane wind-bagging?   My neighbour, the General Manager’s secretary’s gossip train obviously included me when I was out of earshot.  It would have been foolish of me to think I was exempt.

Reticently, I half-listened to her mindless prattle, frequently politely excusing myself by saying I needed to visit the chefs down in the resort’s large kitchen, or Fritz, the Food and Beverage Manager, whether on the pretence or otherwise. Anything...any excuse...to escape her vulture-like clutches.

She was a slave to fashion, although I was never sure who her “Master or Mistress of Fashion” was.  She needed assistance in her decision making! Being of a very slim frame, her legs resembled those of a predatory stork. When clad in various garishly striped, coloured, or fishnet panty-hose her skinny lower limbs could have featured on the cover of a horror novel!  Instead of disguising her legs the gaudy stockings drew attention to them.  I trying to paint a picture here....

As an escape, gradually I began spending more time in Fritz’s office, which was on the same floor as the kitchen, restaurants, and bars.  Fritz, being the Food and Beverage Manager, and me being the Groups and Conventions Coordinator, it was only natural we worked closely together.  It soon became apparent my natural progression would be to share his office with him.  His office was large enough to accommodate both of us. Fritz and I worked together in harmony.  Without hesitation, he agreed my “setting up shop” with him was an excellent, sensible idea.

Shortly after my relocation, I became his unofficial “Assistant Food & Beverage Manager”, along with my official role.

Finally I’d escaped the suffocating atmosphere of the offices upstairs. My new “home-away-from-home” located on the lower level was a logical move as my main dealings were with Fritz, the chefs, bar staff, and waiting staff. Plus, it was much more fun “down there” away from those who took themselves far too seriously “upstairs”.

Fritz and I became the renegades...the “comrades in arms”. Our office was full of good cheer and frolicsome fun, minus vitriolic hearsay. It became the meeting place of those of like minds, and seemed constantly filled with laughter and high spirits.

One morning the resort was on virtual lock-down as the staff went into survival mode for regulation fire drill. My role in the drill was to play a guest trapped in one of the guest rooms.

The room attendants had to search each room to ensure no “guest” was vulnerable, and then escort the “guest” to safety.

I ensconced myself in the bath tub, figuring there would be a safe, secure spot in case of fire. The door of the room opened.  I heard my would-be rescuer fumbling around. After only a few seconds searching my “saviour” departed, not looking in the bathroom where I remained hidden.

Alas, I “perished” in the “fire”!

After the drill was over my name was place on the notice board as one who had “perished in the resort fire”.  Passing a housekeeper in the hallway, she stopped in stunned silence, looking at me with her mouth agape.

“Oh!” She said in total seriousness and surprise. “I read that you had died in the fire!”

I burst out laughing, and then she realized what she had said.  People never cease to amaze!

Meanwhile, my Italian paramour, being his father's representative here in Australia, wasn't wasting valuable time as he gathered information for Beppe's tourism operation. He was learning more about Tropical North Queensland.  I knew the clock was ticking on my/our relationship...my love affair with Andrea.

Quite often when we were together he would talk about “our future”, but I always nonchalantly tossed the subject aside, changing the direction of the conversation. Within, I knew...understood...we had no future together. Andrea was much younger than me.  I knew what we had was only a dalliance, even though a very pleasant dalliance, one that had lasted almost eighteen months.

Many times he talked about my visiting his homeland, Italy, spending time in the Emilia-Romagna region; meeting his Nonna, his mother, sister, his friends, and his father in Bagnacavallo, or, Milan, when Beppe was in that city. Andrea/Andrew desperately wanted to take me to Venice. It all sounded fairy-tale romantic, but I realized that was all it was, a fairy-tale.

Andrea returned to North Queensland once more.  Immediately we picked up our relationship where we’d left it a couple of months earlier.  He was as beautiful to me as he’d always been.  

When possible, at night we’d sit out under the stars; stroll along the beach guided by an incandescent full moon. We’d grasp at the reflection of the luminaries, glimmering like diamonds upon the water. Kicking at the fluorescent phosphorescence at the ocean’s edge, we’d fall into each other’s arms, indifferent to the earth and those on it.

Gradually I felt a shift in beings. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I felt a breaking-away from the life we’d been sharing. Was it my fault? Or was it his?

Perhaps, it was a bit of both. Life took on a superficial, inert atmosphere. The curtain, ready to be drawn on the final chapter in the lives we’d shared, trembled in the wings.

Bringing it to a head one Saturday evening about three months after his return to me, Andrea paled and fidgeted when I broached the futility of our relationship. I was plunging the knife, not only into his heart, but also into my own. Silently and motionless, he looked at me intently as I spoke, agony clearly visible in his eyes.

He was a young man with his future ahead of him.  I was much older...I was in "cougar" territory.  

There was no place for me in his future.   I was not so blinded by raw emotions to ignore the facts...the facts of our lives.  We cared very much for each other, but there are times in life when reality knows better, and reality has to be faced.

Beneath his solemn stillness I detected a small sign of relief, or did I imagine it to allay my guilt?

We sat talking, sometimes quietly crying, until the sun made its first quivering appearance on the horizon. As soon as it turned into a molten globe blasting across the sky, too powerful to look directly at, we ran down to the beach and plunged our exhausted bodies and souls into the Coral Sea.

A couple of weeks later, Andrea and I said our final farewells at Cairns airport, both knowing and understanding we would never see each other again.

Bitter-sweet moments for us both as we held hands across the table, waiting for his flight to be announced, ignoring the coffee at our elbows as it grew colder and colder.

A few months, perhaps a year later, late one evening, I received a telephone call from Andrea.

Forever gallant and mischievous in his manner, he asked if I missed him.

“No...not at all!”  Not harshly I replied in half-truth,.

“I suppose you’ve got yourself a new boyfriend,” he continued cheekily.

“Hundreds!” I laughingly retorted.

I still cherish the memories of the passion, the laughter, and the happy times we’d shared. I’m pleased we remain in contact periodically.  

I am glad I followed the advice of the Fiat motor company’s commercials...and “had an Italian love affair”.

                                                             THE END