Roxana

"You did what!?" asks Kary astonished.

"I might have said yes to flying to Sicily... tomorrow," I say, raising my hands defensively.

Kary bursts out laughing.

"Oh boy. I don't even know where to start."

"I know. It's a really bad idea but I could not help it. Christian was there and so sad. I just wanted to help him and... here I am."

"Well, I think it's not such a bad thing after all. You might like it. It's warmer down there and it seems like a good project to put on your CV. But, Jesus, girl, it was the ideal opportunity to ask for a raise."

"I could barely bring a few words out. My brain was on overdrive. The only thing I could think of was how close he is."

"Oh yeah. I think this would have been really entertaining to watch. And now?"

"Now I have to pack. My flight is tomorrow. At least Damian was happy about it and he said the food in Sicily is great."

"Oh yes, it is. Also the sun, the sea, and girls. I remember, when I have been there with my family, I put on three kilos in two weeks. I will come to visit you. Hot Italian chicks, I am coming!"

I was playing brave in front of Kary but the truth is I am paralyzed with fear and performance anxiety. What if I am not good enough? What if I will fail? What if they fire me? Then I am screwed but there is no way back. So, land of pizza and espresso, here I come. I hope you will be kind to me.

The morrow caught me on the way to the airport. Christian was gallant enough to buy me a plane ticket. The Polish boys had to drive down there. They also had to carry heavy machinery and they didn't actually mind, but I get anxious when driving long distances. Obviously, because I got my driver's license and didn't practice ever since. That was with eighteen, meaning six years ago; almost a lifetime.

The coffee does not taste particularly good at the airport in Bern, but I gulp it down like water hoping it will make my exhaustion and nauseousness go away. Guess what, it does not help with either. If something, it makes the anxiety worse.

Once there, Damian will pick me up at the airport in Catania and we will drive together to the ominous villa of that guy. My eyes barely stay open while I try to read into the project concept on the plane. Since Peter was supposed to do it and I was banned from even getting close to it, I know nothing about the project, not even the location.

Somebody i supposed to pick us up in the center of Taormina and bring us to the place. How gallant, but a google location would have sufficed too.

"Rox! Hey! Hierher!/ Over here! " I hear Damian's deep voice.

Damian is really tall, probably close to one meter ninety-five, and looks Scandinavian with his blond hair and ice-blue eyes even if he is Polish. My own colors are similar; I have silver-blond hair and light-colored eyes. People often think we are siblings because of this even if he is big and muscular and I am quite small.

He gives me a fist bump when we finally find each other. 

It is windy outside. The air is warmer than in Bern, but still cold, probably around five degrees. It feels like spring in Italy even if it's the first February week.

We drive to Taormina and park the minivan, then walk to the meeting point in front of the fountain in the city square where we find the other Polish guys. They are twenty altogether, the core team.

We will need to hire some local contractors, but I will see to that later after I read something about it online because I never had to do this part before. It was always Peter, Christian, or somebody else, but now I feel the cold water I jumped into getting icy around me.

After no longer than five minutes of waiting, a man is approaching us. He is around fifty, balding, wearing a black tailored suit over a white shirt, sunglasses, even if there is no sun outside, and a headset in his right ear.

"Buon giorno! Ben arrivato! Dovete essere i lavoratori. Chi di voi è il signor Schmitt?/ Good morning! Welcome! You must be the workers. Which of you is mister Schmitt?"

Okay... He said good morning and asked about mister Schmitt but the rest is just a blur. Mister Schmitt is Peter, so they seemingly haven't heard about the changes. That can be an issue.

"Sorry. Do you speak English or... German?" I ask timidly while Damian is eyeing me confused.

"No. Italiano," he replies curtly with a straight face.

OK, so shit. I try to think of something, even if my native language helps me understand some of the things he is saying, he will not understand me. On the plane, I learned some basic phrases but my brain is so foggy right now I can barely remember my own name. Yes, I can start with that.

"Roxana," I say, stretching out a hand and pointing with the index finger of the other hand to myself.

"Io... Io no parlo Italiano. / I... I not speak Italian," I say, rejoicing that I remembered something.

"Non. E non parlo/ Non... It's 'non', " he answers moving his right hand demonstratively and bursts out into laughter right after.

I and the boys just look at him wide-eyed.

"I am joking, signorina! I know you don't. Signor Messina is not stupid to send here someone that would speak only Italian. He will take umbrage if you tell him that. He is un uomo cosmopolita," he replies in English with a prominent accent and a wide grin, while I still look at him not knowing what to feel. On one hand, it is relief on the other I find him peculiar, to say the least.

"I am Tomaso, piacere, signorina Roxana. But where is mister Schmitt?"

"He could not come. He is sick. I am replacing him till he gets better again."

Hopefully soon.

"So young, e una donna? Hmm...Va bene. Follow me."

So Damian follows his black BMW SUV. We drive for half an hour upwards on the hills that tower over Taormina sinking it into shadow. When we arrive at a wrought iron gate he goes out of the car and speaks into his headset.

Two men open the gates for us and we drive inside. The sun is just rising, bathing the impressive villa in copper and gold. The influences of the late Sicilian Baroque are noticeable in the carvings of the brittle limestone that steal my eye and my heart in sublime silence.

"Kurwa! Der Typ hat Kohle./ Kurwa. The guy has cash..." I hear Damian mutter to himself and can only agree.

Hunky Italian rich guy is living in an actual monument.

Tomaso leads us to the containers where we have the option to live for the next months. They are reasonably far away from the main building, in the garden. After that, he bows, wishes us good rest, and leaves.

Damian tells me that they will start building the scaffolding later that day even if it's a Sunday. I acknowledge his goodwill and tell him I will check on it later.

Later proves to be very relative, because after unpacking and showering, I sleep fourteen hours straight waking up at some point around four in the morning on Monday. What was that?

I didn't sleep that much in a very long time and when I raise it is in some shock of sorts, that feeling of utter fear that you have when you wake up in unknown surroundings. It takes me minutes to calm down my heartbeat.

The container is very small but is structured like a tiny apartment. One of the rooms contains a bed, a tiny closet, and a mini bathroom that is also the shower cabin. You can barely turn in it and it looks funny but it's okay. The adjoined room is for meetings and work, containing a desk, a meeting table, and a mini coffee kitchen, that will most probably serve me also to warm up my food. Not quite a five stars hotel, but this accommodation has one of my favorite qualities, it's free.

My mood is not the best. It doesn't help that I dreamed of Ivan again. That thug did traumatize me for life.
In my dream, he was holding a knife at Dani's throat and whispering into his ear that he was going to kill him after he is done with him, as he slided his god-damned hand down his chest into his pants.
Dani whimpered and I feelt like dying, not being able to move or scream, to do anything to help him so that he does not feel what I felt back then.

No, Ivan didn't rape me. I voluntarily and in complete awareness of what I was doing went down on my knees to give him the blowjob he asked for to seal the deal. I knew what I was doing, I agreed and I am not a victim, but I doubt any dick will touch my lips or the inside of my mouth ever again out of my own free will. This one thing got ruined forever.

At five I exit the container and take a look outside. It is still dark. A sunray is slowly peaking from behind the horizon. The way it colors the sky and the surroundings is just beautiful. I look at it in awe. It must be even more beautiful to see it from a higher point. My eyes fall on the scaffolding that the boys built around the eastern wing of the house.

You must not have fear of heights when working in construction. When I think back at all the stuff I had to escalate and crawl on...

I climb slowly to the top of the scaffolding trying to not spill the coffee I made for myself a few minutes ago. It's not very tastesty, actually really bad, but it's free. I found the package in the container probably from its previous inhabitant.

The assumption is correct, the view is indeed breathtaking. I can see Taormina at the feet of the hill and further the wild sea with uneasy waves. If you look in the opposite direction, you can see the volcano, Edna. The gardens and the villa itself are colored in a myriad of varieties of ember and gold and for one brief moment, I sigh and think that life is beautiful.

My reverie is interrupted when I hear a rattle at my right that frightens me. Slightly annoyed that somebody is disturbing my moment, I look to the right and see a man.

He is sitting on the top of the roof of the other wing, shirtless, holding a cup of coffee in his left hand.

For a long moment, we are staring at each other. I can observe his lean muscular body, the disheveled black hair, and his bare feet on the roof tiles under his black sweatpants.

Suddenly I become aware that I was looking at him for too long so I smile and wave slightly embarrassed.

At first, he does nothing, just looks at me in the same way, as if he doesn't understand what is going on, but then his features are lightened by a half smile and he lifts his coffee mug in an imaginary toast.

Who might this guy be, I wonder, but cannot do it for long because he gets again my full attention as I see him running down the roof slope, swift as a panther, and entering the house through a roof window. That was quite a performance given how, old, damaged, steep and slippery that roof is.

The sun is up as I gaze again at the horizon and swallow the last sip of my god-awful coffee. I do hope his has been better.

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Ok, it's on. Rox is in Italy.

What do you think about her so far?

:)