by Gabi Moore
For someone who made it their life’s mission to work around the water, the similarities make it less difficult to get homesick.
There was nobody around the shack when I first woke up. As a consequence, I had a bit of time to investigate the surroundings. Looking out the window in the room, I was able to see that the buildings were built close together. They were small, which meant that I wasn’t in a wealthy area.
My clothes were simple, layered, and from the looks of it, second hand. I was dressed in thermals that were gray and off-white. There were a few holes in the clothes, but because I was wearing layers, the holes only showed other fabric.
I reached my hands up to feel my face, and my fingertips brushed against a thin scrub of facial hair.
How long have I been out? I thought, reflexively moving my fingers and toes to make sure I retained a full range of motion.
I had shaved every day of my life since I was fourteen years old. I strained my head to figure out why I was there, but I couldn’t put all of the pieces together. I was alive, but so much of the other information was either scrambled or simply absent when my mind attempted access.
I was fortunate that I had ten uninterrupted minutes to take in my surroundings.
I stood up out of bed, and immediately felt weak. My shoulder had a severely limited range of motion. Upon closer inspection, I realized that not only had I been shot, but there was a scar on the outside of the entrance point of the wound which indicated that someone had performed surgery.
Damn, I was gone, I thought, realizing that I had no idea where the wound had come from.
When I touched the scar, flashbacks from the evening came to me in my mind. I saw myself from a third person perspective, getting shot at while my body dove headfirst into the blackness of the water below.
The experience jolted me, and my heart started to beat heavily. Anxiety overwhelmed me, as I struggled to put together exactly why I had been shot, and who had done the shooting.
Was I thrown into the water? Or was that my decision?
Adrenaline coursed through my body, and I began to grow dizzy. I had to leave to find safety, but for some reason I paused.
Whoever brought you here could have killed you by now, I reasoned.
I took a deep breath and resolved to stay put until someone showed up.
Helping myself to my feet once more, I wandered throughout the house. The home was little more than a fisherman’s shack. There were two bedrooms, though each of them were more like cubbies within the shack. The room that I woke up in had a faded photograph tacked on the wall, of a young woman with dark brown hair. She was smiling and standing next to an older man.
Grey beard, large brimmed hat, and a cigarette, I muttered.
The older man was smiling, though the younger woman was a bit solemn in her expression.
The other bedroom was basically vacant, except there were a few tools that hung in their place on the wall. Hand tools mostly, and a couple of well-kept knives.
Without thinking, I grabbed one of the knives and began flipping it around in my hand. The blade moved with ease between my fingertips, and I watched with amazement at my instincts at work. Even with a wounded shoulder, I was able to manage the blade soundly with one hand; switching to the other wasn’t a problem either.
I walked into the kitchen and found a pot was on the stove, with hot water boiling. A radio was playing in the kitchen, and the station was set to classical music, which was interrupted by a voice which spoke the Italian language.
Without trying, I was able to pick up on the words that were spoken by the radio host.
“That song,” the voice said, “was performed by the classical pianist Arturo Benedetti Michelangeli, as he plays Chopin’s Piano Sonata Number Two, written in B-Flat Minor. The song is a fervent piece which reminds us of both the temporal nature of our lives, as well as the depth of love which punctuates our struggles. And now for--”
I heard a noise outside of the shack, and my attention snapped into focus toward the sound.
As the next song began to play, I positioned myself to the left of the entrance to the shack. The water was boiling, and steam began to fill the air, accompanied by a shrill whistle. The figure at the door placed their hand on the door knob, and my grip tightened around the handle of the knife.
I held my breath, and the door opened.
Chapter 2 – Tyler
I saw that the man who entered was unarmed, and my body relaxed. I slipped the knife into the waistband of my pants and waited for him to notice me.
The man jumped in surprise and placed a hand on my wounded shoulder.
“You’re awake,” he smiled, placing one hand on his heart, to steady himself.
His touch was gentle, and I knew at once that this was the man who had helped me. My expression showed nothing. I stared at him, still trying to discern more about his character.
“Do you speak Italian?” he asked, looking into my eyes. He paused for a moment, and when I didn’t respond, he waved his hand dismissively.
His face was similar to the photograph, though he was a few years grayer. There were lines on his face, and his skin was well-tanned.
He let his shoulders fall, and then closed his eyes. Nodding to himself once more, he walked toward the stove and turned off the burner.
“Coffee?” he asked, gesturing to the stove, and looking to gauge my response.
He turned down the radio to a low, melodic hum, and measured out grounds from a glass container on the countertop. Two mugs were produced, and within minutes, I had a warm cup of coffee in my hands. He didn’t bother to talk to me anymore. Instead, he sat quietly with himself, allowing me to enjoy the espresso.
The drink was rich and put my mind at ease. The steam felt good in my nostrils, and the liquid soothed my throat.
We sat together in silence for several moments.
Then, raising his finger up toward the ceiling, as though he had just remembered something to share with me, he walked over toward me and patted me on my injured shoulder.
Out of his side pocket, he produced a small object, which he must have had on him for several days.
Holding the object up in front of me between his two fingers, I saw that it was a bullet. The metal was misshapen, from where it had struck.
He paused for a moment so I could take in the full sight of the bullet. I opened my palm toward him, and he dropped it into my hand.
“I pulled that out of your shoulder,” he muttered. “Good thing for you I couldn’t find the one that knicked the side of your skull.”
He tapped the side of my head just above my temple, and a shot of pain rang through my head.
I hadn’t noticed the pain before that moment. I only had been aware of a dull headache, and a sense of general disorientation. I turned quickly to stare at my reflection in the window. Straining, I pulled my hair to the side and noticed that there was a severe dent in the side of my skull.
“I bet that stung,” the man said, pulling some tobacco out of his pocket.
He sat down at a table as worn as the rest of the house. Positioned across from me, I watched as his weathered fingers dexterously loaded tobacco into a paper, and then rolled it together. His motions were fluid, and I could tell that this was a dance he had been performing for years. He didn’t spill a single grain of tobacco on the table. When he was finished, he placed the cigarette between his lips, opened the window and struck a match.
“You should tell me who you are. I’d hate to have to turn you over to the police.”
His threat hung in the air between us, and his eyes were trained on me. My body tensed, involuntarily, and my mind went to the blade that was secured on my waistband. The man exhaled, and tapped his cigarette outside of the window.
“So you do speak Italian?” he said. “The eyes do not lie.”
I placed the bullet down on the table between the two of us.
“How did you know how to pull that bullet out,” I asked.
I shook my head.
“He was an Italian fishmonger from the 1920’s, whose political and social beliefs resulted in his execution. He and another named Sacco were wrongfully accused of murder. Though that did not spare their lives. Another man came forward and admitted that it was, in fact, he that had committed the robbery and murder.”
After yet another long exhale, he continued his story.
“The point of this tangent is that Italy has a continuous history of working class people who have the need to know skills that are traditionally affiliated with those of more militarized persuasion. Something you’ve come into close proximity with recently, it seems.”
He tapped his cigarette over the bullet, dropping ash on the deformed bit of metal.
“Social unrest has been a pattern for us throughout the years. Not something that many foreigners can appreciate. Perhaps, not all are so ignorant of the utilization of force to fulfill the agendas of the few.”
The man finished the rest of his cigarette in silence. When he was done, he reached a hand out of the window and flicked the cigarette across the dock and into the water - no more than a few meters.
Having nothing more to add to the conversation, I held my tongue. I needed to know how much this man knew about me, and so I sat patiently.
“I realize that you’re not sure whom you can trust,” he said. “But believe me when I say, if I wanted to have killed you, I could have easily done so. Also, you could have have taken my life as soon as I arrived home, not twenty minutes ago.”
He sniffed and looked down at the bullet.
“You might even owe me an explanation,” he said, “if you can manage to produce one. Otherwise, another bullet, from a similar weapon might find me.”
His words caught me off guard. My hands reached up over my forehead. I nodded.
“Everything’s a bit murky,” I replied.
He scowled, and nodded his head slowly.
“Concussion. I found your body floating in Laguna Veneta. Who knows how much water got in your lungs.”
“Thanks,” I said, surprised to be alive.
“Don’t thank me, Giovane,” he muttered. “You traded one shark for another, and were fortunate that neither devoured you.”
I paused for a moment, reflecting on the man’s words. I didn’t know how to respond. Attempting to recall memories was a strain on me. The effort was rewarded by a headache which formed in clusters around the dent in my skull.
I was about to respond when I heard footsteps walking along the dock toward the house. My body tensed up, and the man casually pushed the bullet toward me on the table with the edge of his fingers. Without pausing, I picked up the bullet and secured it in the palm of my hand.
Chapter 3 - Tyler
A woman walked passed the window and began to open the door.
I relaxed, but I noticed that my host was not put at ease. In order to hide his obvious discomfort, he proceeded to roll another cigarette.
The woman entered, and at once I recognized her from the photo in the bedroom. Her hair was cut short, well above her shoulders, but her jawline was a strong, distinguishing characteristic that I immediately placed as coming from her father.
“Piper, Mia Bella,” the man said, turning to face his daughter.
She leaned in to kiss him on the cheek. He paused for her kiss, and the contact brought a slight smile to his eyes. His lips, however, remained in a dour expression.
Within moments, he had finished rolling his second cigarette, and with the practiced care of a man who has lit far too many matches, he ignited the end of it. I could tell by her expression that she was not pleased by the habit, but she didn’t bother to call him out.
“You have a guest,” she said, starting her inquisition on a non-personal topic.
“Yes, we were just talking a bit about social history.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, do you remember the story of the Anarchist Fisherman?“
“Of course. One of my favorites.”
“Ah, yes,” the man replied, looking my way. “Piper, you see, she has the spirit of someone who understands our great culture, but in practice, she is missing out on some of the core principles mentioned in the lesson.”
The woman scoffed and turned around toward the stove to heat the kettle.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” I said.
“Your friend speaks Italian very well for a foreigner,” she said.
The man took another drag from his cigarette.
“I’m sure he has many surprises and skills. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit today, Mia Bella?”
Her dark eyes gave me a calculating glance, and then, as though preoccupied — she diverted her attention to the stove. As she got some coffee grounds out from the canister on the counter top, I noticed she had a tattoo on her left shoulder. The image was a black cat, arching it’s back within a circle. I stared at the symbol, feeling a strangeness wash over me. I had seen that symbol before, but I couldn’t quite place where.
“I’m here to ask you a favor,” the daughter replied.
“I see. You would perhaps like a small loan, so you can resume your studies at the University?”
The woman scoffed.
“We’ve been over this. The University wouldn’t know what to do with a mind like mine. If my future were up to you, I’m sure you would have me writing doctoral dissertations on the meaning behind the Anarchist Fisherman.”
Her tone of voice was acerbic. I could tell that the exchange between the two was a reserved form of a long-standing argument between father and daughter.
I held my tongue and continued to observe their interactions.
“Not that such a dissertation would be a poor use of your time,” the father said.
“Which,” the woman quickly added, “I believe is the one thing that you misunderstand about that fable.”
“It is not a fable. It is the history of our people.”
“Your people. Those who earn a living pulling life from out of the sea.”
“You act like this is a bad thing,” the man said, stubbing his cigarette out on the table. “Perhaps you forget that you were raised on the life which was pulled from the ocean.”
“You never cease to remind me,” she said, now preparing a cup of espresso for herself.
“It was a good childhood. The best I was able to offer. Was that not good enough?”
“Oh, it was good enough. I’ve expressed my gratitude, and I’ve shared my rationale for abstaining from fish.”
“That you have,” the man replied, flicking the butt of his cigarette into Laguna Veneta.
The woman paused, and bit her lip. I could tell that she wasn’t happy about falling into an old pattern of argument with her father. But there appeared to be axiomatic differences between the two, and the argument continued. Family relationship dynamics were painfully obvious when observed from a third party perspective, but hopelessly frustrating when a person is caught within them.
I kept my mouth shut.
The woman regained her composure and sipped deeply on her cup of espresso.
“I came here because I have a favor to ask of you,” she said. “I’m not sure I’m comfortable speaking in front of your friend.”
“He is a friend of mine. If you have something to say, then I suggest you say it publicly.”
The woman inhaled sharply.
“Fine then. I need you to hold onto something for me. I wouldn’t have come here, but I don’t have any other options.”
She walked over toward the table and released a pack that had been on her back. As she dropped the item down on the table, I got a closer look at the cat tattoo on her shoulder.
“Will you help me or not?”
I could see the man’s face grow more solemn. Obviously, he was not enthusiastic about the situation, but t
o his credit, he retained his composure.
“You know, Mi Bella, what you have presented is a false dichotomy. A human always has more than one option, regardless of how constrained they may feel their decision-making process has become.”
Exasperated, she set down her unfinished cup on the countertop and walked over to the table to pick up the bag.
“Looks like my options are more limited than I thought.”
When she tried to lift the bag off the table, the man held his hand out and anchored the bag firmly on the tabletop. I could see the fervor present in his arm strength. He knew what he was doing, but he was not pleased with the end result.
“Principles are not the same thing as action, Mi Bella. That is the moral of the story.”
“And faith without works is dead,” the woman replied.
“Yes, this is also true, but there is a difference between the actions designated by faith and direct action.”
The man’s final words echoed in my mind in conjunction with the image of the cat tattoo on her shoulder.
My mind flashed back to a moment where I saw a man sporting that same tattoo on his hand. It was a photographed picture on a surveillance screen. The man was dangerous and was targeted as a major terrorist threat. The image was a video clip in my mind where he was speaking to a group of people about the value of direct action as a tool for radical social change.
More images flashed in front of my mind, and I found it difficult to focus.
“What the heck is wrong you?” the woman asked, targeting her question toward me.
“Nothing,” I shook my head and offered a smile. “It’s been a rough day.”
She nodded, accepting my statement, and turned back to face her father.
“I’ll be back to pick this up in a week or so. Can you put it somewhere safe between now and then?”
