You tried. Go back up.
As she withdrew her arm, a dark tentacle as thick as a hawser curled round her wrist. She would never have imagined a soft, boneless creature would dare to challenge a human being. It was true the book said they were intelligent animals, but they were still related to mussels and snails. And it said nothing about them being dangerous. These thoughts ran through her brain like sparks and came out in a scream. A whirl of bubbles slid across the glass of the mask. She was running out of breath. In her panic, she grabbed the tentacle with her free hand, trying to remove it, but the octopus instantly wrapped another round. She used up what little air she had left in a desperate gurgle. The pressure had risen from her chest to her throat. She was suffocating. She started struggling, turning full circle, and found herself without the mask in a blurred universe where everything appeared and disappeared in scarlet flashes, swirling bubbles and the rumble of her screams. Water flooded down her throat and into her lungs, and her body, deprived of oxygen, started to shake. But something tough prevented her from giving up, an indomitable will to live took hold of her limbs, making her put her feet against the rock and her back against the concrete block. She found herself pulling and pushing harder than she’d ever done in her life. A lazy cloud of sand rose from the bottom, surrounding her, and a muffled sound with a scraping of stones told her something was moving, giving way. The big rock under which the octopus had been hiding rolled over. The animal found itself exposed, and faced with a choice between rock and arms chose the arms.
Anna started rising back up, kicking her legs, wriggling like an eel with that creature clinging to her and reaching out, encircling her neck and shoulders. The surface seemed to be moving further away rather than closer. The lack of air was devouring her. She kicked until she resurfaced with a hoarse intake of breath, swallowing the life that would oxygenise her blood. She spat out water, coughing. Holding the octopus, which was now trying to escape, she looked around.
The surfboard had been carried away by the current. The beach was a long way off, and holding the mollusc’s slippery head in her fingers was draining her strength.
Let go of it.
But instead she rolled over and started swimming backstroke, breathing through her mouth, spitting, churning the water with her feet, keeping her eyes tightly shut and repeating: ‘One, two, three. One, two, three.’
She knew she’d arrived when her shoulder blades brushed against the bottom. Gasping and staggering like a shipwrecked sailor, she walked a few steps and collapsed face down on the beach, exhausted. The octopus, now in the air, tried to break free with its last remaining strength, but she held on, smothering it in the sand. She lay against the octopus with her heart beating, filling her lungs, amazed to be alive.
‘I did it,’ she kept saying, her teeth chattering from the cold. ‘I’m a real fisherwoman.’
She couldn’t wait to run back and show those two boys her catch.
Fluffy walked towards her in his indolent way, inspected her and started licking her face with a tongue as wide as a shoe’s insole.
When she realised that the octopus had stopped moving, she lifted it up by its head between her finger and thumb. Death had reduced it to a pathetic, dirty thing, like the tip of a paintbrush immersed in gelatinous liquid. She took a plastic bag out of her rucksack and dropped the octopus inside.
She’d lost the top of her two-piece, but thank goodness still had her starfish, which was dangling on her chest. Her stomach and breasts were streaked with slime and ink. She slipped off the swimsuit bottoms and took three steps towards the shore, then she stopped. On the inside of her right thigh was a long trickle of dark blood right down to her calf.
I must have cut myself.
Presumably she’d grazed her leg on the rocks when she’d been struggling to free herself underwater. But it didn’t hurt.
Maybe it’s the octopus’s blood.
She looked up. A flock of seagulls was circling above the village rooftops. She didn’t see them; her blurred gaze took in only the cliffs.
Does an octopus have blood?
She opened her legs, sinking up to her ankles in the warm sand. She closed her right hand, except for the index and middle fingers, making a pistol shape. She put her fingers into her vagina and slipped them right in, her eyes on the clear sky.
She took her fingers out.
They were covered in reddish-brown blood.
*
Anna walked down Vicolo San Bartolomeo feeling scared, trying to swallow. Rucksack over her shoulder, plastic bag with the octopus in her hand. The trickle of blood still running down from her denim shorts.
She must find some of those tubes, the ones Mama used to keep in the bathroom cupboard with bags of little doll-sized nappies.
She’d come across thousands of them in her searches over the years – in bathrooms next to medicines or packets of toilet paper; in chemists’ shops and in supermarkets, where they’d have a whole shelf to themselves. She’d used them as torches, after soaking them in alcohol, as swabs for cleaning wounds, as pretend cigars, or as straws, after emptying them of their cotton wool. For every imaginable purpose except the right one.
Pietro and Astor must have woken up by now and would probably be wondering where she’d got to. They mustn’t see her like that.
She turned round the first corner, with Fluffy close behind. She went to the Muzzolini pharmacy, next to the Duomo. A Range Rover Sport had crashed straight through its window. She climbed over the bonnet and entered. The walls were covered in mahogany panelling, and there were old blue and white earthenware vases on the shelves. She found some packets of tampons on the floor, among some overturned display cases. She took some Tampax, the ones Mama used to use. The instructions said that the first time you put a tampon in it was important to relax and not be tense.
She sat down on the bonnet of the car to insert one, and was surprised to find that it was quite easy and not particularly painful. After cleaning herself with a T-shirt in a boutique, she put on some dark shorts and a striped shirt that came down to her knees. Then she headed for home, feeling rather relieved. Having a box of tampons in her rucksack gave a sense of security.
She was amazed that her period had arrived so suddenly, and painlessly. When Mama had had ‘her trouble’, she’d always been ill and had to take medicine. Anna wondered if going underwater had had something to do with it, whether it had tipped some balance in her body or burst some sac inside her, like the one containing the octopus’s ink. And how strange that it had happened the day after her birthday!
At the hotel she’d seen children of her own age, and often younger, already showing signs of the Red Fever. When people had looked at her, they’d always been amazed that she had breasts and pubic hair, yet not a single blotch. At first she’d tried not to think about it, but she’d been increasingly tempted by the fantasy that she might be different, special. Sensing that it was about as realistic as someone who’s hurtling down towards the ground hoping they’ll sprout a pair of wings, she dismissed the thought every time it came into her mind. But as everyone knows, illusions bloom like poisoned flowers in people with short futures.
Thinking about it now, with that tube inside her, she felt like a fool. She was the same as all the others. She remembered what Mama had written at the end of the chapter on water:
When you’re thirsty, don’t hope that it will rain. Think about the problem and try to find a solution. Ask yourself: where can I find some drinking water? It’s no use hoping to find a bottle in a desert. Leave hopes to the hopeless. There are questions and there are answers. Human beings are capable of turning problems into solutions.
Lost in thought, she found herself in a little piazza overlooking the sea. She sat down on a bench and started absently stroking Fluffy.
She needed to think about it. Having the blood didn’t mean anything. Before the virus, menstruation had simply meant that the body was ready to have children; only after the epidemic had it bec
ome a sign that you were about to die. She mustn’t mistake the blood for Red Fever.
So there’s still a chance that you’re immune. Oh, for goodness’ sake don’t start that again.
What was certain was that a period of time always passed between the blood and the appearance of the blotches. Sometimes short, sometimes long. At any rate, long enough for them to reach the mainland.
Messina wasn’t far away. A week’s walk, at the outside. And judging from the maps, the land on the other side of the sea wasn’t far away. Nobody knew what was happening across the Strait. Sicily was an island inhabited by a few survivors, and in five years, or six at most, there’d be nothing left there but animals and plants. Maybe the rest of the planet had defeated the virus.
Cefalù was a lovely place, but they’d die if they stayed there.
*
She had another look to check that her shorts weren’t stained, took a deep breath and entered the garage.
In the half-light, the two boys were busy pouring petrol into cans.
‘Bring me the funnel, or it’ll spill all over the place,’ Pietro was saying.
Straightening up, Astor saw his sister silhouetted against the light. ‘Where have you been?’ Before she could reply, he rushed over to take a big blue funnel off the tool bench.
Anna held up the plastic bag. ‘I’ve got a surprise for you!’ Neither of them turned round. ‘Hey! Did you hear me? I’ve got a surprise.’
Astor glanced into the bag. ‘The octopus. You caught it. Well done.’ He fished it out and dropped it back in again. ‘I’ll have a look at it later. We’re starting her up.’
Anna leaned back against the car.
Pietro was completely focused on the job, his lips pushed forward as if sucking from a straw. His long hair straggled down over his forehead. A shaft of light fell on his neck. Near his head he was tanned, but lower down, where it was usually covered by the T-shirt, the skin was a milky colour.
‘How are you getting on?’ Anna asked, trying to sound interested.
‘I’ve got to clean the carburettor and change the spark plugs.’ Pietro picked up a can and poured some petrol into the tank through the funnel.
Anna let a few seconds pass. ‘We could eat the octopus with peas. Or tinned tomatoes. But we’re out of them. And we’ll have to make a fire on the terrace.’
‘Okay. You do that,’ said Pietro, laying the funnel aside.
Anna looked out of the garage. She’d woken up at dawn, gone out quietly so as not to wake them, nearly drowned fighting that bloody octopus and started her first period.
Pietro turned towards her. ‘I’ve got to check the brakes.’ His speckled hazel eyes tempered the seriousness of his expression and added a touch of doubt. It was as if he didn’t have much faith in what he was saying.
‘You’re doing a great job,’ she said, with a faint sarcastic smile.
Pietro either didn’t see or ignored it. ‘I think the spark plugs are dirty. That’s why it won’t start, and …’ He stopped and stared at her, his head on one side.
Anna stiffened, looking down at her shorts. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘You’re wearing a shirt.’
‘So? What’s wrong with that? Don’t you like it?’
‘I’ve never seen you in a shirt.’ He rummaged about on the work bench and picked up a hammer. Meanwhile Astor had started polishing the sidecar with a cloth. The first time she’d seen her brother clean anything.
‘I’m going home.’ She turned round and walked away, but stopped when she reached the shutter. ‘We’re leaving tomorrow.’
Pietro opened his eyes wide. ‘Tomorrow? I don’t know if I can get the engine to start that soon.’
‘That’s your problem. If you can, fine. If you can’t, we’ll go on foot. As we’ve always done up to now.’
‘Oh, I see. You’re in a bad mood.’
She raised her arms. ‘In a bad mood? No, I’m not. It’s just that we’re leaving tomorrow.’
He banged the hammer down on the bench. ‘Why should it be your decision?’
‘Because that’s the way it is.’ Anna clenched her fists. ‘And if you don’t like it …’ She didn’t finish the sentence.
Astor stamped his foot. ‘But Anna …’ He caught hold of her arm. ‘Why?’
‘Because that’s what I’ve decided.’ And she pulled her arm free.
Astor swung his foot at a scooter, which crashed down on the ground.
Anna exploded. With a scream, she flung the plastic bag with the octopus at her brother, hitting him between the shoulder blades. He dropped onto his knees in tears.
Anna whistled to Fluffy and marched out of the garage.
*
She entered the flat, slamming the door behind her, went out onto the terrace and lay down on one of the camp beds with her arms crossed, muttering to herself. Then, puffing out her cheeks, she tore off that awful shirt, pulled down her shorts, extracted the blood-soaked tampon and threw it over the railing. How often did you have to change the stupid things? She put in another, weeping tears of frustration.
She could have killed Pietro. She always noticed every little change in his mood, but he never noticed anything. He’d hardly even looked at her. Hadn’t taken the slightest interest in the octopus.
‘That’s it. I’ve finished with him,’ she said to Fluffy, who slept serenely on.
Going indoors, she made her way to the bedroom and flopped down on the bed, with her arms round the pillow. Listening to the sea and the wind in the leaves of the lemon trees, waiting for sleep that wouldn’t come.
*
She woke up abruptly. Called out to Pietro and Astor, but there was no reply. Fluffy was lying on the bed, with his head on the pillow. She pushed him away, with a grimace. ‘Get away from me, you smelly mutt.’
The windows shook under the gusts of a north-westerly wind. A bank of low, bluish clouds had approached the coast, shrouding the sun.
‘Why don’t they come home?’ she asked the dog, who scratched his neck.
She’d gone too far in the garage, and felt guilty. Her hand went to the starfish. She squeezed it against her palm. With eyes closed, she thought about last night, when they’d slept huddled up together.
A stream of languid warmth rose up through her chest, stifling her.
*
The sun had already set when the boys came home, laden with tins of tomatoes, which they dumped on the sofa, looking very pleased with themselves.
‘Will that be enough for the octopus?’ Pietro held up the bag with the slimy ball inside.
‘Oh yes, that’ll be plenty!’ Anna clapped her hands idiotically; she wanted to make amends. ‘We’ll have to cook it first, though. Let’s make a fire on the terrace.’
Pietro’s irises refracted the light; they looked like those of a wild animal, but he wasn’t angry. Maybe with him she could just carry on as normal, but there was someone else she was going to have to apologise to.
Astor was playing with Fluffy on the terrace. She came up behind him and whispered: ‘Are you cross?’
He turned round. A childlike quality had gone from his blue eyes, and been replaced by an adult seriousness.
She took both his hands in hers, with an embarrassed smile. ‘I’m sorry.’
He threw himself into her arms. Whatever faults she might have passed onto him, they didn’t include resentfulness.
Like a mother dog with her puppy, she hugged the skinny little boy, smothering him with kisses on the neck and forehead, till he started trying to wriggle free.
‘What’s the matter? Don’t you like kisses? Would you rather have bites?’ She jumped on him and bit him on the arm. Astor gave her one of his lopsided smiles. She tickled him, pressing her thumbs into his sides, and he thumped her on the back, roaring with laughter. The sudden wrestling match excited Fluffy, who clung to Anna’s bottom with his paws, wagging his haunches. She gave him a slap, and he ran off behind the lemon tree pots, tail between his legs.
‘Well? Are we going to make this fire or not?’ Pietro’s head blotted out the sky. He was holding a half-full can of petrol. They piled up some chairs and camp beds, sprinkled them with fuel and set them alight. Red and blue tongues rose up higher and higher, crackling and sending out sparks. Carried away with enthusiasm, they dragged the living-room furniture outside and threw it onto the flames. The smoke blackened the attic windows and went into the flat. Before long the fire had burnt down to ashes.
‘Let’s put the mattress on too!’ suggested Astor.
‘No! Not the mattress!’ Anna and Pietro answered in unison.
Anna opened the plastic bag with the octopus inside and a pungent aroma filled her nostrils. She’d thought she could handle bad smells; she was so used to the stench of rotting flesh that she no longer even noticed it. But this she found quite unbearable.
‘Is it really bad?’ asked Pietro.
Anna shrugged her shoulders and flung the bag over the railing. The tentacled monster that had nearly killed her flew through the darkness and landed on the beach not far away from her Tampax.
Anna Page 18
