“Your cynicism does not become you, Enzo.”
“And please, father, I am eighteen years old and therefore old enough to know my own mind. This is how it is now. This is how it will be. Enzo and Lilla. We are going to America, a land of freedom and possibility; a land where every man will have the opportunity to make his own name; not a land where the success of the son depends on the position of the father.”
Carmelo Ruggeri’s complexion grows ever darker. He leans forward and, pointing menacingly at his son, shouts, “No, Enzo, you are not going anywhere. And most definitely not with that fisherman’s daughter. That is the end of our discussion, I will hear no more talk of it.”
“No, father, this is only the beginning of our discussion; that is if you can call trying to force your will on me a discussion. And please, I must ask you again to stop calling her that fisherman’s daughter. How would you like it if you knew people at the harbour referred to mama as that Don’s wife? Imagine the disrespect you would feel.”
“Better the wife of a Don than a woman who guts fish.”
Enzo considers his reply and, recalling the scuttlebutt he has heard about the harbour, he decides to take a chance. “At least Nino Lunapiena only kills fish so that others may eat.”
Carmelo bristles with anger. “So, this is what they whisper behind my back, eh? Well, let them whisper it. Knock a few heads together to make them see sense, yes. But murder, no. Though perhaps it is better that they believe the rumour than know the truth: it serves a purpose. My purpose.”
For a moment, peace breaks out; but only for a moment.
“My father, I have never believed the rumours. And, you should know, I have more than once split my knuckles against the skulls of those who have spread them.” He pauses hoping his fealty will be appreciated. “What I need you to realise is that now, I am like you were then and now I have to stand up for what I believe is in my best interests, in spite of knowing this will cause you hurt. I hope you can understand that.”
Carmelo rubs his face as if he has just woken from a deep sleep. He examines the table cloth for a moment, picking at a loose thread and then brushing it away. “Oh, yes, my son, I can understand that all too well.”
“Then surely, please,” Enzo offers, softly, “if you cannot give us your blessing, at least just let us go in peace.”
“No. I have told you: you are not going.”
“I am. We are.”
“No, Enzo, you are not. Until we know different, this is my family and you are my son. You will show me the respect I am entitled to.”
“Oh, I see.” Now it is Enzo’s turn to bridle and he does so as though some heavenly light has suddenly shone down, illuminating the true knot of their difficulty. “This is not about Lilla and me. It’s not about us leaving to be together. This is about what other people will think of you. You are worried that they will say, “There goes Don Carmelo. He used to have what it takes, but now he can’t even control his son.” Does that really matter to you?” Enzo is careful not to sneer, for he knows well that distaste, like the poor flavour of a dish, might be tolerated, whereas disrespect will only serve to ruin an entire meal.
His father grimaces and shakes his head in annoyance. “Your brother has more common sense.”
However, Enzo’s disrespect knows no such limitations when it comes to Vittorio. “That backscratcher? He would happily stab me in the back if he thought it would gain him favour with you.”
“Vittorio uses his brain: you use your brawn. For the future, it will be those who employ their thoughts wisely who succeed. Brawn will not be enough.”
Enzo stands. “Then you are welcome to him, father.”
“Sit down, I haven’t finished.”
“No. We are finished.”
“Sit down, Enzo.”
“No, father. We can talk all night but, like the whirlpool, we are only going to go around in circles and that will only deepen our disagreement. With respect, we have talked enough.”
“Respect?” Carmelo shouts. “You talk about respect? Sit down.”
As Enzo turns away towards the door, he feels rather than sees his father move towards him.
The son hesitates; he does not want to fight with his father; it is not right.
Carmelo, though, suffers no such reservation. He is right. A father is always right. He must be.
With a brute force Enzo would never have believed him capable of, Carmelo slams his son head–first into the closed door.
Chapter 5
Lilla shivers.
The harbour is now awake. Heads down, their hands deep in pockets, men scuttle by, and across the Strait the silver light of dawn creeps stealthily over the peaks of Aspromonte. Before her lies the steam ship she had thought to be her salvation; a great grey ship, her lanterns lit; the smoke of her coal furnace thickening the air; the chatter of her crew as they stamp their feet against the cold steel of the deck. Lilla’s future was right there before her eyes, right there within her reach.
She shivers again, more violently this time. In fact, she shivers so violently she falls to the ground and bangs her elbow.
“You stupid girl!” she mutters, picking herself up. “Get a hold of yourself before your nerves get the better of you. What would Enzo think if he saw you in such a state?”
Lilla looks round, self–consciously, and is surprised to notice that several other people are picking themselves up, too.
The city seems to be talking: it is whispering and groaning about her.
Something is wrong. Something is very wrong. The sound is not that of living beings, it is the lament of those already in hell; souls screaming out for forgiveness, imploring the bowels of the earth to set them free from their torture.
The whispering and groaning escalate to a hiss and a roar and soon rises to a deafening crescendo, and Lilla realises that it is not people she can hear; rather it is the earth in some form of pandemonium beneath her feet, turning, turning over and turning around, rising up and falling back like a giant struggling in his torment.
Suddenly, oh so suddenly, her stomach falls through her torso and she finds herself looking down at the rail tracks on which she had not a moment ago been standing. The curve where they join is beautiful and smooth, like the graceful curve of the arch above the huge doors to the Duomo. But that is strange. How can she be seeing this? Why is she looking down from such a height and how did she get to this place from which she is looking down?
And as suddenly as she is up in the air, Lilla is falling, falling fast towards a ground that is now rushing up to meet her. She lands heavily, her bones jolting, her head banging, her vision blurred. But before she can gather what little sense she has to call upon, the earth trembles once more and she is flung backwards, like a doll, in the direction of the hotel. Lilla is bounced along the road, first left then right, then up and again down. The world, her world, the one in which until a moment ago she was living, has gone completely mad, and she is not altogether certain that she is still alive.
She leans against a wall that trembles like a petrified dog. She tries to get to her feet and yet every time she tries, Lilla is thrown back down. The wall? How is she beside a wall? Not ten seconds ago she was standing in the middle of the Palazatto, twenty paces, maybe more from the doors of the hotel, and now she is beside it as though the ground is a skin stretched tight and vibrating, and she has been bounced, tumbling like a bean, along its surface.
A splitting, cracking, wrenching sound cleaves between her ears and the pressure in her skull threatens to burst it wide open. She is the plaything of a vicious child whose only entertainment is to launch her from one block of stone to the next. She screams. She screams hysterically, her eyes wide, seeing and at the same time disbelieving.
A man reels, loses his footing and is pitched over into the water. The steam ship of her dreams is picked up and hangs in mid
–air. She can see its hull, all of it, its vast propeller and its long rudder. The mooring lines snap, the stone bollards fracture, break off, and are whipped away into the night.
A man is trying to run. His legs reach out as the land appears to move towards him. He makes no progress. He stumbles. He falls. He jerks upright and is catapulted down into the water. The ship is released from its extraordinary suspension and crashes down on top of him, rolling as if to iron him flat. Then, abruptly, it comes to rest, leaning against the harbour wall, the crew hanging for dear life from rails and davits.
The world has gone crazy. Crazy, like a man who shakes his head in the hope his demons will lose their purchase and fall out from his ears. The mountains, they are coming to claim their right: they are squeezing the narrow strip of land up against the Strait; they are hellbent on pushing the city into the sea; they desire only to destroy Messina and bury the souls who have sought to carve their names upon its stones.
Lilla holds on, and she holds on as tightly as she can ever remember holding on to anything. And yet, the wall does not want her; it will not permit her to hold on, it rejects her and shakes her off like a persistent flea. A crack opens up beside her, a crack large enough to swallow her whole, and she stares down into the black bowels of the once beautiful city. A burst of searing flame leaps up from the fissure, swiftly followed by a jet of foul liquid, which sprays her and slams her back against the wall to which she had been so desperately clinging.
The purgatory is unceasing; it will never end. This is the hell she had heard others tell her she would find if she left with Enzo.
“Hope,” she yells. “We had so much. Where is it now?”
Lilla hangs on for her life. For his. For theirs. For the life of the city.
“Holy Mother of God, is it a sin, to hope? Is that it? Is it so wrong to wish for better? Is this why we are being punished? For hoping?”
Chapter 6
The blood congeals at his nose and blocks his breathing.
His father had followed up his assault with a forceful cuff to the back of his head, knocking him off–balance. And whilst Enzo had tried to recover what was left of his composure, his father had dragged him unceremoniously down the stairs, opened the trapdoor to the cellar and launched him down the wooden steps into the darkness.
“You will stay there until you come to your senses,” Carmelo Ruggeri had shouted after him, as he’d slammed the trap shut and slipped the bolt.
The fall, or rather his ungainly cartwheel into the cellar had hurt: his elbows are skinned, his knees the same and the bruises on his back will take a long time to heal. They will heal; that he is sure of. What may never heal, though, is the bruising to his ego. In his futile attempt to persuade Enzo from his course, his father had invoked the promises of a bright future. Well, that future, any future, would now be tainted with the poison of contempt.
Contempt? Contempt or perhaps hatred? For though this is not the first time he has been beaten and locked in the cellar – surely, there is nothing uncommon in a father’s ire: doesn’t every son bear that cross? – this is the first time the energies of his father’s practice have affected someone else and that is not only completely unfair, it is also totally unacceptable. After all, what misdemeanour has Lilla committed other than to fall in love with him?
If his father is guilty of a crime, though, it is that Lilla should find herself deserted in the marina at such an hour – something only he can be held responsible for – and as a result, Lilla is to be faced with one of only two equally unappealing choices: either going home with her tail between her legs or waiting around to see if Enzo can free himself from his dungeon.
For the first time in many years, sitting in the dark on the stone–hard floor of the cellar, Enzo hangs his head in his hands and begins to cry. There is no hope. There is no justice. There is no Lilla.
There is, also, no point in feeling sorry for oneself. He wipes his nose on his sleeve, forgetting for a second how much his nose already hurts.
“Madonna della Lettera,” he moans, “can you see me here in this prison? Can you not free me from the cords tying me to my father? I do not wish him dead, but perhaps you could grant him a measure of humility.”
And as he waits for a reply Enzo believes will never come, the cellar trembles. A jar falls from a shelf and smashes against the floor, startling him.
The trembling passes.
“So,” he mutters, sarcastically, “you have heard me, that is a start. Now show me what you are going to do for me, for us.” The hairs on the back of his neck stand up and his ears warm, a sure sign that he is disconcerted.
“I know that shaking,” he mumbles. “I have felt it before. But where? When?” He rubs at the back of his neck to settle the hairs as he dredges his memory.
“Yes, of course, you fool. Was it a year ago? Or was it longer? No, it was last year, in October. We went to Reggio to stay with zio Giovanni and zia Margherita. There was an–”
Don Carmelo’s elder son never finishes his sentence, for his thoughts are suddenly drowned by a rumbling, roaring thunder and he is without warning tossed upwards against the joists of the cellar ceiling. And as soon as he is up, he is flung back down, then against the wall, then back down on the floor. He is winded and he gasps, trying to draw some air, any air, into his lungs, as he reaches out for something to hold on to so that he might learn which way is up. But before he can get his bearings, Enzo is flung up and down once more, and once more from side to side, this time so violently that he believes he has been mistaken for a cork in a furious sea. He is beaten and thumped, and he buckles against the walls of his imprisonment. He rolls and lurches and tumbles and sprawls. He grabs at the wood of the steps as they fly past and he has almost gained a hold, when he is jerked back and away and up and down again. The turmoil seems endless and he screams in fear, his words lost to the tumult of destruction.
How long the barrage lasts he does not know, as the crashing increases in volume, louder and louder until his eardrums burst and his head explodes in a crescendo of agony. The house. The house is falling down on top of him. A beam smacks him across the side of his body, grazing his back, another sweeps him aside, jolting his spine, and a third cracks against his head, conjuring brilliant bursts of incandescent light in his eyes until, like fireworks, they die away to vanish, taking with them his sight.
Chapter 7
Though she cannot hear herself, Lilla is still screaming. She has her eyes hard shut, her hands stuck fast to her ears, and the panic of her heart thumps through her head.
“Oh mama. Oh Enzo, my love, make it stop.” And as if he can hear her, the vibrations, the pulsations, the revolving and quivering, the trembling and the wrestling of the monster below begin to slow, and the beast of her terror falls silent and still.
Silence. Silence pure and peaceful, cool and clean, comes to her rescue and she clambers up against the wall, trying to stand up. The ground is no longer moving. The world, her world, has stopped turning.
“Thank you, mama. Thank you, Enzo. When I asked, you delivered.”
Yet now there is dust, dust and a revolting, overpowering smell. And the brilliant quiet is torn by the crashing of masonry, the snapping of wood, the sharp scraping, sliding, clashing of tiles and the clanging, jangling resonance of bells falling from their campaniles. People are screaming and screaming and screaming, and hell is once more returned to the city. But at least the ground is no longer shifting. At least, Lilla can now find her feet.
“And what? What is happening now? Is the world falling around our feet? What am I to do now?” she moans.
Lilla feels blood trickling on her face and reaches up to feel the wound from which it flows. The blood is black, not red and her fingers, now mixed with the dust, are coated in a sticky emulsion.
A body, that of a man, lies naked at her feet. There had been no one near her when the tremors began and
it takes her a moment to understand why he should be without his clothes when she still wears hers. Then it dawns on her: he has been thrown out of the hotel window above her, his head smashed open against the paving that has greeted his fall.
Lilla has never seen a man naked, not her father and not even Enzo.
Enzo! Enzo, of course. Why is she thinking of herself and not him? The thugs, they have taken him home: perhaps he is safe.
She stumbles and staggers across the debris towards the corner of the block: the dust is now choking and blinding, and she runs her hand against the wall to find her way. When she makes the corner and turns to peer up the street, she is confronted by a vision worse than the hell she has just survived. An eerie yellow flame shoots skywards through a miasma of dust and the street is no longer an elegant thoroughfare to the majesty of the Garibaldi; it is a mountain of rubble.
A man staggers, ghostlike, wrapped in nothing more than his bed–quilt, seemingly oblivious to the blood which streams down his legs: his hair hangs down in muddy braids, his eyes are wide and staring, and yet he is unseeing. “The Day of Wrath,” he shrieks. “All is lost,” and he falls backwards, disappearing into the gaping maw of a fissure. A jet of water like an urgent fountain spurts from the fissure, extinguishing the yellow flame.
Lilla inches past, clawing her way to the Piazza through the clouds of dust which ebb and flow like tides.
She glances up and catches a glimpse of the Chiesa dei Catalani. By some miracle the rounded walls of the main apse still stand and even the dome of the cupola is intact.
The same cannot be said of the properties in the Corso Garibaldi; their roofs have collapsed inward and their outsides have slid down into the street leaving their insides exposed, their beams sticking up and out like the broken bones of a half–eaten fish. On one floor she can see people, clinging to curtains and furniture, crying out for help, imploring anyone alive to help them down. In their distress, husbands and wives stand, gazing up pathetically, shocked and stunned by both their survival and their inability to save others. As they too watch, people, some naked and some in nightshirts, slip and fall, screaming in their terror as they plunge into the shattered, splintered remains of their homes.
Constant Tides Page 3
