Constant Tides

by Peter Crawley

  The next summer Lilla appears again, though this summer her form has changed. No longer is she a young girl: the past winter seems to have prepared her for spring, for Lilla resembles the orange blossom and the young leaves and the fruit of the trees; still immature, yes, but she has filled out and developed pleasing curves which, unhappily, attract the attention of his colleagues, one or two of whom mutter crude suggestions about their desires for her. Enzo chastises them for their low humour and, because of his overreaction, he is made to suffer all the more.

  One day, and perhaps because she seems so pleased whenever he pauses to return her attention, Enzo asks her where she lives.

  “The Borgo del Ringo,” she says. “My father is Lunapiena the fisherman.”

  Enzo knows him, or if not knows him personally, then certainly he recognises the name. Her father is well–known among the people of Messina, a king among fishermen. He is not a man who people fear, not like Enzo’s own father. Rather, Nino Lunapiena is noted as a man who looks after his brethren; for if a fisherman is lost to the waters of the Strait or maimed in his work, his family are provided for; Lunapiena sees to it, personally. That is his reputation; a man upon whom others can depend.

  After work and instead of going straight home for dinner, Enzo takes to walking with Lilla. In the same manner that she has blossomed in the spring, so their relationship blossoms through the summer; and soon, they become inseparable. Inseparable, that is, until his father gets to hear about his son’s liaison with the daughter of that fisherman.

  One evening, late September, when the swordfish have run their last through the Strait, they sit beneath the old fig tree in the Villa Mazzini and bathe in the hope of each other’s love. Enzo is captivated by her and Lilla is enchanted by him: they kiss and linger, seeing in their minds an endless horizon of possibility.

  Afterwards, as he walks home, Enzo knows both their futures lie together. That kiss! Such a kiss! Not the kind stolen or dared by adolescents enthusiastic to learn what the fuss of adulthood is about. No, that kiss, stolen in the dying light of evening, seals their fate for all time.

  When he gets home, though, his father is waiting. A friend, or perhaps someone who had been tasked with keeping an eye on them, has reported their naïvety, their all too public display of affection.

  A reprimand. Verbal, firm, though not physical.

  Yet the more Enzo grows aware of his father’s displeasure; the more he grows attracted to Lilla. Like a hawk moth drawn by the light of a gas lantern, Enzo cannot keep himself from her.

  The second time, they are witnessed in the Piazza San Paolo. Too late, Enzo spots Piero Ullo’s dead eyes turned their way and when he gets home, his father beats him, just like he did today, and locks him in the cellar, just like he did today.

  Enzo hopes Lilla is somewhere down near the open spaces of the marina; somewhere where she was able to escape the collapse of the city.

  Collapse! Of course. That is what has happened to their house. He is in the cellar and the rest of the house has been shaken so ferociously it has collapsed on top of him. Collapsed, not only on top of him but in all probability on top of mama, Angelica, Lucrezia and Vittorio, too. And if they did not have any warning of what was about to happen, then they wouldn’t have had the time to escape the falling of the floors, which means…

  “Stop it, you fool,” he scolds himself. “They will have had the time to get out and because that bastard locked you in the cellar, it is only you who didn’t have time. And now, now look at you!”

  He rubs his eyes to clear away the dirt and dust and, when he opens them, he can see no more than when his eyes were sealed shut.

  Enzo waits, hoping his senses will adjust to the darkness of his prison. He wriggles and screams in agony: something in his hips pains him. Perhaps a bone is broken. Perhaps a nail has been driven into his leg.

  He feels down around his waist and his hands come into contact with a heavy beam of wood that lies across his thighs. He tries to slip his hands beneath the beam: he can. He tries to lift it: he can’t. Perhaps if he flexes his fingers against his hip, he can tip it forwards and release the pressure on his legs? Searing pain rifles up through his stomach into his chest and he screams.

  The measure of his distress and the understanding of his predicament scare him in a manner he has never been scared before, for it is now clear that he cannot move until someone comes to free him.

  “Papà,” he shouts, “please come and get me out of the cellar.” Papà: Enzo has called for his father and he realises that if he thought he may have been scared before, now that he has stooped to beg for his father’s assistance, he must be truly petrified.

  Enzo leans his head back and scans what he believes should be the ceiling of the cellar.

  He can see vague shapes and if so, how is it that the light is finding its way down to him? The luminescence is yellow, like that of a gas lantern, and yet it is not steady, not constant; it flickers like a candle, so it must be…

  “Mother of God! Fire, and I cannot move.”

  Chapter 10

  Down by what until recently had been the market on the marina, a crowd is gathered outside a makeshift medical station.

  Resting on Read’s shoulder, Lilla stares wide–eyed at the bodies lying untended along the Palazzato.

  “Are they all dead?” she asks.

  “Yes,” he replies. “They all ran down here hoping to be rescued.”

  At his mention of people running, Lilla remembers fighting her way through the panicked throng of citizens rushing in the direction of the marina. “So, why weren’t they? What happened to them?”

  “The water, it came and went; one minute it was there and the next it disappeared, like when you pull the plug out of a bath. Nearly did for our ship; nearly turned us right over–”

  “Which one is yours? Which ship?”

  “That one.” Smith points away down the quay towards what is left of the Hotel Trinacria.

  “The long one, with the tall funnel?”

  “Yes, that’s the Afonwen. Thought we’d lost her. Jumped right up in the air, all three thousand tons, and then dropped back down against the wharf; nearly capsized us.”

  “Yes, I saw you,” Lilla says, as if relating a dream. “I was on the quay. I thought you were all going to die.”

  “I don’t mind telling you, so did I.”

  “Can you put me down now?”

  “Are you sure you can stand?”

  “Yes, thank you. I feel much better.

  Read slips her to the ground, not letting go until he is sure her legs will take her weight. “Best get into the aid station. Nasty cut on your leg. Wouldn’t want it going septic now, would we. Might be a bit of a wait though; they’re awful busy in there.”

  Lilla stares up and down the quay. “So why? Why are all these people dead?”

  “Well, it’s like I said, all these people came down here hoping to escape the falling buildings, hoping to be taken off by boat. Only, the water level kept dropping, then all of a sudden it came back in one great big wave. Like a wall of water, it was; swept right in over the wall,” he points across the way to the outer harbour. “Carried right on until it hit the marina. All these people standing here, well… there wasn’t anywhere safe for them to go.”

  “So many of them have no clothes on,” Lilla mumbles, and again she remembers the hysterical people rushing past her. “I guess they didn’t have time to put anything on.”

  “Yes, miss. It all happened so quickly. We got crashed into by that Italian ship, there, and that Norwegian one over there.”

  A man wearing a white captain’s hat, four gold rings at his cuffs, walks their way.

  “Mr Read?”

  “Yes, Captain Owen.”

  “Where is Smith?”

  “Just over there, sir. He’s helping that fellow with the broken
arm.”

  “Well, best you let that young lady get to the medical station, we’ve got work to do. We’ll need the ship’s ladder and some rope: there’s a couple of children trapped on a balcony in the main street and we need to get them down before another aftershock does the job for us.”

  “Yes, Captain. Be right with you, sir.” Read bends down and wipes some of the grime off Lilla’s face. “Go on now, you go and get those legs of yours seen to. Off you go, you’re safe, you’ll be alright.”

  Lilla pushes her way through the crowd milling around the medical station.

  Inside, people are petitioning the few doctors to treat their loved ones, each case more urgently in need of attention than the one he is dealing with. A man sits dazed, his scalp torn from his head; another, his leg broken open at his knee, hangs on tight lest it fall off; and a woman stands, expressionless, both her shoulders dislocated, her arms hanging limp.

  In the cot next to where Lilla stands, a girl of a similar age is sitting upright, waiting patiently for someone to come and remove a jagged splinter from her neck. Unable to move her head, she turns her eyes slowly to look at Lilla. “How can this be happening?” her look asks. “What have we done to deserve this?”

  As Lilla watches, her wound begins to bleed profusely.

  “Here. Quickly, here,” Lilla shouts. “You must come or she will die.”

  A doctor rushes to the girl’s side and tries to stem the flow of blood by pressing his hands around the wound. He grimaces, shakes his head and bends to whisper in the girl’s ear.

  She is still looking at Lilla, her expression confused. She had been in bed, dreaming of blue skies and blue waters, of friends and family, and a world she is yet to know. She frowns. So, how does she come to be here and why does this complete stranger hold her just like her father? How? And why? Surely, someone must be able to explain.

  She is still looking at Lilla as the light fades from her eyes, and the doctor cries as he cradles her head against his chest.

  A woman comes and wakes the doctor from the dream he was sharing with the girl. He wipes away his tears and gently, oh so gently, he picks the girl up in his arms and bears her away towards the back of the tent.

  As the woman wipes the cot down with a piece of rag, she notices Lilla. “And what is the matter with you, young lady?”

  “My legs,” she says, standing back as far as she can without bumping into the man behind her. “It’s nothing, really. Just a cut.” There is no doubt in her mind that there are others in much greater need of treatment, so Lilla turns to leave.

  “Just you hold on there a minute.” The woman has a broad face and intelligent eyes, and her skin is pale, like the colour of milk. “Come, sit up here.” She pats the top of the cot as though she expects Lilla to leap up onto it. When Lilla doesn’t move, the woman reaches over and pulls her roughly by her arm. “Come on now. We haven’t got all day and there’s plenty more behind you.”

  “I’m all right, really.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you are. Best have a look, though. Can’t have you getting an infection or worse, tetanus.” She swabs Lilla’s legs with some clear liquid that smells both sickly sweet and vinegary.

  Lilla winces. “That stings.”

  “Yes, I’m sure it does. It’s only a solution of carbolic, though. Won’t hurt for long and it will clean the cut.” The woman pauses, examining the wound. “Well, we probably ought to suture this, but the doctors have a lot of more serious injuries to deal with and it’s stopped bleeding, so I’ll put a bandage on it for now.”

  “Are you a nurse?”

  The woman hesitates. “In a manner of speaking.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means, young lady, that I used to be. I’ve been living here for three years. I’m from England. Do you know where that is?”

  Lilla shakes her head and feels woozy.

  “It’s a long way away.”

  “Why are you living here, then?”

  “I’ve been looking after an English lady.”

  “Why have you stopped looking after her?”

  “Oh, she passed away. It was her time. She lived on a little island near Taormina. Liked to swim every day; thought it was good for her. I told her she would end up with pneumonia. Didn’t listen to me, did she? “

  Lilla thinks for a few seconds. “Did she live on Isola Bella?”

  The woman’s curiosity is piqued. “Yes, she did.”

  “Do you know Mr Gordon?”

  “Nathaniel Gordon. Yes. How do you know him?”

  “I met him this morning, early, before the earthquake. He was down, here, in the marina. You must be Mrs Robertson, Mr Gordon told me he was expecting to see you. Why are you here?”

  “Well, we felt the earthquake, as I would imagine everyone within a thousand miles did. Just as well I was on my way here, eh? Wouldn’t have had the pleasure of meeting you, would I. Besides, as I said, I used to be a nurse and I speak the language, so I thought I might be of some help.”

  “What about Mr Gordon? Do you know if he’s all right?”

  “No, not yet. The railway is not running. I came in a buggy and walked after the road became blocked with landslips. Not an easy journey: had to climb a fair bit.”

  “You speak very good Italian, Mrs Robertson.”

  She fixes Lilla with a questioning stare as she ties the bandage off in a tidy knot. “And you, young lady, speak Sicilian like the fishermen. What’s your name?”

  “Lilla. Lilla Lunapiena.”

  “And where are your…” A cloud darkens her thought. “I mean, where are you from Lilla?”

  “I live in the Borgo del Ringo.”

  The woman’s countenance very suddenly eases; no longer is she stiff and bossy. “Oh, I see. Well, I’m sure they’ll be all right, even if they must be worried sick as to where you’ve got to. Now, I want you to keep off those legs for a while; give them a chance to recover. Why don’t you stay here for a bit and later you can show me where you live?”

  “But my parents, they’ll need to know if I’m all right.”

  “Yes, yes.” Her air of authority returns. “Like I said, Lilla, you stay here for a bit and I’ll take you home later. Now, be a good girl and go and sit over there. Try not to get in anyone’s way.”

  “But Enzo, I must… He must be trapped.” A vision of the hill of rubble that had been his family home in the Via dei Templari, Lucrezia sleeping a sleep from which she will never wake up, the fires, the smell of the sewers…

  “And who, may I ask, is Enzo?”

  “He’s my… my… Oh, his house is completely destroyed. I saw his sister; she’s dead. His father was running to the marina; he’s probably dead, too. My parents…” Lilla speaks quickly, her anxiety creeping up on her like the cool north wind her father calls Tramontana. “Enzo, we were going to be together. I don’t know if he’s–” She falters, her chin wobbling, tears welling in her eyes.

  Mrs Robertson reaches out to hug her. “There, there, young Lilla. It’s been a terrible shock to everyone. It’s not just the city that’s suffered from the earthquake; it’s all of us, too. We must keep our faith. We must believe we will get through this.” She lays Lilla down on the cot and covers her with a blanket. “I’ll look after you. Don’t you worry. Just you have a little sleep.”

  And, in spite of all the crying, moaning, and wailing, and perhaps because the realities of her predicament are too terrible to contemplate, Lilla falls asleep.

  Chapter 11

  The noxious smell of flesh burning, a dreadful pain below his chest, a horrifying apocalypse in which the earth yawns and people tumble headlong into its gaping maw.

  Enzo shivers and startles awake.

  “Oh, I had forgotten,” he mumbles. “I was hoping this was all a bad dream.” His eyes grow accustomed to the poor light in the no
w deconstructed cellar and the weight and shape of the beam pinning his legs confirms his worst fears: he will not be able to free himself without the help of others.

  Out in the street, beyond the confines of his prison, fires still burn, the yellow light of flames flickering through the gaps between the snapped joists and cracked masonry that had not so many hours ago made up the floors of his home.

  “Hello?” he shouts. “Can anyone hear me? Is there anyone there?” And again, the pressure exerted in his chest by his shouting produces an ache that multiplies and metamorphoses into agony: it is as though a demon is plucking his ribs from their purchase and wrenching them one by one out from his body.

  When the spasm passes, Enzo smiles, wistfully.

  “Mama,” he whispers, in the hope that by speaking beneath his breath he will not induce a pain similar to the one he has just triggered, “weren’t you always telling me that the moment we recognise what we want out of life, is the moment we lose it. That is our irony, isn’t it?

  “Here I am, mama, a prisoner to my thoughts and all I would like is not to be able to think because all my thoughts remind me of what I cannot have. Lilla, oh Lilla, my fresh–faced love, my girl with the breath of a summer breeze and lips of warm sugar; my simple yet complex, serious yet funny…”

  The floor of the cellar trembles and palls of thick dust descend from the jumble of oversize matchsticks criss–crossed above his head. Fragments of brick and tile plummet from only God knows how high up; they sting and prick and graze and scratch, as though thrown by a crowd at a stoning.

  Enzo cushions his face with his hands and prays, silently. He cannot slip his lines, not like the boats in the outer harbour which will cast off and escape across the Strait to Reggio Calabria. He cannot flee, not like his friends who will be far beyond the city boundary by now. He cannot break out of his dungeon.

  “Please, Mother of all that is good, please make this stop.”

  But the trembling does not stop and Enzo fears the worst.