Constant Tides

by Peter Crawley

“– I was concerned that perhaps you were not well, Signora Alberti, and thought that if that was so, I could ask my medical orderly to provide you with whatever remedy you might be in need of.”

  “Thank you, Tenente,” Mira replies, embarrassed by both his acute manners and his protracted inquiry. “Your concern is appreciated. As you can see, though, I am quite well. The café is closed for the simple reason that we have no sugar, no coffee and no flour.”

  “Ah, good.”

  “Good?” Mira repeats, baffled. “How can it be good to run out of the very ingredients I need to serve my customers?”

  “Because, Signora, that means that from now on you will have to rely on us, more particularly me in person, to supply you with whatever it is you need. In this way, I can repay you for all the kindnesses that you have shown me over these past weeks.”

  Enzo frowns. Francesca smiles.

  Mira, perhaps against her better instincts judging by the way she doesn’t leap at his offer, says, “Thank you, Tenente de la Grascia, whatever you can spare we will naturally be very grateful for.”

  He holds up his hands in surrender. “Please don’t think me too generous. I have an ulterior motive, which is that if my senior officers are not supplied with a regular diet of coffee, granita and brioche, they will only become even less human and will therefore cause me trouble; trouble I can live without. So, I will be grateful for your cooperation and it goes without saying that nobody other than the three of us needs to know from where your good fortune stems.”

  “But will we not be able to get supplies from Villa San Giovanni or Reggio?” Enzo queries.

  “No, from today the only supplies sent across the Strait will come in the form of German tanks.”

  “So, you will be our only source of food?” Enzo asks, perplexed. “How are we going to repay you?”

  “Signor Ruggeri, you have been a ready source for the best fresh food in our mess and without your contribution, our palates would have died of boredom weeks ago. And,” he holds up his hand to stave off Mira’s father’s objection, “I am aware fishing is equally as dangerous an occupation as soldiering, particularly at the moment, so I will be making certain that all our sentries know that you are to be allowed free access to the beach and to the waters, though it may suit us both if you confine your fishing to the waters close inshore.”

  Mira fidgets as she restrains herself from reaching out and hugging the lieutenant.

  Her mother, though, is not so controlled of her emotions. Francesca steps over and, being the same height standing as he is sitting, grasps de la Grascia to her ample bosom.

  Enzo blanches and drags her back.

  Such a flagrant display of gratitude, the lieutenant had not in his wildest imaginings accounted for and he coughs with embarrassment before adding, “I should also advise you that from now on some foods will become scarce.”

  “Thank you, Tenente, you are…” Francesca starts forwards again, causing Enzo to sway in her direction like a chestnut tree in a gale, “…too, too kind. We had anticipated shortages and the Madonna knows we have been living with rationing for far too long. In consequence, Mira and I,” she glows at her daughter, “we have been corning fish, preserving tomatoes and figs and lemons, and drying pasta and storing up our olive oil. We–”

  “Yes, Francesca,” Enzo interrupts, patting her patronisingly on her shoulder as though she is a grandmother too easily confused by her grandchildren, “as I’m sure the Tenente knows only too well, hoarding is against the law and we are simply looking after the daily provisions others have no means to.”

  “Really, father,” Mira chides, “you have no reason to fret, Tenente de la Grascia is neither Carabinieri nor fool. It is as much beyond his regulations to provide us with soap as it is mother to hoard food.”

  Enzo glowers once more, although again more probably at his repeated incompetence.

  Radaldo de la Grascia, keen not to become embroiled in a struggle for family power, gets to his feet, picking his cap up as he does so. “In fact, if I was to be completely truthful, Signor Ruggeri, I believe that within two years most food, particularly rice and potatoes, will increase in price by over 1,000 per cent, and bread and milk by as much as 500 per cent; so, you are wise to act accordingly.”

  Mira, Francesca and Enzo stare at each other, wide–eyed in amazement tinged with fear.

  “Oh, this cannot be,” Enzo says. “Why, if food costs as much as you predict, there will be no one to eat it because there will be no one who can possibly afford to buy it.”

  The Tenente’s face stiffens at the indignity of Mira’s father questioning his knowledge. “Very well, then.”

  “Tell me, Tenente,” Enzo straightens his back, assuming his rightful superiority as master of his house and therefore chief arbiter, “how can you be so certain of these… How is it that you have acquired such mathematical precision in your predictions?”

  “Signor Ruggeri, I–”

  “Ah, of course, Mira told us that before you enlisted in the army you used to be a student at the Università di Bologna. What subject did you study? Prophecy, by any chance?”

  “Father!” Mira shrieks.

  “No, sir. I studied sociology.”

  Enzo scoffs, much as he would have done if the Tenente had answered that he was studying the mysteries of female behaviour. “Well, on Sunday you told us it was unlikely that there would be more air raids for the foreseeable future and yet we suffered one the very next day. Did you not tell us that there would be no more air raids until after the invasion which, if I recall correctly, you said would happen in the next few weeks? Is that not what you said?”

  “Yes, Signor Ruggeri, that is exactly what I told you and I have to admit I was incorrect; a miscalculation for which I apologise.”

  “Incorrect? A miscalculation?” Enzo repeats, a broad self–congratulation unattractively clear in his tone.

  “Yes, sir. But only a minor miscalculation.”

  “How so, Tenente de la Grascia? How minor?”

  “Well, Signor Ruggeri…” Though he addresses her father, he is looking at Mira as he speaks, his expression now far more serious. “You may like to recalculate the extent of my shortcomings when I tell you that during the night British paratroopers landed at Ponte Grande and as we speak the Americans are coming ashore at Gela.”

  Chapter 3

  Francesca stirs. “What is that noise, Enzo? I feel as if I have only just got back to sleep after all that commotion out in the Strait.”

  “Someone is knocking at the door,” he mumbles. “Go back to sleep, I will go and see.”

  “Don’t they know it is the middle of the night?”

  Throwing on his shirt and trousers, Enzo, yawning and rubbing his eyes, makes his way into the front room. However, he hasn’t made it to the door when the knocking is repeated, this time even more urgently than before. “All right, all right, I’m coming.”

  Sliding back the bolt, he lifts up the latch and pulls back the door.

  Two black figures. Or more accurately, perhaps only one and a half, as the second of the two is bent low and only standing because he is supported by the other. Though dawn is still an hour or so distant and the moon obscured by cloud, the figures seem somehow darker even than the night.

  “What do you want?” Enzo snaps, irritably.

  “Your help, sir,” the more upright of the two answers. “I need your help. Please, this man is hurt and I have not the strength to carry him any further.”

  “Hurt? What kind of hurt? You look more like drunks to me.”

  “Please, sir, I will explain.” The man’s tone is gruff, yet his desperation is evident in the rasp of his voice and the manner in which he gasps for air. “Please let us come in for a moment? I beg of you.” He leans in through the door so that it is impossible to close it without forcing him out.

&nbs
p; “Wait a minute,” Enzo grumbles. “I will light a lamp.”

  “No, please. Don’t make light until you have drawn the blinds. I will explain. Black out the windows, please.”

  “First you ask for sanctuary and then you ask for anonymity; you want much for a man who wanders around in the middle of the night.” Enzo stands back to let them pass into the front room. “Who are you? Where are you from?”

  “My name is Sottocapo Falanga.”

  “A leading seaman, eh, what sort of an excuse is that? Oh, never mind, you might as well come in. But no funny business, eh. It is late and what with the bombing on Villa San Giovanni, the cannons behind Sant Agata blasting away and that business with the explosions out in the Strait, none of us have managed any sleep.”

  As the man who has introduced himself as Falanga staggers across the threshold, he loses his grip and his companion slides to the floor.

  Enzo bends and tries to take hold of the second man, but manages only to get him halfway to his feet when his hands also slip from the fellow’s arms. “What is this he is covered in, grease?”

  “No, sir,” Falanga gasps, “it is oil, fuel oil. Please, get him to a chair but take care not to touch his face, his arms or his legs, they are burnt. Quickly, now, I promise I will explain.”

  “Burnt? How? What do you mean burnt?”

  “Papà, what is going on?” Mira asks, from the doorway to her room.

  “Light a candle and draw the blinds, Mira. It would appear this man is hurt. Falanga, help me get him to the chair by the table.”

  Between them, they manhandle the slippery form up off the floor and with some help from another chair wedged under his arm, they manage to get him to slouch at the table.

  “Papà!” Mira exclaims, failing to stifle her horror.

  Black from head to toe, the man appears to have been bathed in a thick, shiny paint, so much so that it is impossible to tell the colour of his skin. His shirt, if at some time he had been wearing a complete shirt, is ragged and soiled like that of a beggar, and his shorts are stuck fast to his legs.

  She holds the candle closer to him. “Oh, look at his face, papà. Poor fellow. The skin at his eyes, it is raw.”

  “Mira, wake your mother and ask her to heat some water and bring cloth, salt and what sugar we have left. Olive oil, too. Tell her she must make a paste: we must remove as much of this oil as we can.” Enzo lights a hurricane lamp and hangs it from the ceiling. “And you, Signor Falanga, take this cloth and clean yourself as best you can. Are you hurt? Do you have wounds that need attending to or can we see to this man first?”

  “No, I am fine compared to this man,” he replies, even if he doesn’t look like a man who is fine, as he too is painted in a similar dark film of oil. “My head rings like a bell, my mouth is dry like a desert and I am exhausted from swimming for so long, but please, see to this man first. If not for him, I doubt that I would be here to talk to you.”

  “Then sit, over there, wipe yourself down and tell me why you have been out swimming in the Strait in the middle of the night.”

  Mira returns with Francesca.

  On seeing the figure slumped at the table, she says, “Oh, the poor man.” However, she does not pause to ask who he is or where he has come from, she merely begins to pour a bowl of water, gather some strips of cloth, jars of dried salt and sugar and one of the bars of soap the Tenente has given them. She places the bowl on the table and stands stupefied, as she contemplates where she should start cleaning a man who is so completely coated in oil.

  “Take his shirt off,” her father barks, in an effort to distract her from her stupor. “Clean what you can.” He sighs. “And be careful not to get the salt near his face. What we do with his burns, I’ve no idea. Perhaps we should take him to the military hospital in Messina.”

  “No,” Falanga states, with more than a hint of fear in his tone, “I don’t think that would be best. Signor…”

  “Ruggeri. Enzo.”

  “Is there not a doctor nearby who can attend to him?”

  “Yes, possibly.” The fisherman is intrigued. “Though he would certainly benefit from the care they can provide. They will have the necessary detergents and disinfectants, and as for his face… So, I ask again, please tell me what you are doing here and why you don’t think it would be best to get your companion to hospital.”

  “Here? What am I doing here? Why, I am surviving, nothing more. On the one hand I have the misfortune to be one of the crew from the submarine that has just been destroyed. And on the other, I believe I have the good fortune to be the only survivor. You must have heard the noise.”

  Enzo nods. “We heard it and saw it: the artillery barrage, the great explosions, the flames. If the air raid on Villa San Giovanni was not enough to keep us from our sleep, your pyrotechnics removed all hope.” He studies his guest for a moment. “And this poor wretch? You bring him here, instead of raising the alarm. You seem to me to be reluctant to get him to a hospital. Why is that?”

  Falanga pauses in his ablutions and fixes his host with a look that suggests he is unsure of the reception his reply is about to provoke. “Because, Signor Ruggeri, this man is English and I fear the Germans will not treat him well.”

  “English?”

  “Yes, English. He is from the boat that destroyed us.”

  Mira stops and stares at him, her expression quizzical, as though she believes Sottocapo Falanga has swallowed too much seawater than is good for his senses.

  “From the boat that destroyed you,” Enzo notes, his eyebrows raised, his lips bridled with curiosity. “You mean to tell me this man destroyed your submarine and killed your compatriots, and yet you have saved him from the very same death he wished upon you?”

  “Yes, Signor Ruggeri, you are correct. Strange isn’t it? In sinking our submarine, he tried to kill me; of that there is no doubt. And yet, by throwing me the lifebelt from his boat, he saved my life and in doing so provided me with the chance of saving his. Of course, he could not have known his boat, too, would be destroyed and that he was going to end up in the water with me; that was simply the result of good gunnery and bad timing. As I said, it is a strange war, eh? I do not expect you to understand. Pah! How could you?” He scoffs, though not so disrespectfully that his host might take offence and confuse his irony as anything other than his contempt for war. “I for one certainly do not understand this war and I can only hope you are not the fascists so many of my crew professed to be.” He waits and watches, and adds, “Please, sir, I beg of you, please tell me you’re not like those others.”

  “No, sottocapo, you should not concern yourself. I…” He glances at Mira and Francesca, “We are not like those others. We are neither fascist nor communist; we are fisherman and therefore our politics are governed by elements beyond our control, much like your orders are given to you by your officers.” Enzo attempts something that approaches, but falls short of, a reassuring smile.

  “Really, father!” Mira grumbles, returning to her task. “This poor man is not interested to know your politics; he merely wants to know if he can trust you not to hand the man who saved his life over to the Germans.”

  Enzo glowers at his daughter and snaps, “Yes, I am perfectly aware of what he wants to know. What I want to know is whether or not I can trust him.” His tone softens to something more conciliatory. “The sottocapo would seem to me to be a very fortunate man. For one thing, he is the sole survivor from his submarine; one, just one, of probably more than fifty men who have perished. For another, he was saved from almost certain drowning by the compassion of a man who had not moments before been trying to kill him. And finally, and perhaps more miraculously, he has been lucky enough to catch the tide at such a time that it has swept him in towards the shore, when in another ten or so minutes it would have swept him out to his death. All that, and he has brought with him a man who he would like us to belie
ve is our enemy.” He sits back in his chair and briefly crosses his thick forearms. “If I was a suspicious man, I would wonder if perhaps Sottocapo Falanga you were trying to trap us; to find out if we sympathised with the Americans and the British.”

  A silence of profound contemplation hangs in the air, broken only by the dripping of water into the bowl, as the two men gaze at each other; one perplexed that his integrity should be doubted, the other unprepared to relent in his suspicions.

  The third man stirs, lifts his head and mutters a groan of pain.

  “Fools,” Mira says. “Both of you fools. Can you not see when a man is dying before your very eyes?”

  Once more, Enzo glowers at his daughter.

  “Signor Ruggeri,” the sottocapo begins, “do you seriously believe I would injure this man so gravely simply to question your loyalty to a war which none of us wanted and which is already beyond lost?”

  The third man groans again, this time in an attempt to make himself heard.

  “He is trying to speak and whatever he is trying to say sounds distinctly Italian,” Francesca says.

  “Ha!” Enzo points, accusingly, at Sottocapo Falanga, “There you are. You don’t know who he is. He is not even English.”

  “I am English,” the man murmurs softly in Italian. In itself, his use of Italian is unsurprising; however, what is astonishing is that he speaks it in near perfect local dialect. “I am as English as you are Sicilian,” he says, “and I speak your language the way you speak it.” He raises his hands and begins so very tentatively to feel the skin around his face, wincing every time he touches a raw part of flesh. “My name is Nicholas Lock. I am an officer in the British Navy. Now, please, will you stop arguing and will one of you kindly tell me where in God’s name I am?”

  Chapter 4

  While Enzo and Falanga stare in wonderment, Mira is the first to react. She kneels down beside the table and placing her hand underneath the man’s chin, she tenderly lifts his face.

  “You are in Ganzirri,” she replies, examining his blackened eyes, “it is a small fishing village just to the north of Messina. My name is Mira and my father’s name is Enzo.”