Constant Tides

by Peter Crawley

  The unexpected and very personal use of his Christian name touches the lieutenant so deeply that his eyes water and his voice cracks. “Of course, Signor Ruggeri.” He shakes the fisherman’s hand, “Thank you. If only things had been other than they were.” Then he wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand and looks skyward in an effort to distract from his embarrassment. “Now, a word with Mira in private, if you will permit me?”

  “Yes,” Enzo replies, ushering them to leave.

  They walk down the steps and stroll across the road to the small piazza overlooking the lagoon. The sky is clear, the atmosphere calm and balmy, and the flanks of Aspromonte away to the east obscured by the last of the day’s haze.

  Changing her mind about not wanting to send him confusing signals, Mira takes his arm. “Aldo, I am so sorry–”

  “No,” he says, his tone mellow, “love knows no apology, Mira. I will always hold you in great affection, please know that. And if all we can be is friends, then let us be close friends, at least that way I will have the honour of a place in your heart.”

  “Thank you, Aldo.” Now, it is time for her eyes to water as his grace and his charm, and his ready acceptance of her decision to reject him, suddenly dismantles her defences. “I have never met anyone like you, Aldo. You would have been far too good for me; I could never have made you truly happy.”

  Gently, he swings her round to face him. “Yes, I know,” he says, though his eyes betray his lie. “Now, before I go, I have some information that you must consider and this is far more important than my warning of air raids. Comune Simone–”

  “That degenerate,” Mira moans.

  “Yes, listen to me. Like others who have visited your café, I know that the blind man you are protecting is most definitely not your husband. And the only reason the Germans don’t as yet know this, is because they have only recently arrived and your café is no longer open. Your problem, our problem, lies in the fact that Comune Simone knows your husband died some years ago.” Aldo pauses, allowing her time to take in the significance of what he is saying. “Comune Simone was, if not a regular at your café, then party to many of the conversations the men at the battery shared regarding your… circumstances.”

  “My circumstances?”

  He sighs. “Mira, widows there may be in abundance; albeit that attractive and potentially available single women are few and far between. Please don’t tell me you do not know the men talk about you. Why, most of them would throw themselves beneath the tracks of a tank if only you would promise them a date first.”

  “Aldo?”

  “Yes.”

  “I know that he knows: I told him when I came to ask for the medical supplies. I did not think it important at the time.” She searches the sky for some understanding and very quickly the importance of what he is suggesting dawns on her. “So, what you are saying is that because Comune Simone knows, we are still in danger.”

  “The gravest danger, Mira; for he has told me that if I do not act on this information, he will be sure to pass it to the German officer, the same man I upset at the café and the same man who accompanied me in the search on Wednesday. And as he is now the man from whom I take my orders, once he knows, I will be powerless to stop him returning to arrest you, your mother and your father, and this blind man, whoever he may be. Once that happens, I cannot guarantee your future. Your lives will be beyond my authority. Do I make myself clear? Do I, Mira? Answer me, please. Please tell me you understand the gravity of what I am telling you.”

  Chapter 20

  There is no moon and the only light that penetrates the lanes and alleys of Capo Peloro is that provided by the ceiling of stars. The old Roman fort lies quiet; the gunners doze, the metal of their guns and the stone of their bastion cold like the air.

  Comune Simone stands guard at the entrance to the battery, the smoke from his cigarette rising and curling out and upward from his sentry box.

  A lone, spectral figure walks towards him out of the gloom and stands, waiting patiently a few paces beyond.

  The old Sansepolcrista drags heavily on his cigarette and then, startled by the presence, grabs his rifle and dashes to the barrier.

  “Halt and identify yourself.”

  When no reply is forthcoming, he repeats his demand, lifts the boom, cocks his weapon and walks, slowly, nervously, towards the figure, his rifle thrust out, threateningly.

  The spectre waits until Comune Simone’s shining bayonet is but an arm’s length away and then turns towards him.

  “Oh, it’s you,” Simone says, relieved, lowering his rifle. “What are you doing creeping up on me like this, you could get yourself killed.”

  Chapter 21

  Mira wakes and asks the same question she has asked for so many mornings she cannot recall when last she woke alone in her bedroom. “How are you feeling?”

  “Much better, thank you,” Nicholas replies. “Apart from my face, which itches like hell, I no longer feel so cold.”

  The renewed confidence in his voice tells her that for the first time since he was dragged to the door of her family’s small house, he is truly recovering. She untangles herself from her bedding on the floor, throws on her day dress, stands beside him and places her hand on his arm: his skin is warm to her touch, not chilled and clammy as it was before. “Good,” she replies, “the sulfa pills have worked their magic. How did you sleep?”

  “Same as I have since Sunday night, like a baby.”

  “You were not woken by the bombing in Messina? The last two nights have been ridiculous: there can’t be a house left standing in the city.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Early, an hour or so after dawn.”

  From the front room comes the sound of knocking at the front door.

  As they listen, she grips his arm so hard it almost hurts.

  The knocking is repeated, this time more insistent.

  “All right, all right, I’m coming,” her father calls.

  The door creaks as it is swung open.

  “Ah, Tenente, or rather I should say Aldo. What brings you to our door at a time when only fishermen are up and about?”

  “Soldiers, too, rise at dawn: that is, if any of us have been permitted a minute’s sleep. I must speak with you. A matter of some urgency, Enzo.”

  “What are those German soldiers doing? It seems they, too, don’t sleep.”

  “General Hube’s men are bringing all the barges and boats they can muster up to the beaches, to make ready their escape. Generale Guzzoni, our man in charge, or rather I should say our man who is supposed to be in charge, has told Hube he needs to wait for orders from the Supreme Command in Rome, but Hube is ignoring his protestations and doing what he wants, which probably tells us all we need to know about who really is in charge.”

  “Come in,” Enzo says. “I’m afraid we don’t have any coffee left, but…”

  “Yes, thank you. I will come in, but only for as long as it takes me to tell you my news.”

  “Good news, I hope. Francesca,” he calls, “the Tenente, sorry, Aldo is here. Please, some breakfast for the Tenente.”

  “What do you think I am,” Francesca calls back, “a magician?”

  “No, Enzo, there is no good news, only news.”

  Mira slips on her shoes and joins them in the front room.

  “Good morning,” Aldo says, tipping his cap.

  “And to you,” she replies, summoning a sleepy smile and running her fingers through her mop of morning hair.

  As de la Grascia sits down at the table, he removes his cap and studies the brim. Without looking up to address them directly, he says, “I will come straight to the point of my calling by at such a… such an impolite hour.” He coughs, clearly nervous, and seems reluctant to begin. “Yes, well…”

  “Come now, Aldo,” Enzo encourages, sitting down opposi
te him, “we are friends, there is nothing that you should not feel able to discuss with us.”

  “Friends, yes. Discuss, I don’t think this will prove much of a subject for discussion.” He pauses, still examining his cap. “All right, it is like this. During the night of Sunday, after I saw you at mass,” he glances at Mira, “one of my men was murdered while on guard duty.” He allows his news time to sink in, but does not make eye contact with any one of them as he waits.

  “One of your men,” Enzo repeats. “While on guard duty. Not much of a guard, then.”

  “No, Enzo, I agree, Comune Simone was not much of a guard.”

  “Simone,” Enzo gasps, looking up at Mira who, in turn, mirrors his surprise. “You mean the man who shot the sottocapo last Wednesday?”

  “The sottocapo?” de la Grascia asks.

  Realising his error, Enzo reacts angrily. “Yes, the man you told us was hiding in the village.”

  “Mm, I don’t recall mentioning this man’s rank, but yes. The man Comune Simone shot, against my direct order.”

  “Well,” Enzo mutters, “I am certain no commander accepts the murder of one of his men lightly, but I am bound to say Comune Simone was–”

  “No, papà,” Mira interrupts, “we do not speak ill of the dead: it will bring bad luck.”

  He holds up his hands in surrender. “No, I was not going to say anything bad about the recently departed Comune Simone: I was merely going to point out that–”

  “Papà!”

  “–that on the scales of justice, some men weigh heavily. Is that to speak ill of such a–”

  “Enough!” Mira shouts so loudly it causes her father to flinch. “Your cynicism is inappropriate. Please, Aldo, when you say Comune Simone was murdered. Exactly when was he killed?”

  “Is that really relevant, Mira?” her father snaps.

  “Please, papà, allow Aldo to speak.”

  “Thank you, Mira. He was found when the guard changed at three o’clock and clearly, he had been dead for a couple of hours.”

  “So,” Enzo says, bowing his lips, hunching his shoulders and splaying his hands as if to ask, didn’t everyone know Comune Simone had shot Sottocapo Falanga and wasn’t that sufficient justification for someone to kill him? “Comune Simone made many enemies and whoever it was that was good enough to rid us of the fellow deserves our gratitude.”

  “As you say,” Aldo agrees, raising his eyebrow and inclining his head to suggest he agrees but that his agreement cannot go on record. “Nevertheless, he was about to report to the Germans that you are hiding a man who you pretend to be your husband, Mira. That betrayal, if one believes reporting a fact is tantamount to betrayal, would have provided his killer with added motivation.”

  He glances so briefly at Mira that she does not have time to meet his look with any particular reaction of her own.

  “Yes, but,” Enzo interrupts, “most of the village know we are sheltering this man, so most of the village would have been driven by the same motivation.”

  “Most of the village,” Aldo repeats, as though counting them off in his mind. “Well, whoever is guilty, one of my men is dead and I have had to make a report. That, I hoped, would see an end to it but, unfortunately, my superiors have seen fit to share my report with their German counterparts and they have reacted… let us say poorly. Since some of our troops near Enna shot one of their German officers, you may recall I told you of this, they have been waiting for the right opportunity to demonstrate their… their dismay. That opportunity has now presented itself and, as a result, they have decided to take fifty civilian hostages from the village; hostages they say they will execute if the murderer does not surrender himself before they evacuate across the Strait.” He draws a piece of paper from his pocket. “I have the list of names.”

  The horror of the situation stuns them to silence until Enzo bangs the table with his fist. “No, Aldo, this is not justice. This is a crime in itself; a reprisal against those who are innocent. This is lunacy.”

  “Yes, Enzo, you are absolutely right; lunacy is exactly what this is. However, I am little more than a lieutenant and therefore powerless to stop it.”

  “What can we do?” Francesca pleads.

  The two men sit and stare at each other, while the two women stand and watch the men, waiting for them to come upon a solution.

  Mira grabs the paper and starts reading. “No,” she shrieks, “they are taking all the older men. Pipo, Dottore Roselli and the Ganci uncle.”

  “Your name, Enzo,” Aldo says, “was on the first list; this is the second. I asked for your name to be removed. They asked me why: I told them your daughter is my fiancée. No Mira, you have no need to look so pained; I could think of no other reason that carried enough weight or did not make me look somehow complicit.”

  “My name was on the list?” Enzo whispers. “You allowed my name to be taken from the list so that someone else’s would be added?”

  “Yes, I knew that might upset you, for you are a noble man, Enzo. Most others would be relieved. But you, no, you have no thought for yourself. That honours you. Now that you are off the list, though, there will be no way back for you. So, you will have to accept my gift, whether you want it or not.”

  Mira steps to the side of the table. “Aldo, this is all my fault.”

  Before he can reply, Enzo bangs his fist once more. “No, Mira, this is not your fault.”

  “No, it isn’t,” says a strained voice from the doorway into Mira’s room. “If it is anybody’s fault, it’s mine.”

  They turn to find Nicholas clutching and leaning against the door jamb.

  Enzo rises quickly and taking him by the arm, guides him to the table. “Sit, Nicholas. Please, sit down. Gently.”

  He lowers himself down and grasps the edge of the table. “Thank you.”

  Aldo de la Grascia studies the man opposite him. Lying in Mira’s bed on the day of the search, Aldo had not bothered much with how his competitor for Mira’s affections had looked. Yes, he had noticed the bandages at the man’s eyes and the dark, scarred skin around the bandage. Yes, he had formed a kind of grudging respect for him in the way he had sat up and announced who he was pretending to be. Yet at the time, Aldo’s primary concern had been to get the German officer and Comune Simone out of the Ruggeri house before he lost control of the situation, and he hadn’t taken a proper look at him. “So, you are the man who isn’t Mira’s husband.”

  “Yes, Tenente. My name is Nicholas Lock. I am a Sub–Lieutenant in the British Navy. My boat was sunk in the same action as that of Sottocapo Falanga’s submarine. The sottocapo helped me ashore. Without him, I would most probably have drowned.”

  “And now he lies dead at the hands of one of his comrades.”

  “As it would seem, Tenente. I am so very sorry for him: he was a brave man, a selfless individual.”

  Aldo chuckles, cynically. “Aren’t we all, Sub–Lieutenant? Aren’t we all? So, now I understand who all the first aid and pills were for.” He turns to Enzo, who looks on, his expression part sheepish, part remorseful. “Ah now, Enzo, I have a question for you. And how you answer it will have some bearing on how I approach a situation that I do believe has now grown far beyond my comprehension.”

  “Ask away. Considering your many kindnesses, Aldo, you have every right to an explanation.”

  “Good. Thank you. Now my question is this: what has compelled you to keep this British officer safe at such an enormous risk to your family? And, I suppose I should point out, at the expense of the sottocapo. You evidently went to warn the people sheltering him that we were on our way and as a result, he had no alternative but to run. He sacrificed his life in order to protect them for if we had found him there, the family would have been shot. If it makes it easier for you, you must know that I too share in the responsibility for the sottocapo’s death. If I had kept Comune Simone on a
tighter leash, then…”

  “It doesn’t make it easier, Aldo. All the same, I thank you for saying so.”

  “So why, then?” the Lieutenant presses. “Why take this ridiculous risk? As I have just said, you are a noble man; but you are in no way a stupid man. Please, Enzo, please share with us why you have felt such a need to protect this Englishman?”

  Enzo glances apologetically first at Francesca and second at Mira, and finally at the reclining figure of Nicholas, who sits and listens, his head bowed, his hands splayed on the surface of the table.

  “I will try to explain,” Enzo says, pointing. “You see this ring Nicholas wears?”

  Aldo leans forward and inspects the silver band with the Templar cross engraved on its face. “This signet ring? Yes. What of it?”

  “Well, this ring Nicholas wears… This ring…” He falters, as though the right words will not come to him: the right words, the adequate words, words he had hoped he would never have to speak, because with them they bring the hurt and sorrow he has buried deep in the cemetery of his past. Enzo grimaces. “This ring… It used to belong to me.”

  Francesca and Mira stare at each other in disbelief. Aldo takes another, closer look. Nicholas raises his head and inclines it as if he has just heard a shout from far away.

  “I surrendered this signet ring to a criminal in the hours after the earthquake of thirty–five years ago. Yes, thirty–five years ago. Hard to believe, isn’t it? Hard for you to believe and impossible for me to understand how, after all this time, this ring has found its way back to the city of its birth. But, it has.”

  “You surrendered the ring to a criminal?” Aldo asks. “This I find just as hard to believe. Why? How?”

  “I was trapped in the cellar of my parent’s house and the criminal said he would help to free me if I paid him. I had no money; only the ring. I gave it to him; he ran away. Sounds stupid, I know; but I was desperate. Messina was desperate. I will try to explain.” He glances at Francesca, a sorrowful glance and one that begs her forgiveness.