Constant Tides

by Peter Crawley

  “There was a young woman. No, perhaps to some she wasn’t much more than a girl. We were very much in love,” he glances at his wife once more, “and we had planned to leave Messina to seek a new life in America. Unfortunately, and I mean because of the greatest misfortune and sadness to befall so many thousands that night, we were separated by circumstances far beyond our control: the tumbling buildings, the wide fissures that broke in the streets, the tall wave and the great fires. With the help of an English lady, this young woman searched for me in the ruins for three days, though she did not find me. She did, however, find the ring; for when later the criminal was shot, she found it amongst many other rings in his possession. Finding the ring, led Lilla to believe I was dead.”

  At the speaking of her name, Nicholas sits bolt upright.

  “With good fortune, I managed to free myself, crawl out and was found by a patrol and taken to an aid station in the Villa Mazzini; but in the meantime, this young woman was persuaded by the English lady to leave with her and take up a new life in England. Why wouldn’t she? She had nothing left to stay for. As far as she was concerned, I was dead and so were her family.” His throat tightens and grows hoarse with emotion.

  “It’s all right, papà,” Mira says, moving to his side, comforting him.

  He shrugs away from her; not so much an unkind rejection of her sympathy, more a movement that suggests he needs to sit alone while he recalls the memory. Enzo looks over at his wife. “I am sorry, Francesca, men should not speak of the women they loved before they met their wives.”

  “Except perhaps to other men and to themselves,” Aldo says. “Please go on.”

  “Because of my paralysis, I learned too late that she was leaving. Pipo wheeled me in a cart down to the Corso, but we arrived as the boat was sailing.” Enzo sniffs and Francesca hands him a cloth, with which he dabs at his eyes. “You see, the earthquake destroyed many lives, many thousands of lives, including those of my parents, my sisters and my brother. I had been spared and yet my hopes and my dreams, my…” again he glances at Francesca, “the woman I loved, had all been taken away from me. My guilt, that which weighs heavily on the survivors of such a catastrophe, was immense and without Pipo and Dottore Roselli’s encouragement I would not have been able to bear it.” He wipes the tears from his cheeks and continues.

  “This young woman, her name was Lilla Lunapiena. And we had agreed that when we got to America and had set ourselves up, we would call our firstborn son Nicholas, after Colapesce.”

  The others all look to the Englishman sitting at the table.

  “This man, this Nicholas, wears my signet ring. I would know it if I did not see it for a thousand years. You must understand, the ring was a gift from my mother and the ring would have been all Lilla was left with to remember me by, for as I said, as far as she knew I had not survived the earthquake. When Sottocapo Falanga brought Nicholas here and I was cleaning his hands, I saw the ring and recognised it. The sight of it brought back to me a part of my life that I had thought, like the hopes and dreams of so many others, long dead and buried beneath the ruins of the city.”

  Francesca and Mira watch him in wonder, not knowing quite how they should react to the tears of a man they have never once seen cry. Aldo looks on, quietly embarrassed that a man he had thought fashioned from stone should not only contain, but also show, such raw emotion. And Nicholas bows his head, out of respect for both those long passed away and the sottocapo, a man who first saved his life and then surrendered his own.

  “This is why I have tried so hard to protect Nicholas.” Enzo stares at the floor. “This is why I have been so selfish as to risk the safety of my beloved family. I can only ask you both for your forgiveness.”

  Chapter 22

  It is Thursday evening and Mira and her father are sitting at the table. Nicholas lies in bed and worried about his loss of weight, Francesca is feeding him some of the dried fish and tomatoes she has been safeguarding.

  “The Germans have taken those on the list to Messina,” Enzo says. He has been morose most of the day, consumed by his own thoughts and, whenever she has pressed him, stubbornly reluctant to share them. “They came with trucks and herded them like goats.”

  “Did you manage to speak to any of them?”

  “No, only Dottore Roselli’s daughter. She blames me for what has happened. She said that if we had given Nicholas up when he first appeared, none of this would be happening.”

  “If. If. If, papà,” she says, resigned. “None of us can know what might have been, just like none of us can know what is going to be. And this is no one’s fault in just the same way it is everyone’s fault. How many in the village will admit they were wrong to believe in the Duce? How many of those who waved flags and cheered that day in Messina, eh?”

  “Yes, Mira, but I am now a pariah. I could see it in their faces, in the way they looked at me and the way they avoided looking at me. They hold me responsible and I know it.”

  “Papà, may I bring Nicholas to the table, I know he would like to talk to you?”

  He nods and while she is gone, Enzo stares at the chair Aldo had sat in while he had completed his confession.

  The Tenente had been gracious in his leaving, even going to the trouble of apologising for forcing the fisherman to recall the painful events of thirty–five years before. “I will set my mind to finding a solution to this wretched situation,” he had said. “Perhaps, my new friend Enzo Ruggeri, you would try to do the same. My fear is that before they leave, the Germans will execute these hostages ‘pour encourager les autres’, a French saying that means they will want to set an example to others. Apart from that, they don’t like to lose face and in losing the battle for Sicily they will be seen to. They can be spiteful; be warned.”

  “I doubted you, Aldo, and for that I apologise,” he had replied, and the two men had embraced and kissed each other on both cheeks.

  Once Nicholas is seated, Enzo says, “Now, no doubt you must have some questions for me.”

  Hearing the direction from which he is addressed, Nicholas turns his head. “Yes, Signor Ruggeri, I have.”

  “Nicholas, you have been our guest for three weeks, which makes you one of our family; I think it is time you addressed me less formally.”

  “Yes, Enzo, of course, thank you. If you will permit me?”

  “Please. And I have questions for you, but later. So please…”

  “My mother was always reluctant to talk about her life before she left Sicily, what were her parents like?”

  “Like? They were like other fishing people: proud, honourable and with good intentions and always an eye for their own kind. I did not know your grandmother: I met her only once, on a day when I went hunting for swordfish with your grandfather and Pipo and the others of his crew. They were tough men, uncompromising, the sea had made them so; and they worked hard, long days in the sun rowing to first find the swordfish and then stalk them and harpoon them. At first, they did not take too kindly to me, but once I had proved I was willing to work, they accepted me and treated me as they did their own. It was perhaps their natural ways, their pragmatism and their humility that, in the months after the terrible earthquake, persuaded me to be one of them. They had no time for fools or pretentions.”

  “My grandfather was the captain of a fishing boat?”

  Enzo quiets, thinking for a moment, no doubt searching for the best words with which he can describe Lilla’s father. “Nino Lunapiena was more than that. He was the funcitta, the man who bears the greatest responsibility. If he harpoons the swordfish, the families eat and have something to sell from their stall beside the lagoon. If he misses, his family go hungry and they have nothing to sell. His men row, a man stands on top of the mast and spots, the funcitta harpoons. Even now, it is the same.”

  “A funcitta?”

  “Yes,” Enzo says, “but your grandfather was more than simp
ly a funcitta. He was a king amongst fishermen: he was the father of the community. People looked to him for guidance, for leadership, for strength. His word was considered law. Unlike dons who control other men, your grandfather was looked up to; he was not one to line his pockets at the expense of others. I admired him and in many ways his spirit has stayed with me ever since.”

  “And my mother?”

  “Your mother was very special to him. And to me. When I worked in the harbour of Messina, loading and unloading the boats, she would come by and watch: that was when I first saw her.”

  “What was she like?”

  “Oh,” Enzo casts his mind back, recalling the colourful vistas of his youth. “Oh, she was beautiful, she was spirited and questioning, always questioning. What was the cargo, where would the ship be going, where had the ship come from? She was, by her very nature, inquisitive. Of course, she had no schooling to speak of: her mother wanted her to stay at home, wash clothes, clean fish and sew lace, like the children of other fishermen. So, whenever we had the chance to spend time together, I taught her to read and write. She was, like Mira,” he looks over at his daughter and smiles, warmly, proudly, “a good student, hungry to learn. You see, my father wanted me to be educated and to learn the business of the harbour: he sent me to school and organised a kind of apprenticeship, so that I would know everything there was to know about how he made his money. Above all, he desired to make me in his own image; it is not unusual; a mistake some fathers make. I rebelled, for like your mother I was headstrong and my father considered your mother beneath our standing. He forbade me to see her, which was why we planned to run away.”

  “And the earthquake? That put an end to it?”

  “Ultimately, yes. But my father got wind of my intentions. Ha,” he slaps his thigh, “keeping a secret when one worked in the port was like trying to find a place to hide in the Piazza del Duomo, it was unrealistic if not impossible. On the morning of the earthquake your mother and I planned to meet outside the Hotel Trinacria and board a boat that was leaving at dawn. Unfortunately, I had underestimated just how far the tentacles of my father’s influence reached: the captain betrayed me and my father sent his men to take me home.”

  “And that was the last time you saw my mother?”

  “Yes. I was lying in a cot in the aid station in the Villa Mazzini and your mother, she had an injury to her leg, was lying in the aid station in the Piazza Cairoli. I found out from Pipo, who had seen her, that she was leaving; although, I have a vague memory of hearing a lady talking about me to Dottore Roselli. This lady’s name I cannot remember, but I found out later that this was the lady who took your mother to England.”

  “Mrs Robertson.”

  Enzo looks at Nicholas as if he has summoned a ghost. “Yes, Mrs Robertson. Incredible, that after all these years you should say her name. What happened to her?”

  “She passed away some years back,” Nicholas replies, raising his hand to scratch at his face.

  Mira leans across the table and takes his hand, pushing it down.

  “My mother cared for her through her last years in the same way Mrs Robertson had cared for my mother when she took her back to England. What I’m wondering, Enzo, is that if Mrs Robertson had not taken my mother away, you would have found each other sooner or later: surely, you would. Do you blame Mrs Robertson for doing what she did?”

  “Blame her?” Enzo folds his arms across his chest and rests his head back, staring at the ceiling, considering, contemplating, calculating. Then he sits forward again. “Blame her? No. She did what she thought was right and there was no guarantee that your mother and I would have found each other. There were many unscrupulous men who came down from Naples and abducted young girls. There were many children who were taken into the church charity administered by the Sisters of the Poor. And there were some who died later in the ruins of the city as they scavenged for food. It was a bad time.”

  “Surely, it must be hard for you not to resent Mrs Robertson.”

  The fisherman sits quietly for a few minutes. That he has more to say is obvious to both Nicholas, who can perceive the intricacies of Enzo’s thoughts weaving in the air, and Mira, who can see them taking shape in his face.

  His conclusion reached, he says, “In my life, I have learned much: principally, to read the wind and the water, to appreciate the ways of the swordfish and to know who to trust and, perhaps more importantly, who not to trust. And, each day brings new and different challenges and each of these challenges are, like people, constructed of minute pieces of material, of thoughts and of actions that are not always ours to control. When these materials, these thoughts and actions come together in a way that makes us happy, we think of the day as a good day and we are rewarded. When they come together in a way that makes us unhappy, we blame ourselves. Too often, we blame other people because it is easier to blame others than it is to accept responsibility for our actions. Yet one realises that whatever happens, we are far from in control of our destiny.”

  “Destiny,” Nicholas repeats. “What the Gods have designed for us. Is that what you are saying?”

  Enzo shrugs. “Yes, in a way. When I think of your mother, I understand that without my father’s prejudice, without the great earthquake and without the intervention of Mrs Robertson, your mother and I might have shared our lives. It is the same now. If it had not been for this war, Sottocapo Falanga would not have brought you to our door and Comune Simone would not have shot him: these events were not for us to control, they are part of a destiny that has come to us.”

  Nicholas raises his head as though something Enzo has just said has given him an idea. “I hear what you say about destiny and I agree with much of it. But I do believe it is within our ability to alter events; events like those we find ourselves in the middle of. If I handed myself in to the Germans and owned up to killing Comune Simone, perhaps they would see my actions as those of a combatant, respect my status and release the hostages. If you were to let me, I would be happy to try. Best way, I get shipped off to a prison camp until this wretched war is over. Worst way they would stand me up against a wall, but I doubt they’d do that. What do you think?”

  “What do I think?” Enzo chuckles.

  Mira frowns and is about to speak when her father waves her quiet.

  “What I think is that they are unlikely to believe a blind man is capable of killing an armed man. And whilst I admire your courage, Nicholas, it is your reasoning that is flawed. No, volunteering for such a noble mission would only make the situation worse, because they would want to know who has treated your wounds, who has supplied you with medicine and who has been hiding you. That would pose more questions than you could answer, but…,” Enzo studies the ceiling for a few seconds, “but I do believe that without intending to, you have given me the answer to a question I have been asking myself.”

  Chapter 23

  During the night, they are woken by the wailing of an air raid siren.

  “Messina or across the Strait?” Nicholas murmurs.

  Mira sits on the edge of his bed. “No, I have not heard this before, this is closer, much closer. I wonder if this is what Aldo told us about.”

  Soon enough, they hear the droning of aero engines and anti–aircraft fire, and very quickly the noise increases in volume and intensity.

  “Those are our guns behind Sant Agata,” she says, now having to raise her voice louder than a whisper. “And listen, those are the guns of the German battery beside the café. Now Aldo’s at Capo Peloro. Please God, let him survive.”

  The thump of guns, the booming of engines, the shouts of panic and terror.

  Mira reaches for his arm and grips it, tightly. “Nicholas, I am afraid.”

  “Yes,” is all he says.

  “Can I lie with you?”

  “Yes. I’d like that.”

  She lifts up his sheet and slides into the narrow b
ed. Mira can feel his warmth, his security, and the anxiety of his beating heart. She holds him close, as close as she has held a man for far too long.

  “It’s all right,” he says, stroking her hair. “It’s all right. Close your eyes. Imagine we are somewhere else.”

  An explosion some way down the beach rattles the house.

  Mira flinches and holds him tighter, burying her head in his neck, trying to bury her being in him.

  “There, try not to worry, it’ll soon pass.” Nicholas pulls the sheet up over their heads. He can feel her breath against him, he can taste it, he can breathe it.

  A succession of bombs burst, each one getting nearer, each one getting louder.

  “I’m frightened,” she repeats. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so afraid. Are we going to die?”

  “No,” he whispers, and as he speaks there comes an explosion of such magnitude and so close to the house that its percussion compresses the air and pounds their ears. The house rocks violently and the small window above them shatters into tiny fragments, which smash against the wall and litter the bed.

  “Nicholas!” she screams.

  He raises his hand and putting it to the side of her head, he turns her face towards him. Now, he can feel her breathe against his lips. He can feel some of the fear ebb from her limbs and he can feel her breasts against him, her hips against his and her legs wrapped around his.

  Another stick of bombs thump one by one, marching with giant’s footsteps up the beach. The house shakes and trembles, and clouds of dust pour into the room as if blown by a devilish wind.

  He cannot see her, but he knows that Mira also breathes his breath and he perceives a change in her. Her body suddenly feels less tense and less restrained; not as though she has completely overcome her fear, more as though she has found a wholly separate focus, a diversion which has overwhelmed her thoughts and pushed her fear aside.

  Mira lingers for a few seconds, realising then knowing what is about to happen. She expects it to happen and revels in her anticipation. She glories in her excitement and savours a moment she knows all too well that once passed they can never relive. With every second she holds back, the sweet sensation of awareness heightens within her; and with every breath he breathes into her Mira knows, as surely as she has known since the first morning she dressed his wounds, she loves him.