“In the long term, I think that will depend on what the doctors say. For the immediate future, though, things will be pretty much the same for me as they are for you. I’ll hand myself over to whichever unit gets here first and then it will be a case of hurry up and wait, as the pongos say.”
“Pongos?”
“Yes, pongos. Our slang for the army. Though I suppose in my case it’ll be the navy who’ll decide. Malta first, probably, then Gibraltar and home. No doubt they’ll ship me back whenever they can spare a boat; they’ll need most of them for the invasion of the mainland.”
“And I will build a boat and return to my fishing,” Enzo says, from the back. “I have missed the tides of the Strait these past few weeks. I have missed the silence, the peace.”
Mira, though, remains silent. Home, Nicholas had said. Ship me back, he had said.
The viaduct over the Torrente Guardia, a broad dry creek, is all that stands between them and Ganzirri, and as they approach, they see German soldiers hastening back and forth. Some carry boxes of explosives and coils of cabling, while others, many of them bloodied and bandaged and supported by their comrades, stumble across the bridge towards them.
“We are just in time,” Aldo mutters, “they are preparing to blow the bridge.”
They stop at the threshold and Aldo gets out to speak to the officer in charge. There is much head–shaking and pleading before the officer demurs and allows them to weave a path through the remnants of his army. The stragglers stare at the car as they pass; their faces gaunt, their complexions ashen, their gazes distant and their steps faltering; exhaustion, despair and death, the three comrades of defeat.
Aldo turns down a lane to join the lower coast road and as they reach the outskirts of the village, he slows the car.
“What is wrong?” Mira asks from the back.
“I don’t know,” he replies. “It is too quiet. Not even a dog. Nothing.”
“Why are you surprised?” Enzo offers. “Were you not the man who told the people to stay indoors?”
“Yes, but–”
They turn a corner to be confronted by a vehicle some fifty metres or so down the road.
“That is not one of ours,” he says, frowning, peering closer through the windscreen. “I believe that is an American jeep. I’ll stop here and take a look.”
Mira leans forward and touches his shoulder. “Aldo, be careful.”
“Of course, my angel. Please, wait here in the car.” He opens the car door and makes to get out. As he does so, four soldiers step out from behind the corner of a house and watch him.
“Those are not Italian soldiers,” he says. “And judging by the shape of their helmets, they are not German either. They must be Americans. Stay here. Do not get out of the car until I have spoken with them.”
“Oh, Aldo, please be careful,” Mira whispers.
“What’s going on?” Nicholas asks.
“Aldo is walking towards some American soldiers who are waiting by their car,” she replies. “They are about fifty meters in front of him. They look nervous; one of them has raised his rifle and is pointing it at Aldo. Wait, he’s stopped. They are shouting at him and he is talking to them. Aldo is taking his pistol out and he is placing it on the ground. Now he has raised his arms. They are walking towards him. They are watching the houses, the windows. Aldo is standing still, his–”
The silence is split by the blast of an almighty explosion and in the car, Enzo, Mira and Nicholas duck.
His head down, his arm around Mira’s shoulders, Enzo says, “It’s all right. It’s just the bridge: the Germans have blown it.”
And when they sit back up, the scene they had been watching is still the same: the sky is crystal blue, the walls of the houses white–washed and the road empty but for the four American soldiers who are walking slowly, tentatively towards them. The only difference is that Tenente de la Grascia kneels penitently and perfectly still in the middle of the road.”
“Aldo!” Mira screams. She struggles to get out of the car as her father holds her back.
“No, Mira, no,” Enzo shouts at her. “You cannot. It is too dangerous. They will shoot you, too. Wait. They are coming.”
“Who is coming?” Nicholas asks, tilting his head to listen, wishing he could see.”
Mira sobs uncontrollably. “Oh, no. Aldo. Not now. Not after all this.”
“The American soldiers are coming,” Enzo says. “Stay where you are, Nicholas. Do not get out of the car. Wait until they get here.
Mira continues to sob. She shrugs herself from her father’s grip and buries her face in her hands. “Oh, Aldo. Aldo.”
The soldiers surround the Fiat, their rifles levelled.
“Get out of the car,” one of them shouts, his Sicilian perfect in its dialect. “Very slowly, all of you get out of the car.”
Nicholas feels for the handle and gently eases open the door. He swings his legs out and stands up, holding on for support. “You can stand down,” he says in English. “I am a British naval officer and these people mean you no harm.”
“And I’m supposed to believe that, buddy?” one of the Americans carps.
“Yes, my name is Sub–Lieutenant Nicholas Lock and these good people have been looking after me since my boat was sunk just over a month ago. They have given me shelter and risked their lives for me. Now it is my turn to look after them. What happened to the Italian lieutenant? Is he all right?”
“Sorry, buddy, he’s dead. I guess that explosion must have spooked one of my men and he shot him.”
“But he was trying to surrender.”
“Yes, bad luck I guess.”
Mira gets out and runs away up the road.
Enzo, too, gets out. “You speak Sicilian?” he asks, the sergeant. “How is it that you speak Sicilian?”
The American shoulders his rifle, removes his helmet, and mops his brow with his forearm. “Not me,” he says. “Him.” He turns to one of his men. “Go on, tell him, Luigi.”
“It’s like this, sir, my grandparents are originally from Messina; they talk about the place all the time. Is the city still standing?”
Enzo waits, studying the man. “Standing? Standing after the beating it has endured these past weeks. No, young man, it is not standing; it is like the Tenente, it is on its knees.” He looks up the road to where Mira sits beside Aldo de la Grascia, cradling his head, stroking his face.
As Enzo walks away towards her, he asks, “Luigi, do you know the difference between this Italian officer and Messina?”
The soldier thinks for a moment. “No, sir, I’m afraid I don’t.”
Enzo hesitates, turns and looks back. “Well, this man is dead; your comrade killed him. A city such as Messina… no man can kill.”
Book 3
Caterina
2019
Chapter 1
The map lies; her walk up to Capo Peloro has taken longer than suggested and by the time she’s arrived at the Piazza Chiesa in Torre Faro, just over halfway, perspiration has glued her blouse to the outline of her swimming costume.
Uncomfortable and more than a little self–conscious, she sits down at a table beneath the awning of a café and treats herself to a granita al limone. The water–ice both cools her body and freezes her brain, and as a result she relaxes a little, though not for quite as long as she would like. Men, only a few, but then again it only ever needs one, have begun to notice her; so she settles the bill and walks on, her flip–flops flapping to her stride.
Not that she is late, of course, for there is no time at which she needs to be anywhere other than where she is. However, the sun is now high and unrelenting, and even the traffic wardens have retired to smoke in the shade.
Their eyes follow her: a woman in her early fifties, or possibly younger when taking into account the energy in her gait; a good figure; neither t
all nor short; nice, shapely legs, not too heavy; wisps of dark hair escaping from beneath the rim of her straw sunhat; a proud bearing, her nose slightly raised beneath the oval sunglasses which conceal much of her face; and finally, and most significantly, she wears a wedding ring.
Their interest wanes.
Their brazen appraisal, like that of the men in the café, bothers her; and if she is honest with herself, ever since she’d arrived a few days before, she’s found herself all too often subjected to the subtle prejudices men harbour for single women of a certain age. “A table for the signora? Yes, of course. Here, we have one available at the back.” “A room for the signora? Yes, we have one; it is not at the front and does not have a balcony, but the room is quiet.” And, “A bottle of wine? Why not a glass, to see if it is to your liking?”
Her bother, her fatigue, the soaring temperature and her misjudgement of the time it has taken her to get to the beach: they are just a few of the reasons why she does not notice that no one is swimming. Yet the main reason why she walks directly onto the beach without noticing this one significant detail is the scene that confronts her; for in the same way a dish of tomatoes, avocado and mozzarella can discourage a diner from wanting to spoil such a perfect fusion of colours, she is suddenly taken with the notion that if she takes one more step, her presence will reduce the purity of the landscape.
It won’t, of course: the narrow Strait that separates Sicily from the toe of Italy provokes a sense of awe within all those who see it for the first time, just as it did those Phoenicians who sailed through it nearly three thousand years ago. Even so, the notion causes her to linger and consume the view.
Across the narrow strip of turquoise–blue water, a red and white pylon stands tall and threatening, like a giant iron triffid rooted upon a green foothill. And, behind her, a second similarly red and white triffid looms over the golden beach, as if protective of its flock. She had noticed the pylons on her walk up, guiding her, hailing her, drawing her to Capo Peloro.
She walks to the water’s edge, sets her bag down, lays out her towel and sits with her knees drawn up to her chin and her arms wrapped defensively around her legs.
Suntanned men in swimming–briefs strut and shout into their cell phones, they gesticulate and then caress their extended stomachs as if to inform anyone who cares to know that their wives are fine cooks. Mothers, modestly dressed, preen their children while they chat with friends, and teenagers play volleyball. It is a beach like any other, except perhaps for the view.
Noticing that the women seem reluctant to expose themselves to the sun’s rays, she resists the temptation to remove her blouse and busies herself inflating the red plastic pillow she’d bought in the village the evening before. When she has finished, she coats her exposed flesh in sun cream, adjusts her drying blouse and lies back.
She is woken by a gentle nudge to her arm. A woman wearing a black swimsuit is talking to her.
“Mezzogiorno!” the woman says. “The wind at midday from the south. You don’t feel the heat of the sun.” Though her manner is brusque, her eyes speak kindly.
“Thank you. Yes. Thank you,” she replies. “I understand. I’m sorry.”
“No profit in being sorry; better to be careful.” The woman makes to leave, then hesitates. “You speak Sicilian, but you are not from here?”
“No.” She sits up, perhaps a little self–consciously, and draws her knees up as though she is drawing up a bridge. “I am English. I fell asleep. Stupid of me. Thank you for waking me.”
“That explains it. Only English people are foolish enough to sit in the sun when they should be taking lunch.” The woman appears to grimace and smile, all in one curious union of her facial muscles.
“Pranzo. Yes. Lunch. That’s a good idea. Thank you very much.”
Though she isn’t hungry, she notices that many have left the beach, so she rolls up her towel, packs her inflated pillow under her arm and steps lightly through the hot sand after the woman.
A salad of tomatoes and anchovies lifts her spirits to the extent that she makes the unusual decision of forgoing a glass of rosé in favour of a chilled beer. The bar is lively with young mothers and children, and more than once a toddler approaches to stand and study her until mama appears, apologises and drags her infant away.
The raspberry ice cream is both cooling and delicious and provokes her to greater indulgence.
With her hand wrapped around a second bottle of local beer, she watches a vast tanker dwarf the Strait as it passes north into the Tyrrhenian. A blue and white boat, tiny by comparison, chases the larger vessel and once they clear the narrow strip of water and come level with a great rock that juts out from the mountains on the Calabrian side, the little boat darts in towards the tanker. A door not far from the water line opens, a man steps nimbly across and as soon as he is on board, the little blue and white boat turns and races back towards the security of the Strait.
The woman who had woken her sits at an adjacent table and notices her watching. “When the oil tankers make Scylla look small, you know we are using too much oil.”
“Scylla?”
The woman arches an eyebrow and studies her, though whether hers is a critical assessment of a woman alone or simply a lazy observation, it is hard to tell. “Yes, that is Scylla, the great rock: if no longer as great as the boats which sail past,” she says. “The legend tells us the rock is where the monster with many heads took the sailors from Ulyxes’ ship. Now, it is the pilot who is taken from the boat; the boat that sails above the monster of the deep, Charybdis.”
“Ulysses. Yes, my…” She was about to say it was her husband who had told her the story of Ulysses, but found she didn’t want to grant him a voice in their conversation.
“You are here on holiday?” the woman asks.
“Er… Yes, that’s right. A break.”
Her hesitation is not lost on the woman. “Ah, I see. Left you, has he? Run off with another woman or man, perhaps?”
As was so often the case, she didn’t need to grant him a voice for he simply assumed one. “No, it’s not like that. Not like that at all, actually,” she replies, very evidently put out by a stranger’s impertinence; albeit a stranger with such a kindly, approachable bearing.
The woman is, though, not inclined to apologise for her assumption. “Well, you don’t have the look of a woman who has run off with another man, so I’ll ask no more.”
“I don’t have the look,” she replies, now more irritated than put out. “So how does a woman who has run off with another man look?”
“Like my brother’s wife. Like she doesn’t care what others think of her. You don’t look like that.”
“So, how do I look then?” she asks, her anger flaring like a gas ring.
“Not like that, anyway. I am Angelica, pleased to meet you.”
Unsure of how to react, she hears herself say, “And you. Are you from here, Angelica?” Catherine asks, shifting awkwardly in her chair.
“From Torre Faro? Yes and no. I live in Ganzirri, the next village down. Ganzirri is a fishing village and the lagoon is famous for its clams.”
“Yes, I know that.” A memory suspends, like a cloud; a cloud from another time, another place, a world where life was… “Sorry, what I meant was, I know it because that’s where I’m staying, at the Hotel Donato; it’s very nice. Quiet. The people are charming. Do you know it?”
“Of course. In a village like Ganzirri, everyone knows everyone.” Angelica thinks for a few seconds, before adding, “And sometimes too much about everyone. But that is life in a fishing village, eh?”
Keen to keep steering the focus of their conversation away from herself, Catherine glances at the woman’s hands and on seeing the gold band of her wedding ring, asks, “What does your husband do?”
“Alberto? Oh, he works at the Capitaneria di Porto in Messina.” Then, as if she is mi
ldly offended, she says, “I have my own business. It is important for a woman to have some independence. Men can be such dogs: if you don’t give them enough food, they soon find someone who will feed them.” Angelica winks, playfully.
“What do you do?”
“I am a seamstress, one of six in our shop. We make alterations and repairs. We take clothes in for the young and let them out for the old.”
“Never out of work then.”
“No, we are busy, except not so busy in the summer, which is why I am here today.”
“I guess there’s not enough material to let out in the swimming costumes most men wear.”
Angelica laughs. “No, that is true: the smaller the briefs, the greater the vanity.”
The cool beer, the food, the warmth, the shade and the meeting with a stranger kindly disposed and possessed of a sense of humour, relaxes Catherine. “I’m going to have another drink, can I get you something, Angelica?”
The woman smiles, her lips thinning, the lines at the corners of her eyes creasing in crow’s feet. “Please, a coffee.”
Later in the afternoon, back on the beach, the sun and alcohol join in unholy union and Catherine lies down, covers herself with her wrap and sleeps.
For how long she sleeps, she cannot know; for the demons of her dream–making grow impatient and soon enough they are up to no good, stealing through the bed of her subconscious, planting roses that will blossom with colour and vines whose grapes will surely taste sweet. And they do… And the roses bloom brighter than she can recall having seen before, and the wine tastes sweeter than as she has ever tasted. The good times… The good times… They are back.
She drifts, effortlessly, and a voice, soft and lilting, tells her she must not worry, for all will be well.
Only it isn’t.
She wakes and all isn’t well. All is the same as when she’d fallen asleep, except that now, her head thumps and her mouth is parched. Granules of sand itch between her toes and her stomach is tight, as though pressed down on by an enormous weight.
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