Constant Tides

by Peter Crawley

  The list is long and she has to concentrate, particularly when asked the name of the British prime minister: a figure from another time and place and country, all of which for the moment hold little significance.

  “Finally,” he says, staring intently and inquisitively at her as though he is expecting her to reveal some profound secret, “I have to ask you if what happened to you was nothing more than an unfortunate mistake? Perhaps you did not see the signs warning you about the dangers of bathing? Perhaps you had consumed a little too much alcohol and were not thinking correctly? This is possible, eh, there was alcohol in your blood.”

  “Mm,” she begins, evasively, “I do seem to remember I had some beer at lunch. But I’m not unused to alcohol, if that is what you mean?”

  Dottore Roselli studies her, waiting.

  Her expression suggests, if a shade unconvincingly, that she has no idea what he might be waiting for or what he might be expecting her to say.

  He waits on, dragging the few seconds of his appraisal into a full minute.

  “What I mean is, is there any reason why you should submit yourself to such danger? Is there any reason why you should have acted so carelessly? Any reason why you should not care about what happens to you?”

  Now, it is her turn to make the good doctor wait. She fixes him with a vaguely aggressive look. “No, none at all. Why would you ask such a thing?”

  Roselli arches an eyebrow, purses his lips and inclines his head. “Oh, some words you said, or tried to say, when we were assessing you: they weren’t very positive, though naturally you were delirious. But you called out for someone: you kept saying over and over that you wanted to be with him.”

  “Well,” she says, a hint of disdain in her tone, “I guess I was hoping someone was going to save me. And, as you said, quite naturally.”

  Though very obviously sceptical at her reply, he waits again, eventually nods and then closes his flip–board. “Bene. Okay. Now, I believe you have questions for me?”

  “Yes, Dottore, you seem to know the answers to all the questions you’ve asked me, how is that? And where are my clothes and my bag from the beach? Lost I suppose.”

  He turns and opens the door of a white cupboard. Inside, hanging from the rail, is her beach–bag and on the shelf, her passport and wallet. “A lady… a kind lady,” he repeats, “insisted on coming here with you in the ambulance. She brought your possessions.”

  “A lady? How? Who?”

  “Angelica Lazzarotto. She told us she spoke with you. She was very concerned for you.”

  “Oh, I see. Yes. Angelica. That was her name.”

  “Angelica Lazzarotto,” he confirms. “She came to ask how you were and I told her she would be better to come back tomorrow morning.”

  “Dottore Roselli, how long must I stay here? I mean, how long do you think…”

  “I think it is best for you to remain with us under observation for another twenty–four hours. I will come and see you again tomorrow and if I am happy with the oxygen in your blood and you are strong enough, then you can be discharged.” He leans his arms on the side of the bed and studies her face. “However, I think it would be best for the time being if you were to be released into the care of another person. You must remember, when you were brought in your condition was not… favourable. At first, we were not confident that we would be able to save you and there is little doubt that if the men who rescued you had not pumped as much water from your lungs as they did, then…”

  “Is that why my chest aches?” She had meant to say breasts and stomach, but the idea that complete strangers had not only seen her in such a state but had also handled her intimately, unsettles her and she very quickly decides she doesn’t want to dwell on the thought. “Is that why I feel so bruised?”

  “Yes. You will be sore for a few days and you will cough, which will make you yet more uncomfortable: your lungs will also take a few days to clear completely, so if you feel faint or pass out, you will have to come back. This is very important, yes?” He closes the cupboard and checks his watch. “Now, there are people who need my attention, so…” He turns to leave.

  “Dottore?”

  He turns back to her. “Yes?”

  “I’m grateful to you. I’m sorry if I was a bit… well… And I’m sorry to have taken up so much of your time when I am sure there are others who are more deserving. Especially after my being so stupidly careless.”

  He warms to her, his eyes surrendering their stern concentration. “No matter. Now, please keep the oxygen mask on until the nurse checks your blood in an hour’s time.”

  “Before you go, Dottore, I have one more question.”

  “Yes, of course, what is it?”

  “Who did rescue me?”

  He replaces the mask over her mouth and nose: a medical necessity perhaps; a sign telling her she needs to stop talking, definitely. “I am not completely certain; La Signora Lazzarotto told me they were fishermen. You were, to say the least, very fortunate a feluca was so close by. Another minute, perhaps only another few seconds, and… Now, rest and if you can, try to sleep.”

  “A feluca. Yes. Thank you, Dottore.”

  *

  “There is a lady to see you,” the nurse says.

  “A lady? To see me?”

  “Yes, La Signora Lazzarotto. Dottore Roselli asked her to collect you. You can take off the mask now; I will remove your cannula.”

  When the nurse has left, there is a polite knock at the door.

  “Come in, please.”

  The door opens into the room and a short, heavy–set woman, dark–brown hair tightly curled, enters. She carries a small leather holdall. “Signora, it is me Angelica, from the beach. How do you feel today? Better, I hope.”

  Though forced, due solely to her lack of energy, the smile she musters is genuine. “Yes, much better, thank you. Please, sit down for a minute.”

  “If I may.” La Signora Lazzarotto’s smile is warm if a little nervous, judging by the way she glances at the now silent machines that have been monitoring the patient’s progress.

  “Signora Lazzarotto, I–”

  “Angelica, please.”

  “Yes. Thank you. I am Catherine. I don’t think I told you my name when we met, or if I did, I can’t remember.”

  “No, you didn’t. I told you mine, but somehow… Anyway, what do names matter, eh?”

  “Signora Lazzar– I mean, Angelica, the doctor told me you came to the hospital with me in the ambulance, that was very kind of you, you–”

  “It was not kind,” she interrupts, dismissing the compliment as if it was a bothersome insect, “it was necessary. Your bag, your belongings: I am sure someone would have picked them up, but as we had already spoken, I decided it was better that I should do it than someone less reliable.”

  In the two words, less reliable, it comes to Catherine that the woman has defined herself; for if one’s physique can be shaped to formalise steadfastness, then Angelica Lazzarotto’s bold chin, broad, rounded shoulders and thick, capable arms do so.

  “Well, if not kind,” Catherine replies, “then I am very grateful. Really, very grateful.”

  She waves again. “Nothing. It was nothing. You were in a certain difficulty, let us say, and I am sure had our circumstances been reversed that you would have done the same for me. You strike me as one who would: tell me I am wrong?”

  Her brazenness, her willingness to talk in such a no–nonsense manner is neither impertinent nor impudent, it is pleasantly refreshing: it is as though someone has walked into the room and opened a window to allow in a cooling draft of fresh air.

  “I’d like to think I would, Angelica. I’d like to think so.”

  “Of course, you would. I recognise the kindness in some as easily as I recognise the indifference in others. Now, what is more important than what I have done
for you, is how you are in yourself. Do you think you are up to leaving? Do you have the strength to step beyond the portal of the Papardo and walk amongst the healthy? Though I must say, there are some in my village who look far from healthy. Pah! That is how it is these days, isn’t it? People live the way they want to, not the way they should. Tell me, how do you feel? Are you ready?”

  Catherine hopes her expression does not betray her misgivings in the face of such exhortation to confront the world outside, however… “Yes, thank you, I guess I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. Though tell me, if you wouldn’t mind, why does the doctor think I need a shepherd or chaperone? Or is nursemaid more appropriate?”

  “Come, come,” she waggles her finger, a thick, solid and insistent index finger that looks more suited to the cleaning of guts from a fish rather than the intricacies of needlework. “My dear Catherine, one does not question the advice of Dottore Roselli: he is an intelligent man and a good doctor, as was his father, and in Ganzirri his grandfather is venerated before Saint Lucas the Evangelist: God rest their souls.” She crosses herself and glances up at the ceiling. “You must be assured that Dottore Roselli always has one’s better interests at heart; he remembers his oath and clearly he believes you need someone to keep an eye on you for a few days, isn’t that enough?”

  Whatever Catherine’s misgivings, they are as chaff tossed in a gale. “Yes, you’re right, Angelica, I’m sure you are. And he is very charming, too.”

  “Oh, yes: attractive, gentle with his hands and a very pleasing bedside manner.” Her eyes sparkle with mischief. “What else can a woman ask for in a doctor? Now–”

  “Angelica, please excuse my interrupting you…” Catherine, now formal and assertive, if only as assertive as her depleted reserves of energy will permit. “My clothes, they are at the hotel and I am booked in to stay for another week.”

  “Yes, you were, but now you are not: I have told them you have no further need of the room. And as for your clothes, I have already been and taken them to my house. I have brought you all you need to change into.”

  “You have taken my clothes?” Catherine asks, vaguely surprised, vaguely offended. “You have been to the hotel and picked up my things? Should they have let you? Didn’t they object?”

  “Yes, a little. But I know them well, very well, and I explained your situation and they understood. If you feel I have acted improperly, we can call by on the way home so that you can satisfy yourself all is in order.”

  “Angelica!” Catherine says, her frustration at being railroaded flaring in her tone. “I am not sure I should be your house guest just because Dottore Roselli has decreed I need a little watching. Surely, you could have kept an eye on me while I was at the hotel.”

  If Catherine had hoped to provoke some reaction from Angelica, her hopes are immediately dashed by the woman’s disarming and sweetly mothering smile.

  “No, that would not do. I promised Dottore Roselli that I would look after you for a few days. Tell me, and I know you can discharge yourself if you wish to, do you seriously believe you have the strength to care for yourself. Look at you: you don’t look as though you have it in you to peel an orange. And… you could do with a good meal; you look far too thin for your own good. So, what harm is there in good food and resting under my watchful eye. Only for a few days, eh?”

  Catherine struggles to drag herself upright in the hope that by doing so she will gain some authority. But when eventually she is sitting up, the room spins, slowly, irregularly, her eyes glaze over and she reaches out to hold onto the side of the bed. The effort causes her to cough and cough again until her throat and lungs ache and she clutches her ribs.

  Angelica hands her a tissue.

  When the spasm has passed and she has cleaned her mouth, Catherine asks, “You are married, aren’t you? You told me your husband’s name. Alberto, isn’t it? You said he works in the port.”

  “Alberto, yes,” she smiles, “at the Capitaneria. Your memory serves you well.” Her expression darkens briefly. “What of him?”

  “Well, won’t he object? I mean, suddenly having a woman he does not know in the house?”

  Angelica shrugs and grins. “No, he didn’t object. I told him you would be coming to stay for a few days and besides, we have enough room and he likes his food. You know, Catherine… Or perhaps I should call you Caterina. Yes. Caterina; it sounds better, and with your dark eyes, your full lips and small nose, you could pass for one of us: your complexion is a bit pasty and you are a bit tall, but… Is your father tall?”

  “Was. Yes. Taller than some, I suppose.”

  “Well, Caterina,” she glances at the gold wedding band on Catherine’s finger, “I am sure you know that all men are like dogs, eh? As long as you feed them, they will do what you want.”

  Chapter 4

  Enough room, that was what Angelica had said.

  Catherine looks around: a single bed, blue sheet and grey blanket folded square. The walls are rough–plastered, lime–washed and hung with paintings of fishing boats, folk congregating by the sea and, above the bed, an image of the Madonna della Lettera, clutching her child as she blesses the citizens of Messina. At least there is a window, even if it does look directly at the house not more than a few metres opposite.

  “It’s perfect,” she says. “I still don’t understand why you should show me such kindness. Wouldn’t it be better if I–”

  “The bathroom is next to your room,” Angelica points to her right, “Alberto rises and leaves early, and he isn’t always as quiet as one might wish. Please, make yourself comfortable.”

  Taken with an urge to flee and yet at the same time stay, Catherine sits on the bed, lowers her head into her hands and mutters, “What the hell are you doing, girl? How on earth did you come to this?”

  For how long she remains so, she is not sure, until slowly Catherine becomes aware Angelica is still standing in the doorway.

  “You will be fine now,” she says. “Come, let me help you unpack. Even if you are with us for only a few days, it will make you feel better if you unpack: you will feel more… more at home.”

  The blessed tenderness of the woman fractures the dam of emotion Catherine has been shoring up ever since she’d woken to find the round–faced angel of mercy sitting silently, watching over her.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s up with me.” She searches in her pocket for a tissue, a handkerchief, a piece of cloth, anything with which she can dry her tears. But there is nothing: she did not choose her clothes, she is not prepared, she had not thought to…

  “Caterina,” Angelica whispers, handing her a tissue, “you have no need to apologise for your emotion. It is perfectly healthy for us to cry away our sadness and who knows, perhaps even our regret. You have had a shock: you are tired, I can see that. Why don’t you lie down for a while, a little sleep, un pisolino? It won’t hurt. And, when you wake, come downstairs, I will be in the kitchen.” Gently, she shepherds Catherine to lie down and covers her with the blanket.

  “I’m sorry, Angelica. I’m sorry and I’m so very grateful. Really I am.”

  *

  “You look a little better,” Angelica notes, as Catherine comes into the kitchen, adding, “There is colour in your cheeks.”

  “Yes, I feel rested, thank you. I feel like I’m still wearing the hospital though, I don’t suppose–”

  “Why don’t you take a shower, eh? But please, be prudent: usually, we have water only from six in the morning until nine in the evening and though we have a tank, it does not hold much. Alberto, he gets irritable if I have used too much and there is not enough for him to shower when he comes home.”

  “Your water is rationed?” Catherine replies, surprised.

  “Yes, Messina is always short of water. It is because we are squeezed between the mountains and the Strait. June, not so bad, but in August the tap runs dry
at two in the afternoon.”

  When Catherine reappears, suitably refreshed, she stands by the door and watches her host busy herself with a recipe.

  “Good,” Angelica says, after a brief and overtly critical appraisal. “Earlier, you looked better: now, you look almost human. You dress well; those are nice trousers, a nice blue, a rich blue, like the sea in the evening. And that blouse, orange like the sun. Expensive, eh?”

  “No,” Catherine replies, a shade defensively, “not really.”

  “I did not mean to suggest you spend too much money on clothes,” Angelica notes, cutting a chunk of cheese and setting it to a grater. “I mean that you dress well, that you pay attention to how you look. That is good for a woman, to look nice. Alberto will be home soon.”

  Catherine edges over, nearer Angelica and studies the various ingredients she has set out on the counter. “Looks… complex, what are you cooking?”

  “Arancino. Do you know it?”

  “Yes, but I haven’t eaten arancino for years: I used to love it. That’s pork mince, isn’t it? And beef, too. Is that parmigiano you’re grating?”

  “No, this is pecorino; unlike parmigiano, it is sheep’s milk and it has more salt.” She stands back and points: “And this is arborio rice, risotto rice, we use it because it absorbs flavour better than ordinary rice. And here, we have crushed saffron, yellow onions because they are a little sulphurous, mozzarella, tomato paste, flour, eggs, vegetables, sea salt and black pepper. I use olive oil for cooking the filling and vegetable oil for cooking the rice balls. I guess you could say it is more complex than other dishes, but it is worth it and it is a personal favourite of Alberto’s, so…”

  “I’m sure it’ll be delicious,” Catherine says, her taste buds dancing at the thought.

  Angelica pauses for a second, looking at her intently, perhaps gauging some potential in her. “Why don’t you help me?”