“Mmm.” He doesn’t bother opening his eyes. “I sure hope so. Hey, didn’t Giulia say she and her mother would be here at four?”
Catherine stretches her arms overhead. “We’re in Italy, Mark. It’s been four o’clock since a little after three, and it will continue to be four o’clock until at least five thirty. But wake up. Here they come.”
Pippo arrives first and sets to work on a toe bath for Mark. A smiling Giulia is close behind, holding a silver tray with espresso for four. “I’m sorry about Pippo. He will be adopted later this week, but we must keep him here until then.”
“He’s sweet.” Catherine stands to help Giulia with the tray just as a gray-haired woman, not five feet tall, her chunky, tubular body clothed entirely in black, joins the group.
“This is my mother. You know she lives with me, yes? And she asks you to call her ‘Assunta,’ nothing more formal, please.” Giulia grabs on to Assunta’s outstretched arms and slows the older woman’s descent-and-drop into the low chair. Assunta says something in a language that resembles Italian—but isn’t—as she twists and slides her way toward the backrest.
Giulia sighs. “Mamma can speak pretty good Italian and English. But when she feels shy, she speaks the sicilianu.”
“Buon pomeriggio, Assunta.” Catherine hopes “Good afternoon” is the right greeting at this time of day. “Would you like a more comfortable chair?”
Mark begins to rise. “If someone tells me where . . .”
Assunta shakes her head and speaks a few quick words.
“Mamma says she is good now with this chair.”
As if to prove the point, Assunta folds her hands in the slight indentation that marks the meeting of ample bosom and ample abdomen.
“You have a magical place here.” Catherine accepts a tiny cup of coffee from Giulia. “We’re very grateful you rented it to us.”
Assunta smiles and nods as Giulia pours coffee. “Mamma and I do not see so many people here who speak English. But after some little time to listen and become accustomed with the ear, Mamma’s English will be much better again. Mine too, I hope!”
Assunta takes a deep breath and leans forward, dealing her words like cards from a deck. “What do you plan to do here?”
“Well, I think you know I’m an artist. I plan to work in the barn, mostly drawing and sculpting. And I want to learn more about casting bronze statues. There’s an expert who lives in Firenze. I know him from years ago when I was in school there.”
“This is what you do at home?”
“Yes. I teach art at City College of New York, but I also paint and sculpt.”
“And you, Mark?” Assunta’s voice is more confident now.
“I’m an architect. A junior partner at a small architectural firm.”
A quick flurry of dialect passes back and forth between Assunta and Giulia. Both women smile and nod. “Architectural firm,” says Giulia. “This is a funny expression to translate.”
Mark explains that he is here to learn about the developing agriturismo movement. “Are either of you familiar with it?”
“Yes. Mamma and I read about the new laws. I think this is the plan for small farms here to have visitors who come for their holidays? Like you and Catherine come here.”
“Exactly. I’ll be meeting with landowners all over Italy who want to welcome tourists as guests on their farms. They may need to make some changes to their buildings, or even add new ones, to accommodate their guests.”
“Such a good chance for people to see the real Italy.” Giulia sweeps one arm from horizon to horizon. “So many people—they know the Coliseum, the Blue Grotto. But they do not know the beauty of the true countryside. Or about how deep is our history here. Even if you must dig a little harder than in some, eh . . .” She wrinkles her nose. “. . . big museum with signs and—eh . . .” She taps her ears. “. . . speakers for your head.”
Mark and Catherine share quick, amused smiles as he reaches for a cookie. “I’m looking forward to driving around, meeting people who agree with you.”
Assunta crosses herself, and Giulia laughs. “Mamma does not approve of driving. She thinks people should take only the train for the long journeys because drivers here are too reckless.”
“I’ll use the train when I can, so Catherine isn’t without a car if I’m gone very long.”
“No-no-no! You drive your big car. We have two. And only one who drives—me. Catherine, you can use the other. You buy the petrol only and go.”
Assunta crosses herself again.
Catherine turns to Giulia. “I couldn’t—”
“I insist.” Giulia brushes her palms together. “It is a decision.”
“Thank you. That’s very generous. I feel at home here already, thanks to your graciousness, Giulia.”
“Buonissima! It is not easy to compete with an exciting home like New York.”
Catherine’s smile fades and Giulia says, “I said something to make you sad.”
Mark gets up and stands behind Catherine with his hands on her shoulders. She reaches up and places her hands over his. “It’s nothing.”
“Sometimes things happen and you need to get away.” Mark massages Catherine’s shoulders. “For a break. A change of scene.”
“Yes.” Giulia nods. “A change of scene. Maybe sometimes a fresh start. It’s good. Good for everybody.”
FOUR
Seth
August 26, 1992
Dear Notebook,
I registered for classes today. I waited pretty late, but I got the ones I want. Well, they make some exceptions for transfer students so that didn’t hurt. It’s really weird not being nagged about anything like registering on time or paying my bills. My mother always kept better track of what I needed to be doing than I ever did. I guess I’m free to screw up now. Ha ha.
Part of me wants classes starting but another part wants to get out of here. I’m not sure where I’d go though since all the memories would come right along with me. And the guilt.
A few months ago, I decided to read the paper every day. I figure I might as well know what’s going on out in the world since nothing goes on in my world. Or what’s left of it. But it’s one bad thing after the other and really depressing. Some horrible stuff goes on. Last month there were 3 big plane crashes. 70 people got killed in one. The other 2—and this is really weird—they were on the same day. 221 people—bam—gone. In China and Nepal. I guess I’m not the only one whose life suddenly went to shit. It’s supposed to be that misery loves company, but reading about all that doesn’t make me feel better. It makes me feel like it’s probably gonna happen again. There was another one. A big flight and everybody got out before the plane went on fire. Yeah, 292 people escaped a fire. And then there was a hurricane. That thing killed 39 people and destroyed 25,000 houses. I can’t even imagine it.
I can’t stop wondering why I am still even alive. Why I get to sign up for classes and Amy doesn’t. She would have been a freshman right now. She never even found out what schools she got into. Dr Whitmore says I feel “understandable” guilt about surviving when she didn’t. But, you know, dear Notebook, it’s simpler than that. I just feel like shit.
One of the meds he has me taking now makes me really dizzy. Right out of the blue the world starts spinning. Sometimes I wonder if I could just spin apart. I wish I would. Not really. I really don’t know what I wish. I more or less stopped wishing a while ago.
FIVE
Mark
Mark walks up to the low, modern office building with a touch of apprehension. This place, which his firm has arranged as his local base of operations for the next five months, is more than a little different from what he’s used to in New York. He pulls open one of the heavy glass doors,
and the first thing he notices is the aroma of strong coffee and the echoing sound of men, out of sight, talking and laughing. He approaches the receptionist’s desk.
“Buongiorno. I’m—” He catches himself. “Sono Mark Lindquist.” Catherine warned him this day would come if he didn’t learn Italian. And he didn’t. And now he feels every bit as much the ugly American as she’d told him he would.
“Signor Lindquist! We’ve been expecting you.” The receptionist’s English is quite good, making Mark feel like a simpleton as well. “Welcome. I am Paola. And please—a moment, while I tell al Signor Di Mauro that you are here.”
Paola picks up the phone, and Mark looks around the reception area, admiring the clean lines of the furniture. He turns at the sound of leather soles snapping across the terrazzo floor.
“Benvenuto! I’m Edoardo. We have spoken on the phone.” They shake hands and Mark follows Edoardo back into a comfortable conference room. It isn’t long before two other men, Giuseppe and Luca, join them.
“Did you have trouble finding us?” Edoardo offers Mark an espresso, then sits at the table.
“None at all. It took about forty-five minutes. I was lucky, though. No traffic.”
“You are not saying here in Palermo?”
“No. I’m down the coast—in Macri.”
Edoardo’s face changes. Mark isn’t certain what he sees there. Surprise, for sure, but it’s mixed with something else. He watches Edoardo neutralize his expression before speaking. “Macri! Ah, yes. That is a little bit of a drive. But you will be on the road all around Italy, yes? So you won’t be there very much?”
“That’s right.” Pushing aside a flicker of concern for what that remark might mean, Mark decides to ignore it for now and sketches in his plans for the next few weeks.
“Excellent. We are here when you need us or our facilities. Come. You can see what is available.”
As they leave the room, Luca and Giuseppe exchange a brief bit of Italian, but the only thing Mark can make out is “Macri.” Is he imagining that they look puzzled as well? “Edoardo, are they talking about Macri?”
Edoardo gives the two men a sharp glance. “I’m sorry. Yes, they were talking about the best road to take there.”
“Are you sure that’s all? There isn’t something I should know? Something about Macri or—”
“No, no. You know—the road, the drive—this is always the Italian preoccupation.”
Marsala, not twenty kilometers along the seaside road from Giulia’s farm, is a vibrant city—ancient, artsy, and comfortable in its own skin. Its multicultural history, more than two thousand years’ worth, gives it an air of having seen it all and kept only the best. Sitting across from Catherine at an outdoor table near the piazza, Mark notes the way the early-evening light plays on the pale-yellow fronts of nearby buildings, making them appear warm and sun-soaked even now. His architect’s eyes fill with inspiration: the wrought iron balconies, the flower boxes brimming with luscious blooms, and the incredible variety of doors—from tiny and narrow to huge and imposing.
A slender young woman in a crisp white blouse and black slacks brings their orders of Pasta Norma, local red wine, and huge salads topped with fresh basil leaves the size of a child’s hand.
Mark places his napkin in his lap. Catherine folds her hands under her chin, elbows on the table. “This whole place—it makes me so happy, I feel like proposing to you.”
“Again? It took the first time, you know.” He tucks into his pasta. “And seems to have worked out for the last ten years.”
“Pity. I mean that I can’t do it again.”
Mark leans in toward Catherine, and lowering his voice, assumes what he thinks passes for an aristocratic British accent. “However, my dear, we could carry on quite indecently.” He covers her hand with his and wiggles his eyebrows up and down in a salacious dance. “When we get back to the cottage, of course.”
“Maaaay-beee,” says Catherine, sipping her wine. “Talk to me again after the pasta.”
He sighs. “Looking at this table, I can’t honestly fault your priorities.”
They both laugh. He raises his hand a discreet distance, and when the waitress looks, he points to the empty wine carafe. She nods and disappears into the restaurant.
Catherine looks down the narrow little street where a blue-gray sliver of sea is still visible in the fading light. “Next stop across that water is Tunisia.”
“A ferry goes there, you know. From Palermo. We could take it.”
They spend dinner discussing all the places, near and far, they’d like to go. Anything feels possible tonight. When they leave their table, they walk, holding hands like schoolkids, toward the faint sound of music in the piazza. Rounding the corner, they enter the large, busy square, and the sound resolves into the voices of costumed children singing and dancing. At the far end of the piazza is a temporary stage, the strong, tall front of the eight-hundred-year-old church, Chiesa Madre, to its left. Parents and family crowd around.
Mark puts his arm around Catherine’s shoulders as she explains that the music is traditional to this area. “Their teacher—I think that’s their teacher—just invited the kids’ parents onstage to dance with them.”
Mothers and fathers climb the steps to the stage—laughing, smiling, and commenting when the music begins—and they sing and dance along with the children. Mark can sense Catherine becoming emotional as she watches the crowd, many of whom sing along softly.
“I’ve never seen anything like this, Mark. This is their tradition in a way I can’t even imagine. And it’s almost as if we’re part of it.”
He does feel part of it, unsure of why it touches him as it does—these strangers who speak a language he can’t understand, carrying on a tradition he’s never seen. But it touches Catherine, and that’s enough for him.
By the time the performance ends, it’s close to dark. Street lamps light the city to a warm copper as Mark and Catherine walk to their car, arms around each other’s waists. Mark wonders if Catherine is so quiet because she too is marveling at whatever it is that has brought them here, together, to this perfect place with the perfect partner on this perfect night.
Lying on a narrow strip of sand, Catherine and Mark form a T, her head cushioned by a folded towel on Mark’s stomach.
“How’s the headache?” Mark adjusts his sunglasses and brushes sand from his forehead.
“Never let me have that much wine again.” Catherine sits up and Mark follows. The calm of the water still surprises him. At most, the lagoon produces a steady train of low ripples in acknowledgment of the never-ending African winds. He looks along the shore where gentle sandy curves form small beach areas. An unusual sight catches his eye, and he squints to see it more clearly.
“Cath? Look. There.” He points. “What do you see?”
Catherine looks with and without her sunglasses. “You mean that guy? Or woman, maybe. Way down there?”
“Yeah. Walking on the water. Not that they really can be.”
“Well, there aren’t enough of us for this to be a collective hallucination, so—”
“But look.” Mark points again, as if to be sure Catherine is looking at the right place. “He’s definitely on foot, but he’s out in the middle of the water.”
“It is really weird. But he’s so far away. Maybe if we were closer . . .”
“I suppose. And I suppose everything has some boring explanation in the end. Although this one sure beats me right now.”
Back at the cottage, Mark parks next to the red Fiat. It’s hours before sunset, but the sky has already changed, as if the bright part of the day has been packed up and put away until tomorrow.
“That car.” Mark shakes his head. “You should get the brakes checke
d, anyway. At least.”
“You worry way too much.” Catherine gathers up their blankets and towels. “Get that picnic basket, would you?”
Catherine may think he worries too much, but he’s pretty sure he worries just right and is about to say so when he feels something at his heels. It’s Pippo. Mark crouches to pet the puppy, who jumps into the car and with complete lack of finesse jams his head into the picnic basket. When Giulia arrives, she scoops Pippo up.
“Your delivery came today. Everything is in the barn as you asked.”
“I hope it wasn’t too much trouble.” Mark scratches Pippo’s ears.
“None at all. Anything I can do for you, please ask.”
“Well, maybe you can answer a question. We saw someone—” He pauses. “Who was—well, looked like he was—walking on the water. To the south of your beach here.”
Giulia laughs. “You are not the first to be confused by this. That is where you find the evaporating pools for the salt production. And the pools—they are very big and square with narrow stone—eh—I am not sure what you call this—maybe border?—around them. People walk along them sometimes, and from far away, it looks like magic.”
“Ah. I had no idea.”
“Oh, you must take some time and learn about this. Producing the salt from the sea is an ancient art for us. Lo Stagnone—our lagoon—has given back much salt, going back almost three thousand years.”
“Three thousand. The Phoenicians?”
“Yes. To know truly our little piece of Sicily, you must go to our salt museum. It is not so big, but you will learn about how the salt is captured, and you will see the beauty of the windmills. This sea salt—it is very much a part of us here.”
Children of the Salt Road Page 2
