Children of the Salt Road

by Lydia Fazio Theys

  “Mark?” Catherine is perhaps twenty feet behind him, hugging herself, shoulders hunched.

  He joins her. “What’s up, Cath? You cold?”

  “You just missed him. It was that boy again.”

  “You’re shaking. I hope you’re not getting sick.”

  “I wanted to ask Giulia about him, but she’s left. That doesn’t seem like her.”

  Mark turns to see Giulia halfway back to the house, throwing a stick for Pippo and bending down, clapping her hands when he runs after it. “She must have run after Pippo.” But really, she’s so polite. Leaving like that—it does seem odd.

  SIX

  Seth

  September 17, 1992

  Dear Notebook,

  Yesterday was my best day in a long time. I still feel like crap but for a couple of hours anyway, it wasn’t as bad. My classes are all okay but Art 320 is great. The whole class is juniors and seniors and we have a lot of freedom. Professor Altimari is really something and she pays attention to everybody in there. It feels like we really matter. Like our work is something serious. It’s not that my classes at RISD weren’t really good. They were. But this is something different somehow.

  When I get going in there, a lot of stuff comes into my mind that I wish wouldn’t. Not that I ever go very long without thinking about it but painting, drawing—it taps down into the worst of it. Like it should, I guess. And yeah, it feels good to let some of it out but still—it’s not gone. In the movies some sweaty artist paints this crazed mad-looking canvas full of stuff and he exorcises his demons. Not me, though.

  I was working on this one painting from a model who looked a lot like Amy and when I was done I could see the painting really was Amy and it was all twisted and confused. And then the whole night came back to me right there in class, like it was all happening again. I felt trapped. Like I might lose it in front of the whole class before I could get to the door. But I think I got out before anyone noticed anything. That painting, though—I’m too lazy to explain it, Notebook. You’ll have to look at it yourself.

  An earthquake killed 116 people in Nicaragua. And there’s a horrible flood in Pakistan going on right now. No one really knows but they think maybe 2000 people could be dead there and whole villages are under water. All from rain. It’s not even like fire. I mean, fire isn’t supposed to happen but rain is. Nothing is safe.

  I’m still in a fog half the time. Some of the kids from class went out together but I begged off. Not ready. Not yet. Don’t tell anyone, Notebook, but I’m not sure I’ll ever be or that I even care. I think Dr W was right. I shouldn’t have stopped working all those months. I should have made myself at least sketch or something. Because now that I started again, I realize how much I missed it.

  SEVEN

  Catherine

  As soon as Mark’s car was out of sight this morning, Catherine had missed him. At the same time, she’d welcomed a full week of no one to play tourist with, meaning an opportunity for some serious work. Now, Catherine drags open the large creaking doors on one end of the barn, or as she thinks of it, her studio. Opening the doors is like drawing back the curtain to reveal a show—a waltz of slowly swirling dust eddies caught unawares by the silent entering sunlight. Groans and echoes of groans chorus from the lofts as the ancient boards expand and contract throughout the day. And the brightly illuminated central area lives in its own window-lit spotlight, its borders blending through dusty dimness into the complete darkness of the barn’s corners, edges, lofts, and roof. Mark considers it a little too creepy for comfort. He said opening the doors reminded him of that scene from Poltergeist where the kids’ bedroom door opens to reveal toys swirling around. But Catherine finds herself drawn to the place. She can’t wait to get to work.

  Several days before, she’d devoted an entire day to unpacking the crates and boxes of art materials and making the space her own. Most of the setup was mechanical but satisfying: placing sketch pads, charcoals, pencils, erasers, paint, canvases, materials for armatures—all the tools of her trade—in just the right places for easy access while leaving the best spots free and clear for working.

  Unpacking several boxes of paintbrushes, she’d sorted them by size and placed them bristles up into white ceramic jars. She’d done the identical thing this past September, setting up for a new semester of Art 320 students. That was always one of her favorite studio classes. The students were experienced and serious, and each class held at least one or two very talented kids. It was all potential then, and the prospect of what her students might create was always exciting. She looked forward to helping them progress with new skills and techniques as they looked at painting in new ways or learned to draw from live models. Some semesters played out to be more satisfying than others, of course, but this last semester—how did it get so bad? She should have seen it coming sooner. It had been her job to stop it before things went completely off the rails. Even with a sabbatical here and an entire semester’s break from teaching, she isn’t sure she will ever again feel confident of her ability to read students or to handle tricky situations. And how will she teach, why should she be given the responsibility of a class, without those two basic skills?

  Today, work has been going well, and she cleans up, planning to take Giulia’s Fiat out for the first time. She is considering where to go when an uneasy feeling comes over her, the feeling that someone is watching. She quashes the urge to back up and press flat against the nearest wall, and yet her overwhelming sense is not of threat but of a palpable curiosity. With a mix of reluctance and anticipation, she turns, and there, no more than thirty feet away, is the boy. She can see he’s young—four, perhaps five—and wears sandals and brown shorts. His tan-and-red-striped T-shirt is not new, and the fit is snug. His eyes are large, his expression serious, his cheeks lush and round—the face of a near baby with curly brown hair. She thinks of an illustration from a children’s book, a Little Golden Book from the 1950s she remembers fondly.

  For reasons she takes no time to analyze, Catherine feels an instant connection to the boy, and she smiles, but he turns and runs. Catherine pursues him through the long, dark expanse of the barn and out into the wide-open field. He’s gone. She stops. She turns, squinting in the brightness, looking in every direction. As impossible as it seems, because she can’t see a single hiding spot even remotely close enough, the child is nowhere in sight.

  Behind the wheel of the boxy red Fiat, Catherine is a child playing hooky. She hopes Giulia won’t mind that she removed the two bunches of herbs that were hanging from the rearview mirror. Were they decorative? Some kind of local air freshener? Well, at least in the backseat they can freshen the air without blocking her view. She should be working now, as she did yesterday and the day before, and she’d tried. But she’d squandered the morning flitting without focus from one thing to another. So now she’s on the road to the Archaeological Museum in Marsala. Yes, she should have waited for Mark, but this spontaneous visit is for inspiration. They’ll go again together when he gets back.

  She’d hoped to see the boy again, but he hasn’t returned, at least not that she’d seen. Or felt. That awful sense of being watched—she’s had it before, but somehow this has been different, intense and, for want of a better word, visceral. And demanding. Well, it’s probably nothing. The barn, as much as she loves it, is a little eerie, and the brain can be quite the trickster.

  Parking in a large lot, empty save for two other cars, she heads off along the pink-brick sidewalk that hugs the museum’s long cream-colored front. Across the road to her left, the Mediterranean, gray and choppy compared to the lagoon, extends to the horizon, the sun perched above it, resting up for its spectacular exit later on. A brisk wind off the sea blows Catherine’s skirt and hair to one side, then drops them without warning, as if needing a breath, before beginning again. Once inside the door, faced with the shock of
sudden stillness and quiet, she decides to start with the room on the right since the only other visitor, a middle-aged man with a notebook, has gone left. A full-size Punic ship, reconstructed into an imposing display, greets her when she turns the corner. Typewritten cards report that this ship had been in the battle ending the First Punic War more than two thousand years ago, sunk on what might have been its maiden voyage. Archaeologists have used all available pieces of the ship, filling in with a skeleton of curved wire and wood. The result is so light and airy, so full of life, that it wouldn’t surprise her if the ship burst from the room, flying across the road to the sea, to seek a chance to sail another day.

  Hundreds of amphorae, jugs that once held oils and spices, line the back and sides of the room. The entire display fills Catherine with a palpable sense of the people who’d sailed this ship. She can almost see and hear—even smell—the oarsmen as they labored, young men powered by adrenaline and fear. She sits in a corner on the floor, studying the ship until a guard approaches, asking with concern if she’s all right. Perhaps la signora would like to visit the archaeological park outside since it will soon close? The realization that she has been here for hours shocks Catherine to her feet. She takes the map the guard offers and exits through the double glass doors at the back of the building.

  The ruins comprise a vast area of semi-maintained paths through a patchy confusion of greenery and wildflowers. Pale-lavender moths scatter in ghostly clouds as she passes by. Glanced by low shafts of sunlight, bits and pieces of ancient structures poke through in surprising places. Worn-away informational signs and broken floodlights testify to a past formality long gone. Ancient baths, houses, shops, a Roman road, some mosaics—all are visible, nestling into the earth, reaching out here and there to greet the present.

  Catherine sees from the map that the archaeological park carves a broad rectangle deep into Marsala with walls, buildings, and fences dividing it from the modern-day city. But who chose the boundary between past and present? She pictures every home, church, and shop sitting on top of more of this, to be discovered only when someone digs a pool or a foundation for a new building. So many artists and scientists must want to know what’s there, but you can’t very well ask people to let their homes be destroyed to bring more of the past into the present.

  Spotting a side exit, Catherine passes through a rusted gate. Almost immediately on the other side sits a small church—a plain, whitewashed box with hazel wooden doors open and inviting. Inside, she finds a modest altar, some pews, and a few statues. Two older men sit toward the back on folding wooden chairs. Conscious of the clipped echo of her every step, she walks to a small grating covering an opening in the stone floor and looks down to the darkness below. One of the men, dressed in a beige linen suit, approaches. Speaking slow, clear Italian, he asks if she would like to see the lower level of the church. “Most interesting,” he says.

  Catherine follows him down an ancient and crude stone stairway; she bends low to avoid the uneven surface overhead. At the bottom, she looks up at the only source of meager light, the grating in the floor above them.

  “This is very special. You will see. And someone like you—you will appreciate it. This, I know.”

  “Someone like me?”

  “I can see you feel that there is something for you here. Most simply pass us by. They never know.”

  Using a small key, he turns a switch on the wall, and the lights come on with a resonant snap. In front of her, frescoes cover one wall of the large cavelike room. She learns from the gentleman—his speech always clear, patient, and elegantly serious—that the paintings are Roman. A statue of Saint John the Baptist occupies a niche in another wall, a location it first assumed in the 1400s. And in the floor, directly under the grating above, is a deep hole, much like a well. Water trickles from the wall under the statue of Saint John—sweet water, the man says—and meets the seawater inside the hole. This, he explains, is the tomb of the Cumaean sibyl, the very oracle Aeneas visited before his descent into the underworld. The early Christians, believing this sibyl had foretold the birth of Christ, honored this spot and used the sacred waters for baptisms.

  He continues speaking, but Catherine only half listens. She feels she’s looking at a slice of a layer cake—a cake of mythology and history. No, she is in the layer cake. And as she looks up through the floor to the present-day church above, her mind rises through the roof. She wonders what future layers will look like, what her part in this structure could possibly be. And she wonders why she feels so comfortable here, in this layer, where the present is still far in the future.

  Catherine hums to herself as she begins what she hopes will be another in a string of productive workdays. Once-empty tabletops now hold armatures in various stages of completion. Paint has spilled. Pencils and charcoals no longer sport sharp tips. This is the way it should be. It even smells like an art studio now.

  Drawing the sibyl’s cave, Catherine stops humming as the sense of being watched pours over her. But it’s not unpleasant this time, and she wills her shoulders to relax, arranging her face into what she hopes is a benevolent and welcoming smile. Without haste or sound, she rotates her stool, and behind her, not ten feet away, stands the boy, offering for the first time something more than a stolen glance. The recognizable sea-salt odor of childhood and the outdoors penetrates even the sharp scent of dried paints and gum erasers.

  Like a bird-watcher, Catherine keeps every body movement slow and soft. She smiles at the boy, and to her delight, he stays, but he remains guarded, so Catherine crosses her legs and resumes drawing. As often as she judges prudent, she steals a peek, and each time, he’s in the same spot, face expressionless, apparently engrossed in observing her.

  “Do you want to sit?”

  The boy tenses and backs a few steps away.

  “That’s OK!” she says. “You’re fine where you are.”

  She returns to sketching, one part of her mind devoted to maintaining slow, even breaths and wondering why he has this effect on her. Catherine’s eraser slides to the floor, and she bends to retrieve it. When she comes back up, the boy is gone, vanished in silence—in the blink of an eye. The barn feels empty.

  EIGHT

  Mark

  Mark sits on his hotel bed, feet up, thinking that so far, things have been going better than he could have hoped. He has no experience with being “on the road” or with being in Italy, and both had worried him. He’d expected to be received like a traveling salesman, but everyone has treated him like a cross between welcome guest and doctor on a house call—thanks, no doubt, to the New York office’s thorough job in laying a groundwork of trust here. And, of course, his own diligent efforts to identify and learn all about potential clients. All the people he’s met with have shown off their properties—their incredible properties—with enthusiasm, and wanted to hear what he had to say. And, at least here, on the outskirts of Milan, lack of Italian has been a non-issue. Every property owner has spoken enough English to carry on a serious conversation, even if sometimes with the help of a dictionary or a friend.

  This might as well be another world from Macri. The whole northwestern part of Sicily is incredibly beautiful, and he’s been enjoying it there, but here it feels more like the same century he left in New York. His base office in Palermo is a perfect example. The building is modern, the facilities too, but it’s out of place in its world. If the architecture were to match the local culture, well, something Art Nouveau might be a better fit, although in some ways, even late nineteenth century feels generous. Which makes that area a great place for a spectacular vacation, but not as much for work purposes. It’s a matter of time before Catherine starts to feel the same way, especially given how much she says she loved Florence. Pretty soon, she’ll start to miss the sophistication of that kind of life. Let her take her time, clear her mind, and enjoy the simpler life all she c
an. It will be good for her. By the time she starts feeling restless, he hopes to have some plans in place that she’ll find as enticing as he does.

  Mark checks his watch. Gary, one of the firm’s senior partners, had said he was on a tight schedule, flying back to New York tomorrow. Mark’s lucky to be able to catch some time with him, but now Mark is wondering if something has gone wrong. He’s about to give up and order when Gary approaches the table. Mark stands and the two men shake hands.

  “Look at you, huh? I haven’t been here that long, Gary, but I’d say that’s an Italian silk suit. A little more fashionable than I’m used to seeing you in.”

  Gary laughs and sits. “When you spend enough time here, you start to notice these things. And I have to admit you feel like a schlub in a standard-issue American suit.” He picks up his menu, gives it a quick glance, and closes it. “So, Mark, tell me how it’s going.”

  “Great, really. There are a lot of enthusiastic owners out there desperate for a way to hang on to the family farm.”

  “We’re in this at the perfect time. Handle this right and I think you know—you’re looking at senior partner. And, of course, a lot more time coming back here.”

  Senior partner. The words Mark has been waiting for. “I’ll do my best. You can count on it.”

  “I have no doubt that you will. I’m going to have to run pretty quickly, so—” Gary signals the waiter, and they order. “I’ll be back here in about a month, though. Barb is coming with me. For a little vacation. Maybe the four of us can get together—if Catherine’s schedule permits.”