After an exhausting hour of studied nonchalance, Catherine puts down the armature, and without looking at her silent companion, walks to the tray for a cookie. She bites one, says “Mmmmm,” and holds out the remaining cookie to the child. Cocking her head and raising her eyebrows in what she hopes is a universal gesture for “OK?” she walks slowly toward him, holding out the cookie. He accepts it, eating quickly, never taking his eyes from hers. Victory!
“You’re not so strange, are you? You’re just a little boy who likes cookies. Right?” There’s no reply. “Well, you’ll be ready to talk soon, I think.” She holds up one finger. “Un momento, per favore, I have more. In the house. Wait for me!”
Once in the kitchen, she grabs the open box and pours a small glass of milk, watching the barn to make sure the boy doesn’t leave. But when she returns—when she walks back into the studio saying, “Here I am!”—she’s not all that surprised that he is nowhere to be seen.
Catherine knocks on Giulia’s back door. “Ciao! It’s Catherine.”
“Let yourself in.” Giulia’s voice carries over the sound of Pippo’s excited barking.
“You look busy.” Catherine takes in the open accounting books on the sideboard, the pasta drying on racks, and the jumble of dishes in the sink.
“It is always like this. The work of a farm is never finished. The work of a house is never finished. So, me? I am two times never finished.”
Placing a covered plate on the table, Catherine picks up a toy and plays tug with an ever-enthusiastic Pippo. “I thought he was getting adopted weeks ago.”
“I thought this too. Maybe he will go. Maybe he will stay here. These things . . . must be exactly right to work out.”
Pippo settles on top of Catherine’s feet. “I baked some biscotti. I added pistachios to that recipe from last time. I hope they came out OK.”
“You are comfortable now to try new things. That’s very good!” Giulia sits at the table. “The espresso—two minutes.”
On the table, a pale-yellow ceramic bowl overflows with eggs in assorted shades of blue-greens and creams. “I keep meaning to ask about your eggs—such unusual colors.”
“Not the kind you see in the market. My baby brother—he keeps chickens and gives me these eggs. Mamma used to have chickens here, but one day, she said she had enough. I miss them.”
“I’d love to do that. If I were going to be here longer.”
“Well—who can say, eh?” Giulia smiles and holds Catherine’s gaze until a sound catches the attention of both. Assunta, a red-checked apron over her usual black dress, stands in the doorway. Giulia said Assunta wore black to show mourning and respect for someone who had died. Asked who, Giulia said, “Is always someone, no?”
“I can teach you all about the chickens.” Assunta leans on the table as she sits. “Today, though, we learn more about the oven.”
Giulia pours espresso into tiny black-and-red floral cups. “Mark is back today?”
“Right before dinnertime.”
“I think you miss him. You are in the barn all the time.”
“I do, but I need to work too. You know, though, I wanted to ask you something about that—about the barn. The young boy I mentioned the first day? He visits me there a lot. You haven’t thought of anyone, have you? Children nearby?”
“I’m afraid not me. Mamma?” Should Catherine read something into the look Giulia exchanges with Assunta?
Assunta shrugs. “Maybe one kilometer away there is a girl—very small. She comes to visit her nonna.”
“I’m so curious, and he won’t talk to me at all. But the strangest part is how he sneaks up and disappears suddenly. Every time.”
“Children! They are like puppies.”
“I suppose.” Catherine reaches down to pet Pippo. “He’s very serious, but I find him charming.”
“How lucky, then, he has come to visit you.” Again, that quick glance between Giulia and Assunta. Catherine is about to ask about it when Assunta stands up.
“Time for the lesson. Today we make scardellini. Or maybe you hear of this cookie with another name—Ossa di morto.”
“Bones of the dead?”
“They are a favorite in our family.” Assunta hands an apron to Catherine. “Old, old recipe. But you must be careful when you eat them! They are very—mmm—duri—Giulia?”
“Hard, Mamma. They are very hard. Tough.”
“Like the rocks. And you must dip them in the caffè or the vino for the safe chewing.”
Catherine laughs.
“This is true.” Giulia somehow finds room for the cups in the sink. “These dead people and their bones—you must be careful!” And she turns to Catherine and smiles.
THIRTEEN
Seth
November 10, 1992
Dear Notebook,
Another plane crash in Indonesia. 31 people dead because they were going on vacation or something. 423 people killed in a huge storm in Sri Lanka. It lasted 7 days, but that’s still a lot of people. And then this family upstate—a meteor hit their car. Can you even believe it? Thirty pounds of space junk manages to find its way to Earth and zero in on some family’s car to smash. You can’t tell me that’s something that could happen in a rational world. It’s plain fucked up.
Dr W says a month is a long time to be thinking about a meteor. I told him about my planned vacation from him and he didn’t like it. He wants to at least “stay connected” so I said I’d call him in a month and yeah maybe I will. I’ve been off the meds for a week now and I feel a whole lot better. Not dizzy. I can think clearly too. Food looks better. Like something I want to eat, not have to choke down. I just feel clean.
I’ll miss having someone to talk to but what’s the point if he doesn’t get it? I think Catherine might be someone I could really talk to. She gets stuff. She sees the world a lot like I do. I think we could be friends. I think maybe we already are a little bit.
That meteor thing has been making the nightmares even worse. That’s why I’m up writing at 3:17 a.m. Not sleeping is better than killing my family over and over again.
Oh, yeah, Dr W assures me—used to assure me—I did not kill my family. Well how the hell does he know? You want to tell me that? Because
a) they are all dead
b) I am not dead
c) it was my fault they didn’t get out
d) he wasn’t the fuck there
You can say what you want but it was my fault. Though the nice thing about you, Notebook, is that you don’t say much. No telling me that it wasn’t on purpose, that I couldn’t have known. All that means is I’m not an evil shit. Yeah, there’s something for my tombstone. A real achievement. I’m still a shit, though. And you know what? Who’s even left to put anything on my tombstone at all? What do people like me do? Preorder I guess. And ask the guy with the chisel to fill in the date. The rest kind of feels like it’s over already.
New total dead people
Plane crashes: 532
Natural disasters: 2578
FOURTEEN
Mark
The drive to the saltworks runs through a spectacular world of bleached neutrals and shimmering blues. Everywhere along the gritty, narrow, glaring-white road, huge mounds of crystal salt sit drying in the sun. Creative arrangements of terra-cotta tiles form provisional roofs protecting the salt dunes from dirt and rain. Hugging the shore of this portion of the lagoon is a sweeping network of rectangular pools—the salt pans. The shallow seawater within them ranges in shade from white to deep blue and, here and there, an occasional, surprising pink. Fifteenth-century Dutch-style windmills, their cream-colored bodies sporting orange conical hats, their trapezoidal wings of metallic mesh long stripped of canvas, dot the landscape. Once the mill
s exploited the steady winds to pump water and grind salt. Now they simply stand as a gracious reminder of a heritage, the enduring connection between this tiny sliver of coast and the labor-intensive gleaning of the salt.
A reluctant Mark pulls into a small, sandy parking area. The wind here is fragrant, the salt smell mingling with the piquant aroma of herbs that grow in every crack and cranny. “It’s unbelievable out here, but—Museum of Salt? I hope Giulia’s right, that this is interesting, because the name is deadly.”
“She hasn’t steered us wrong yet.”
“I guess capturing salt does sound moderately adventurous.”
“Yeah, that was a funny word.” Catherine walks to the edge of one of the pans. A strong breeze, the steady, warm breath of the African desert, rushes off the water. The brilliant sun flicks thousands of silvery glints from the gently crinkled surface. “Mark, look. These little stone borders—they’re what we saw that guy walking on.”
Mark squats to examine the nearest edge. “These pans are like giant swimming pools. And nothing but that long edging between them. I wonder why so narrow.”
“Let’s go inside and find out.” Catherine taps Mark’s shoulder, and he teeters, balancing himself with a palm to the ground before springing up and throwing an arm over Catherine’s shoulders as they head for the low rectangular building attached to one of the windmills.
They pull open the heavy door and duck to enter. All around on the walls of the rustic stone interior are black-and-white photographs of men laboring in the blazing heat. Antique tools, enormous cogs, and assorted pieces of machinery fill the open spaces of the floor. At a table in the back corner a young Sicilian woman sits. She explains that the salt “factory” has been in her family for many generations, and she offers a tour in what might be the most winning Italian-inflected English Mark has ever heard.
When they emerge back out into the bright afternoon, Mark is the saltworks’ newest fan. The age of the process alone is astonishing. The Phoenicians started it. The Carthaginians, Romans, and Moors continued it. And they do it more or less the same way today. It’s humbling to think that the windmills he considered ancient are the “new” ones, with the long-gone originals dating from almost twelve hundred years ago. It’s such a simple idea: pump water from one shallow pan to the next as evaporation progresses, teasing salt from the sea in a long, arduous process. Captured may be the word, after all.
Mark again squats at the water’s edge. “So the narrow edges make it easier to get the salt and water from one pan to the next.”
“My favorite thing is how the color changes as the water evaporates. Amazing. And the pink!”
“She did say algae, right? Crazy.” He stands up and stretches. “This was phenomenal. I thought the best part was going up into the windmill, though. The angles, the view. Those mills own their space.”
Catherine puts her arms around his waist. “I don’t even know how to say it. The way of life here—it goes back so far that it seems—I don’t know—more real. More genuine, maybe. How far does this feel from pushing your way through Dean & DeLuca and paying ten times the price for your ‘Artisanal Sea Salt’ in a fancy jar? This”—she holds up her hand-packed bag of salt crystals—“was done for locals—friends and family.”
He loves seeing Catherine caught up in the romance of an idea. He knows it will show up in her work. And he just plain loves seeing her happy. “Hey, Cath, I have an idea.”
“Better than standing here?”
“Want to go out for a walk on the water, so to speak?”
Catherine looks at the long, slim strips of stone that taper to points in the distance. “Promise not to push me in?” Her voice is playful.
Mark responds in kind. “You did come close to pushing me in before.”
“That was an accident. Mostly.”
“Well, you know I’m easy to knock off balance. Anyway, if you don’t trust me, walk behind me.”
“Perfect.” Catherine steps behind him, and they set out along a narrow strip.
After a minute, Mark stops and speaks over his shoulder. “You know, you can’t pass me out there, so you’re in front on the way back. However you look at it, sooner or later, you have to trust me.”
A young man seats Mark and Catherine in the center of the large, open marble-floored restaurant. Although the parking lot is full, only one in every three or four tables is occupied—puzzling Mark before he notes a series of heavy double doors set into the back wall. It must be a private room—a big one, judging from the number of doors. When he listens, he realizes that muffled voices and laughter suggest a sizable party is taking place there right now.
Busy with her menu, Catherine seems unaware of any of this. The waiter, placing a basket of bread on the table, says, “Very hot. From the oven.” He pours deep-green olive oil into a red clay dish. “Would you care for wine?” They order the house red and the waiter leaves.
“How do they always know we speak English?” Mark tears off a piece of the warm semolina bread.
“You’re kidding, right? We don’t look local at all. Plus the guy who seated us probably heard us talking and told the waiter.”
“Possible. But the clothes you’re wearing now make you look like a local to me.”
“Oh, thanks. You noticed!” Catherine pinches and lifts the shoulders of her cobalt-blue-and-hot-orange blouse, looking at the fabric with obvious satisfaction. She lets go and smooths the lace trim with care. “This lace is handmade. I look maybe a smidge more authentic, now, right?”
“Yeah.” Mark takes a bite of bread. “If that’s what you’re after.”
“I am.” She returns to her menu. “You know what sounds great? This risotto con i funghi.”
“I know it’s unsophisticated of me, but I can’t get behind a food called funghi. It’s like funky and fungus put together.”
“Even if it means ‘very delicious mushrooms’? Loosely translated.”
“Even if. But I might taste yours if you get it.”
Fifteen minutes later, their orders placed, Catherine and Mark are sipping wine when two men and two women, dressed for a party and carrying wrapped gifts, walk through the restaurant to one of the doors in back. When they open the door, the sound of happy chatter and laughter pours out. Along with it comes a toddler, a small boy wearing blue-satin shorts and a white sailor shirt. He runs shrieking and giggling through the center of the restaurant as a woman who must be his mother—slowed to a near crawl by her fitted dress and spike heels—attempts an ineffectual pursuit.
“Mark?” Catherine widens her eyes. “Should we—”
“Yep.”
And he is up and halfway to the child when it occurs to him that the boy’s father could walk in, misunderstand what he sees, and deck Mark first, asking questions later. But he reaches the child and offers a gentle hand, taking him to his teetering mother. She thanks Mark with many excited words, most of which he can’t understand, before scooping the child up and mincing her excruciating way back to the party.
Mark sits. “I was desperately trying to figure out how to say, ‘I am not a bad guy,’ but fortunately, I didn’t need to.”
“I don’t think it’s like that so much here. People take an interest in each other’s kids, and no one thinks it’s weird or threatening. Much better than home. Like so many things here.”
“Yeah, but this place—it’s great, but it has its problems. I haven’t been to a meeting yet that came off on time. I don’t know how they stand it. Or get anything done.”
“Now, Mark, we discussed the time thing. Should we do the math again?”
Mark pats her hand. “I’d rather tell you about the most amazing place I visited on the way back here. In Riposto.”
As Mark describes last week�
��s visit, one of the back doors opens bit by bit, giving the impression of moving on its own until two little girls in elaborate dresses peek out. Holding hands, they steal away from the party and walk through the restaurant, a pair of five-year-old generals inspecting the troops, pointing at tables, and chattering along the way. Catherine is speaking when the girls pass by, and the children giggle.
“We must sound odd to them.”
“Or they’re judging our taste in wine.” Mark refills their glasses.
The girls reach the front of the restaurant, and the taller one bends to whisper into the ear of her companion. They walk back toward the table and stop, looking first at Mark, then at Catherine, swinging their still-joined hands. Their burst of rapid Italian runs right over Mark’s head, and judging from the look on Catherine’s face, she isn’t doing much better. But she smiles and replies in slow Italian. The girls become suddenly shy and laugh before they run away and regroup. They repeat this several times—each time, Catherine tries to answer their questions; each time, they run off.
“What are they saying, Cath?”
“I’m not really sure. It’s so fast. And they speak—you know—like kids. And in Italian. But I think they started out curious about where we’re from, and now they can’t fathom that we don’t speak Italian as well as they do. They’re a riot.”
A moment later, the girls are on the way back, two boys along with them, one several years younger and one several years older. Catherine looks pleasantly surprised at first, but then seems disappointed. The older boy greets them with polite English while the younger boy studies Mark and Catherine as if he believes he is invisible.
Children of the Salt Road Page 5
