The Sleeping Mountain

by John Harris

  Patch seemed tired as he stepped ashore. Cecilia, who looked a little subdued, was immediately swept from the gangway by Piero.

  ‘I hope you’re satisfied,’ he said loudly to Patch over his shoulder. ‘I suspected some intrigue of this kind when I saw you waiting for the boat last week.’

  Patch shrugged, with an indifference that humiliated Piero. ‘I hope you’re highly satisfied at having your theories proved right,’ he said.

  Piero’s face went dark with anger and his whole body shook as he fought to find the biting reply that persisted in eluding him. He took Cecilia’s arm to stop himself leaping at Patch and tried to lead her away, but she hung back to listen as Hannay stepped forward.

  ‘Well?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, nothing.’ Patch didn’t seem to notice Piero’s furious face.

  ‘Nothing?’ Hannay stared. ‘You mean you’ve brought nobody back with you?’ His eyes swung from Patch’s face to Cecilia’s.

  ‘It’s as Tom says,’ Cecilia said quietly. ‘No one would do anything. They all seemed afraid.’

  She appeared to be depressed and glad to accept Piero’s attentions, and Piero was startled enough to swallow his fury. He touched her arm again and they disappeared without saying good-bye.

  An odd expression on his face, Patch watched the little Lambretta chugging along the mole with Cecilia sitting side-saddle on the rear seat, apparently indifferent to the voice of Piero who was shouting something at her over his shoulder. He seemed about to make some comment, then he thought better of it and turned to Hannay.

  ‘What’s happened here?’ he asked. ‘I know something has. You’ve got a face like an early Christian martyr.’

  ‘Listen!’ Hannay bristled immediately like a terrier after a rat. His head cocked on one side, he indicated that Patch should listen also.

  ‘What’s that whistling?’

  ‘His royal highness. Fizzing like a bottle of ginger beer.’

  ‘How long’s it been doing that?’

  ‘Last three days.’

  ‘God, if only we could have taken it with us!’

  ‘Well, you couldn’t.’ Hannay changed the conversation. ‘The ‘Aywards came to see me last night,’ he said. ‘Wind-up again. It’s this whistling, and they’ve heard I’ll be off at the end of the week, see? Orlesi’s finally got me sulphur. They’ve started loading at last.

  He looked suddenly unhappy. ‘I had another go at Devoto,’ he said.

  ‘And–?’

  ‘And nothing. You were right. It ain’t the money he wants.’ Hannay jammed his pipe into his mouth and sucked furiously on it for a moment. ‘I wouldn’t mind if I could only arrange something for the kid,’ he said. ‘I talked too much as usual. I probably made him think I could pull it off, and now I’ve had to tell him there’s nothing doing.’

  Patch made an effort to draw his mind away from Cristoforo by changing the subject.

  ‘Will the Haywards go with you when you leave?’ he asked.

  Hannay looked up at him and seemed with an effort to thrust Cristoforo out of his mind. ‘They said they would, but I don’t suppose they will. They want their cake and eat it at the same time. Mind you, some of ’em, them what could afford it, have gone already. Hired a sailing boat when the whistle started and left for Sicily. Some more of the yachts have pulled out too – full up with all their pals. It’s been a proper pantomime.’

  He paused and glanced towards the fishing boats grouped off Cape Amarea. ‘We haven’t half had some rain while you was away,’ he said. ‘Rain and wind and thunder and lightning. The lot. They’re scared now the lake in the crater’s going to overflow. More people have left San Giorgio. I reckon they’ve got the wind up too. If they haven’t, they oughta have. I have.’

  Twenty-five

  Mrs Hayward was waiting for Patch in his room when he returned. She was standing in the centre of the floor as he opened the door, her face flushed, her eyes hot, and he knew she had leapt to her feet as she had heard him in the corridor. He resisted the temptation to turn round and walk straight out again.

  ‘So you’re back,’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’ Patch went to the cupboard and poured himself a drink. ‘It begins to feel like it. All the old familiar faces.’

  ‘No wonder you went. She went too! What happened?’

  Patch’s back was to her and he looked up over his shoulder. ‘Nothing,’ he said, with a smile. ‘Curiously enough, nothing.’

  Mrs Hayward pressed close to him, so that he could see the lines on her face that she tried so hard to hide. ‘I suppose you’ve had a wonderful time,’ she said bitterly. ‘It’s been murder here, with that damned mountain acting the fool again. I thought I’d go mad. And now you come back and glibly tell me nothing happened.’ She laughed sarcastically. ‘You don’t expect me to believe that, do you? I can’t imagine you losing your grip to that extent.’

  Patch looked at her with an urbanity that infuriated her. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m not losing my grip.’

  ‘You’re hardly the type to pass up on a chance.’

  ‘It’s one of those things the great sporting public will understand.’

  She stormed to the window, baffled by his calmness, his good humour, her inability to ruffle him, then she swung round on him again. ‘I never thought I’d see Tom Patch – the great Tom Patch – losing his head over some sexy little slip of an Italian girl.’

  Patch turned round to face her. He was still calm but his eyes were angry. ‘I’m not the great Tom Patch,’ he said. ‘I’m just plain Tom Patch, and I’ve been travelling and I’m tired. My God, I’m tired! I’m tired of people chivvying me to do things and other people chivvying me not to do things. For your information, though I don’t suppose it’ll do any good because you won’t believe it, Cecilia didn’t go off for a dirty week-end with me. She went because she’s got more guts and courage than all those bloody fools who’re crying “wolf” about the mountain and aren’t prepared to do anything else. Leave her alone, for God’s sake! And leave me alone, too!’

  He swallowed the drink and slammed the glass down so hard on the table he broke the stem. Then the door banged behind him and Mrs Hayward, her face sagging and suddenly old, heard his feet clattering down the corridor outside.

  Patch clumped down the stairs, surprised to find he wasn’t angry or tired any more, surprised at the ease with which he had concluded the affair. He suddenly felt better, as though he’d shifted a weight from his shoulders, and he walked towards the Piazza Martiri, too busy with his elation to notice the crowds.

  The square was jammed with people and a shabby band in green frock coats decorated with peeling gold braid stood near the Garibaldi statue trying to gather numbers for Bosco’s meeting. Flags had appeared at the windows while he’d been away, the national tricolour interspersed with streaming slogans and the red banners of the Communists. The bell over the church of Sant’ Agata, echoed from the hillside by its companion bell of Sant’ Antonio, was beating through the blare.

  There was a crowd in Emiliano’s. Hannay was there, completely entrenched among the group who formed the custom of the bar, clothed in authority and listened to with respect; and so was Giuseppe Givanno from San Giorgio. They were talking about the mountain and it was obvious that if Pelli and Bosco and Don Alessandro were content to let things slide, they weren’t.

  The feeling of doubt in the Porto seemed to have given place to one of distrust, the sort of distrust that had torn Italy for generations, the distrust of the North for the South, the distrust of the peasant for the landowners and for the authorities who appeared to ignore them. There were still more peasants on Anapoli than there were tradespeople and even people like Emiliano were only one generation removed from them.

  Patch ignored them for a while, staring into his empty glass, his mind busy, not even hearing the flat voice of Hannay as he made his comments from time to time. Then the bitterness in the things they were saying reached through to him with the suspicion of c
enturies against leaders like Forla and Pelli and Bosco and even, for that matter, for the politically minded priests like Don Alessandro. They had learned years before to trust no one but themselves and being back among them began to stir Patch’s blood.

  ‘All anybody does is talk,’ young Givanno was saying angrily, banging the counter to stress every word. ‘There are other lawyers here on Anapoli besides Pelli. Why won’t they do something?’

  Emiliano leaned over the counter, his dark eyes wide, one hand waving gently. ‘Do you think they want the Communists to win the election any more than Pelli does?’ he asked. ‘One more Communist in power, they say, means one more muscle in the Party’s arm.’

  ‘They forget the mountain killed my father.’

  Emiliano’s shrug symbolised the uncertainty, the lack of conviction that lay over their fears even now. ‘We don’t know,’ he observed. ‘The doctor said not at the inquest.’

  ‘We know better.’

  ‘All right then,’ Emiliano said. ‘There’s been a bit of dust. I can stir up as much with my broom. A few belly-noises. I make worse myself after a meal.’

  ‘It’s more than that,’ Givanno said angrily. ‘The people of San Giorgio know it’s more than that.’

  ‘Pelli doesn’t live in San Giorgio,’ Emiliano shouted, beginning to get excited. ‘And neither do the doctors and the lawyers!’

  He reached for his drink, then stopped, staring out of the window. ‘Now what is it?’ he said.

  He jabbed a long finger at the glass and Hannay and Patch and Leonardi crossed towards him. The bar became silent immediately as the others turned away from the counter.

  Old Tornielli was hobbling across the square, shouting, and they could see from the movement on his lips rather than from the sound of his voice what he was saying.

  ‘Signor Tom! Signor Tom!’

  Patch swung the door open and the old man almost fell into his arms.

  ‘What is it, Tornielli? What the hell’s wrong?’

  ‘Signor Tom! Alfredo Meucci and the fishermen–!’

  Patch looked quickly at Hannay as Tornielli struggled for breath. ‘What about Meucci?’ he asked.

  ‘Signor Tom,’ the old man panted. ‘Fish! Thousands of them! Millions of them! Thousands of millions! All dead and floating! Half-cooked! Boiled alive! The whole fishing fleet’s come back loaded. They’ve enough to last a month. Mamma Meucci says come quickly. Papa Meucci’s very angry and she’s afraid he’ll do something crazy. There’s a lot of shouting and the police are there.’

  There was dead silence for a moment then Emiliano dropped a glass behind the counter. It didn’t break but it bounced against an enamel tin and on to a wooden floorboard. The crash startled everybody into movement.

  ‘Come on,’ Hannay said.

  Twenty-six

  The crowd on the mole had spread into the Piazza del Mare by the time they arrived. The fishermen had left their boats and were gathered in a group, watched by a bunch of suspicious policemen. Every one of them seemed to have a fish in his hand, showing it to someone else, pointing with it, gesturing with it. There were fish everywhere – in mounds, in baskets, in boxes, and even as the group from Emiliano’s appeared they saw a fight break out as someone tried to help himself while the fishermen argued, and a couple of policemen joined in immediately. The smell of fish and salt water seemed to fill the whole square.

  Among the fishermen were the farmers from the hillsides who were in town as usual to meet the Cità di Salerno and for the market which was always held on the day the ferry boat arrived. There were also a few people from San Giorgio, Fumarola, Colonna del Greco, and the little peasant holdings round Corti Marina, shabby gaunt men and women, trading from their carts and their bicycles and their mules. Many of them had walked across the side of the mountain and were expecting to walk back.

  They were standing among the fishermen, edging out of the tides of people in the market where the smells of cheese and wine and fish hung about under the canvas-covered booths, their baskets and their rickety little stalls, even the shopping they had come for, forgotten. They were listening to the arguments and gradually joining in as they became more excited, for clearly the fishermen didn’t consider the finding of the fish that loaded their boats an element of good fortune.

  ‘It’s wrong to pick up fish that are dead and dying,’ Meucci was shouting, waving a young cod, while his wife stood alongside him wringing her hands and looking piteously around her for someone to stop the uproar. ‘A man ought to find his fish alive – even if it’s harder work.’

  ‘It’s the mountain!’ Dr Leonardi burst into the group like a banshee. His white locks flying, his teeth clicking madly, he pushed them all aside to make room for his gyrations, and spun round in the middle of the circle of people, his pointing fingers jabbing away, his black eyes glittering with excitement. ‘It’s the mountain. It’ll come at the next full moon. I’ve been prophesying it for years.’

  For once there was no laughter.

  ‘Maybe he’s right this time,’ Meucci said heavily.

  As Patch pushed through the crowd, Mamma Meucci grabbed his arm. ‘Signor Tom,’ she begged. ‘Tell him to be careful what he says! Tell him to be careful!’

  ‘For the love of God, woman,’ Meucci said angrily. ‘I’m not going to kill anybody!’

  ‘Where did you find the fish, Alfredo? Patch asked above the din.

  ‘Off Capo Amarea, Signor Tom.’ Meucci pointed with the cod. ‘Where we found the bubbles. Thousands of them. Acres of them. All belly-up and floating. Every one of them. In a long line that pointed to the heart of the mountain. As though a current of hot water had passed through a big shoal of them. They’d been boiled as they swam. Look.’

  He swung up the codling and broke the skin.

  ‘Look! Look at it, Signor Tom. Look at the flesh. No live fish ever had flesh like that.’

  He jabbed with a horny finger at the opaque whiteness, all the sheen of freshness gone from it.

  ‘As though it had come straight from the pan,’ he said.

  ‘There’s a vent under the sea there,’ Leonardi screeched, swinging round to fling a finger in the direction of Capo Amarea. ‘It’s worked for years. Now it’s blown its stopper out. That’s what killed the fish.’

  He almost crooned the words and a noisy babble of talk broke out as they were passed from mouth to mouth. The place was full of gesturing people and several of the peasant women sitting on the edge of the pavement, surrounded by their families and bundles, got up and joined the crowd, and the alleys between the stalls began to empty as more people were attracted by the shouting.

  Hannay was questioning young Givanno and he indicated the mountain as he turned to rejoin Patch, pushing through the throng of people, dodging the gesturing arms and avoiding the excited children.

  ‘Pretty, ain’t it?’ he said.

  The smoke pall seemed no thicker than on the previous day but it reached noticeably higher than it had a week before and suddenly, even with the noise of the gesticulating peasants, Patch realised that the whistle had ceased.

  ‘It’s stopped,’ he said to Hannay. ‘The whistling’s stopped. Listen.’

  ‘Of course it’s stopped!’ Dr Leonardi whirled on him. ‘When you lift the lid of a simmering kettle, it stops singing. But it starts when you put it back again.’

  He launched into a long description of the interior workings of a volcano, then someone started shouting and they all turned to see who it was. Bosco was standing on a cart by the Customs House. Alongside him were Deputy Sporletti and his group of followers.

  ‘People of Anapoli,’ Bosco was shouting. ‘Why don’t you insist on your rights? Mayor Pelli’s your servant, not your master. Go and demand help from the mainland.’

  There was a burst of cheering and Bosco began to work himself up, confident of the crowd’s support.

  ‘People of San Giorgio,’ he said, addressing the shabby group which stood separate from the others. ‘You’v
e already suffered. People of Corti Marina. Centuries ago your village was wiped out. Don’t leave this town today until you’ve been assured of safety.’

  ‘That’s it!’ The voice was that of young Givanno who pushed forward, barging people aside in his excitement. ‘Don’t go away until they do something.’

  A stall was pushed over as the crowd surged forward, the owner adding to the din as he argued and threatened, picking up his belongings in between the gestures. A barrel of fish was knocked over and the silver stream got among the feet of the crowd.

  ‘Squat on the Town Hall steps until something’s done,’ Givanno yelled. ‘Sell the chickens in the Mayor’s office. That’ll make him think.’

  There was some nervous laughter and the old women on the fringes of the crowd sat down near the mole while their menfolk began to argue among their carts again, among the mules and the stalls of old clothes and the startling colours of the foodstuffs, pushing and shoving at the crowd to make room as more people became involved. Even while the uproar was going on, families were dumping their belongings on the pavement, clearly intending to stay, quarrelling with passersby who fell over the bundles.

  ‘Storm the Town Hall,’ Bosco was yelling. ‘Go and see the Mayor now. He’s there all right. He’s drinking with Forla. I’ve seen him.’

  ‘Lead us, Bruno,’ Giuseppe Givanno shouted. ‘Lead the way. We’ve plenty to talk about.’ He grabbed at Bosco’s sleeve, almost dragging the jacket off his back as he appealed for leadership.

  Bosco jumped from the cart and set off towards the Piazza del Popolo and immediately the crowd began to follow, Mamma Meucci dragged along with them as she clutched Meucci’s arm to hold him back. Another stall went over with a splintering of woodwork and the crash of glass, and someone started singing the ‘Bandiera Rossa.’ There was a little laughter, but on the faces of most of the crowd there was an expression that suggested they were after justice.