“In the morning?”
I look over at the sound table, where Nicola Nicolini and Guido have been sitting happily together all night. Ihor finishes the song and hands the guitar back to Mimmo with a sheepish grin.
“I don’t know where he thinks he’s going,” Mimmo says into the microphone, and the crowd laughs.
When I turn back to Signor Cavalcanti, he’s still waiting for an answer.
“Signor Cavalcanti,” I say, “Guido is your son.”
Mimmo starts another song, but there’s a commotion among the children that’s spreading to the adults, and when I turn back around, Signor Cavalcanti has disappeared back into the darkness at the edges of the dance floor.
“What is it?”
“Do you see it?”
“I’ve never seen one before.”
“How many are there?”
The sky is sagging low, and there, toward Laigueglia, are three water trumpets, ambling across the flat plane of sea.
“Shit.”
“What is it?” Zhuki asks.
“A water trumpet.” I spin my finger in the air. “Three of them.”
“Tornadoes?”
“If they decide to come onto the beach.”
“Can they do that?”
“They can do whatever they want.”
“Will they come up here?”
“I think we’re too high.” But, cazzo, what do I know about water trumpets? In twenty-two years, I’ve never seen one.
I hear the rain crumpling the dry leaves overhead and feel the first swollen drops bursting against my back. In a matter of seconds, the entire field is engulfed in noise—plastic sheets flapping in the wind, the clattering of tables and chairs and shouts of instructions. In the middle of the chaos, the Ukrainians crowd around Zhuki and click into their own tongue. I get to work with the others, folding and stacking the chairs around the dance floor as dark circles as big as euro coins start to blot out the light wood of the boardwalk.
“Yasno,” I hear Zhuki shout through the wind.
“Dobre,” Yuri answers, and he heads up the hill with Little Yuri and Principessa in tow.
“He will take Little Yuri and Principessa to the villa and bring the SUV down to help,” Zhuki says to me, wiping the rain out of her eyes. “Have you seen Vanni?”
“I saw him go up the hill with Tatiana.”
“When was that?”
“I don’t know. A couple of songs before Ihor got up onstage?”
Zhuki, Ihor, Mykola, and I join the army disassembling the festa. The man whose fingers made the rings of heaven vibrate on a few strings is now stomping down the path to the truck, hoisting tables over his head. The rain is heavy now, the sky white like snow, and we troop up and down the mule track, slipping in the mud and reaching out to steady ourselves. I can feel the people catching me and pushing me up the hill from behind as the mud coats my feet, weighing them down. I recognize a few voices and Belacqua’s laugh through the rain, but by now everyone is soaked through, and I have to look closely to see who is who.
Finally, the truck is loaded and the brake lights go on. Sandro starts the engine and it gurgles to life. The right tires spin, but ten of us attach ourselves to the bumper and the doors and push it out. I recognize the kids from Belacqua’s band, who sit inside with their equipment and pull the door down with a bang. Thunder echoes over the sea and lightning saws the sky in half. People disperse in all directions, but I make my way back up the mule track. The bouncing castle has disappeared, and the entire field is empty except for the dance floor.
“Etto! Over here!” Nonno has pulled the 2CV onto the weedy service road at the back of the terrace. He and Nonna and Martina are squeezed into the front seat, with all the leftover food piled in the back and on Martina’s lap. Martina has the window flipped up.
“Where’s Papà?” I shout over the rain.
“He’s already gone down to the shop. We’re storing the food in the walk-ins.”
“Have you seen the Ukrainians?”
He points. “Last I saw they were under the tent.”
I sweep my hair away from my face with both hands and set out to find the Ukrainians. I find them huddled under the food tent, including Little Yuri and Principessa, who are now wearing bright yellow rain slickers and boots, like phosphorescent ghosts.
“Where’s the SUV?”
“Up at the villa,” Zhuki answers.
Yuri has an expression I’ve never seen before, as if his entire face has been deboned, leaving only skin, eyes, and tufts of hair.
“Did you find Vanni?”
Everyone glances at Yuri, and I know even before Zhuki says it.
“They were together.”
“Shit.”
“Etto, I need to ask a favor,” she says.
“Anything.”
“Can you find us a hotel for the night?”
Except that.
“It’s Ferragosto,” I explain. “All the hotels are booked six months, a year ahead of time. They put people in closets and storage rooms. I’m sure there’s not a room left in town.”
There’s another conference in Ukrainian, and this time I pick out the word hotel. Zhuki looks distressed.
“But you can stay at our apartment,” I say quickly.
Zhuki, Mykola, and Ihor look at each other. It’s clear they’re the ones making the decisions.
“Are you sure?” Zhuki says.
“There won’t be enough beds for everybody, but we’ll figure something out.”
“Thank you, Etto,” she says, and hugs me.
I lead the way. Ihor and Mykola carry the kids, and Zhuki grips the arm of her brother. My phone lights up my pocket almost constantly as we creep down the muddy mule track, holding on to the walls of the path. On Via Partigiani, wide rivulets of water are flowing over the pavement like a glaze of ice.
“I think the torrents have overflowed,” I say.
“Is that bad?”
“Very.”
By the time we emerge onto the railroad bridge, the sky has gone dark, closing over us like an iron plate. The vicos perpendicular to the beach are all already flooded and deepening every minute, the water having found the fastest route down to the sea. The shop is closed and dark, and as I unlock the door of the apartment, there’s another conference in Ukrainian, and Mykola and Ihor trudge back up the hill.
“They think it’s better if they stay at the villa tonight,” Zhuki explains. “To make sure she doesn’t steal anything of Yuri’s.”
Yuri is still unresponsive, a ghost of himself. The alarm chirps, and we tumble into the front hall, peeling off layers and kicking off shoes.
“Papà?” I call.
No answer. I check my phone. It’s filled with messages.
COME DOWN TO MARTINA’S.
ETTO, GET DOWN HERE. MARTINA’S.
ETTO, WE’RE ALL AT MARTINA’S.
Shit.
“Papà?” I call again, but again there’s no answer.
“Are you sure your papà will not mind?”
“Not at all.” I lead them upstairs to the living room, our damp socks leaving footprints on the wood. I turn around, and Yuri is still standing at the bottom, deciding whether he can make the climb.
“Yuri!” Zhuki calls out something in Ukrainian, and he finally sets his legs in motion.
“Yuri can sleep in Papà’s room,” I say. “You and the kids can have mine. There are two beds.”
“What about you?”
“I think something’s happened at Martina’s. I might not be back for a while.” Even inside the apartment I can hear the palms creaking under the weight of the wind, and the wooden piers of the molo groaning against the force of the waves. “SMS me if you need anything.”
“Okay.” And we kiss—automatically—as if we’ve been saying good-bye like that our entire lives.
I go outside, and it’s like the crazy divorcée upstairs is dumping a bucket of water on me, like she did to Fede and Luca the time they got drunk an
d serenaded her. The sheets of water down the vico are thicker, running up to my ankles and shellacking my shoes with a wobbly finish. I run down the passeggiata, my hair slicked back, my shoes squishing with every step. I can see the crowd of people gathering, their figures smeared like charcoal drawings in the driving rain. I run as fast as I can, following the floodlights, and when I get there, it’s worse than I imagined. Half the roof is gone, and a third of the walls. It’s like looking down the maw of a beast, the tables and chairs mangled and flung around the room, bottles lying smashed on the ground, the liquor mixing into a nauseous cocktail, the calcio scarves blown into the mess. A couple of men are standing around lamenting the deaths of the lotto machine and the flat-screen, which is lying on its back, the whiteness crackling through it like ice.
The rest of the men are already at work, twenty or thirty of them packing everything that can be salvaged into the kitchen and the computer alcove, which still have a roof. A few men with brooms try to push the water back to the sea where it belongs, and Fede is supervising a group of lifeguards on the beach below as they shovel sand into trash bags and shuttle them up the stairs on chaises, like patients on ambulance stretchers. Around the perimeter where Martina’s wall used to be, there’s a pathetic little pile of black trash bags belching out sand.
“Etto!” Papà catches me by the arm and shouts through the rain. “You’re here! Go back to the shop and get some vacuum-pack bags.”
“What?”
“Vacuum-pack bags! The trash bags are breaking!”
It’s only as I turn to leave that I notice Martina, sitting in a chair in the corner, the same expression as Yuri’s on her face, her world eliminated in one stroke.
I run back to the shop. The water in the vico is now up to my shin, and I fight through it. I go around to the back alley, and when I open the door, there’s only a small puddle inside. My shoes squeak against the linoleum, and I circle around as the three portraits and the jersey watch calmly from the wall. I pull the pillowcase off the television and stuff it full of the biggest vacuum-pack bags we have. In an instant, I’m back outside, wading with the current down the vico.
The wind has calmed down, and the rain is falling in straight lines now, like beads strung from the clouds. The sea is a blackish-green, heavy as oil, the rain pocking its surface. Casella’s Uno is creeping along the passeggiata ahead, the brake lights blinking as he navigates the streams of water. Finally, they hold steady, and I run to catch up.
“Thanks.” I get in and slam the door, arranging my legs among the rolls of plastic and tape.
“You’ve seen Martina’s?”
“I can’t believe it.”
We drive down the passeggiata, steering around the debris, the wiper blades thumping softly. The day Mamma disappeared, Silvio and Papà stayed out on the molo with the coast guard guys. The sea was full of every sailboat, fishing boat, rowboat, and catamaran from Imperia to Savona, but Silvio wouldn’t let me help or even go out onto the molo. He did let Casella park the Uno on the passeggiata, and we sat inside, the seats cranked back, people tapping on the windows to offer us food. We spent all day and all night like this, napping and waking in a terrible twilight, time suspended, circling overhead. At around five in the morning, Silvio tapped on the window of the Uno and told us the search was over.
Casella pulls the parking brake, and half a dozen people reach for the door handles. They’ve sent out for more floodlights, and there are five ladders set up on the tiled floor, reaching into the empty sky. The rain turns to mist, and Papà somehow convinces Martina to go home and get some sleep. I join Fede’s crew, filling vacuum bags with sand and piling them against the flooded vico. Five of the young guys are up on the ladders, supervised by three times as many old guys shouting from the ground. It’s three in the morning by the time they manage to staple the plastic sheets over the opening and duct tape them together from the inside. The water in the vico has subsided, and the clouds have moved off as if they were never there, opening into a clear, starry night. I’m too revved up to go to sleep, and I remember I don’t have a bed anyway, so I end up lying on the deserted molo with Fede, Bocca, and Aristone, our damp socks and shoes peeled off and scattered.
“Cazzo, Fede, you really took charge back there.”
“Boh.”
“It’s so strange to think about,” Aristone says, “but someday we’re going to be the ones running this town.”
“So you’re coming back here after university?”
“I don’t know. What’s a language specialist going to do here?”
“You see? Better drop out now before you educate yourself right out of the region.”
“If the liceo opens back up, you could take Charon’s job.”
We all laugh.
“I really don’t know what I’m going to do,” Aristone says. “When I’m in Genoa, I want to be here. When I’m here, I want to be there.”
We’re all silent for a while, thinking this over.
“Hey, what was Signor Cavalcanti’s problem tonight?” Fede asks.
“You saw that?”
“It was hard not to.”
“He wanted to know if Guido’s gay.”
“What?”
“You know, with Nicola Nicolini.”
“Nicola Nicolini? I thought they hung out because of the deejay thing.”
“Maybe at first.”
“So you knew all along?”
“We share a wall with Nicola Nicolini,” I say.
“Guido, huh? What a shame.”
“That he’s gay?”
“That he’s in love with Nicola Nicolini. If only he’d told us, we could’ve found someone cooler for him.”
We all laugh.
Bocca boosts himself up off the ground. “Well, girls, I’m going to bed. I’m dead tired.”
“Me too,” Fede says. “You going home, Etto?”
“I don’t know. There’s no place to sleep.”
“Why?”
“The Ukrainians are there.”
“All of them?”
“Turns out Tatiana was sleeping with Vanni.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Believe it. Yuri told her she has until noon tomorrow to move out of the villa. In the meantime, they’re staying with us.”
“Do you want to come home to Mamma-Fede’s?” he asks. “Sleep on the sofa?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Sure?”
“Yeah.”
I watch as the three of them separate and disappear into the darkness. I lie out on the molo for a while longer, looking up at the terraces. I imagine the small villages just beyond the ridge, the meadows and foothills, the Alps and the rest of Europe. Beyond, beyond, beyond. I think about what Aristone said, about always wanting to be somewhere else, and I wonder if I could do it, if I could ever manage to leave this place for good.
* * *
The alarm chirps as I walk in the door, and I hear Papà’s voice come to an abrupt stop.
“Etto? Is that you?”
“Yes.”
They’re sitting in our living room, Yuri slumped in the chair, Papà on the sofa, a couple of glasses between them. They don’t look like a calcio star and a fan anymore—just two men, sitting and talking in the dark.
“Why don’t you go in my room and lie down?” Papà says.
I never go in Papà’s room anymore. It looks like a hotel, the bedspread stretched tight, nothing but the absolute essentials set out. Two lamps. An alarm clock. The dish where he sets his watch every night. As soon as I close the door, the conversation in the living room resumes. I sit down on the edge of the bed and take off my jeans. I stretch across to set my phone on the nightstand, and it’s then I see a framed photo of the four of us. I thought Papà had gotten rid of everything that had anything to do with Mamma, but there it is.
I pick it up and slip under the covers. Most of our family photos were after Luca’s matches, Luca flushed and smiling, me on the other sid
e, sulking about being dragged to this stadium or that. But this one is of all of us on the beach. It must be right after the season because there are no chaises or umbrellas, but the sun is still strong. Late September, maybe? I have on the Dodgers shirt Mamma brought back from America the year we turned fifteen, so it must have been one of the last photos before Luca went off to the academy. In the picture, we are all squinting into the sun, arms thrown over each other’s shoulders. Just like a real family.
I wake up in the morning clutching the photo to my chest like a defibrillator. I hear voices in the living room. One voice, actually. Yuri’s.
“I don’t care where I transfer,” he’s shouting into the phone in English. “Yes, I know transfer window is closing. Someone somewhere must want Ukrainian striker! You convince them . . . I don’t care! Let it be Pescara! Let it be Bari! Let it be Catania! I tell you, I don’t care! Only no Genoa!”
Shit. Bari? Catania? And each time he opens his mouth, it’s the name of a place even farther away.
“Everton, then! Greek leagues! Portugal! I don’t care!”
I put on my jeans and go out into the living room. There’s no sign of Papà or Zhuki. Little Yuri and Principessa are wide awake and watching a soundless Bloomberg Business while Yuri’s pacing between the coffee table and the television. He stops and runs his hand through his hair as he listens to the guy on the other end of the phone. He looks in my direction, and I raise my hand in a half wave, but there’s no flicker of recognition. His eyes are like burned-out bulbs. I don’t think he’s slept all night.
“I tell you. I. Don’t. Care. Where,” Yuri shouts into his phone. He sinks into the chair and leans his head back. He folds one arm over his eyes and sighs. “Sorry, sorry. Yes, Alfie. Yes. Yes, of course. You always take care of me. You think you can talk to him? All right, I will call this afternoon. I know. Okay. We talk then. You are good man, Alfie. You are good man. Good-bye.” He snaps the phone shut and mutters something in Ukrainian, then folds himself forward, his hands cradling his forehead. Little Yuri and Principessa are watching sullenly as two men in suits argue about the stock market in Tokyo, the graphs full of slashes.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
Yuri doesn’t say anything. Or move. I sit down on the arm of the sofa.
The Sun and Other Stars Page 29
