by Joanna Scott
The previous night had been oddly quiet, though she’d spent most of it awake, repeatedly propelling herself from the snare of sleep until her body had given up fatigue entirely and she’d sat on the sofa, the knife Luisa used to quarter chickens hidden beneath the cushions by Luisa herself, who believed, unlike Giulia Nardi, that sooner or later the soldiers would return to La Chiatta.
But Giulia had been persuaded by the French officers that the soldiers had a mandate to protect the citizens of Elba, especially the aristocrazia. Whether or not the soldiers had finished shooting open doors locked against them, they had been made to understand by their superiors that the villas were not to be disturbed. The wealth that Giulia Nardi secretly considered a burdensome responsibility during times of peace—an inheritance that had made her too fiercely suspicious to accept suitors when she was a young woman—proved to be a far more effective defense than a kitchen knife during a time of war. At least during this war. From the start, households like La Chiatta had been spared the deprivations that so many others suffered, and because of the bounty of their gardens and the black-market trade with the military, no one on the island had gone hungry. The provisions of rich Elbans were substantial enough to share with anyone who needed help. It was Giulia’s good luck that she was rich. And a baptized Catholic. And a mother without a son of military age.
The Signori Ambrogi had come over this morning to share the news that the Germans were retreating. But whether or not the Allied rampage had truly ended was still a question that she couldn’t bring herself to ask. Nor was she ready to hear what had been lost during the second night of the liberation.
After fifty hours without more than a few minutes of broken sleep, Giulia Nardi felt herself floating somewhere between the past and the future, in a present moment but not in full presence, fully aware but not fully feeling emotion or physical sensation. She couldn’t even say for sure that she was tired. And she couldn’t entirely understand anything that was told to her. Elba had been liberated. Grosseto had been liberated. Rome had been liberated. What did any of this mean? Not what she’d said to her daughter—mai più, a promise much worse than an outright lie. The Germans were retreating? The occupation was over? What, exactly, had they occupied, besides beds and rooms and lavatories?
The sky was already brightening; soon the rain would let up. Spilled blood had been washed away. Ulisse’s boys were shouting with pleasure. Kestrels were wheeling through the mist. Somewhere nearby, her daughter was humming. On the other side of the villa, Adriana was running across the meadow bordering the Ambrogi land and humming loudly. She had always loved to hum. Even her cry when she was a baby had sounded like phrases of a melody. Adriana was humming, the storm was moving back out to sea, and the liberation of Elba was complete.
Long ago, when Giulia Nardi was a child, her father had found an injured nightingale fledgling and given it to her to nurse back to health. Giulia had kept it inside for weeks, until it took to dipping its claws in her inkwell and leaving prints around the villa, at which point her mother had exiled the bird to a box in the courtyard, where it died three days later after eating a scorpion.
She found herself thinking of the nightingale as Adriana’s voice grew louder. It used to perch on a high shelf in the library and sing. Why she remembered this now, she couldn’t say. Adriana wasn’t singing. She was screaming—“Mamma! Luisa! Dottore!”—as if she wanted to be heard across the island. She was calling for a doctor? Giulia thought with sluggish detachment that if her daughter needed a doctor, she’d already done something foolish. And she wanted her mamma and Luisa as well. She wanted someone, anyone, who could help her.
She wanted her mother to come to the ravine, she said between gulps of breath, her wet hair hanging like a cap of seaweed, her clothes drenched from the rain. And Luisa, too, must come help. And the Signori Ambrogi—come with Adriana, per cortesia. Paolo, you come, too. No; Adriana changed her mind. Paolo must go find Doctor Grini and bring him here. Go, Paolo! “Subito!” Straightaway!
The adults were gathered around her, urging her to calm down. Stop shouting, Adriana. Explain yourself, start at the beginning.
Instead she’d start at the end. There was a soldier in the ravine, she said.
A soldier, Giulia heard. A scorpion, she thought.
Adriana told them that the soldier was very sick. He was lying there in a blanket in the ravine and he was dying.
A trap, Giulia said to herself, feeling as sly as the soldier she was imagining. A dying soldier. A clever disguise.
The soldier was dying, Adriana repeated.
Poison, Giulia thought.
“Italiano?” Lorenzo asked.
“No.”
“Tedesco?” Signora Ambrogi ventured.
“No.”
What, then? Who was he?
“Un senegalese.”
Giulia remembered that it had been her sister who had seen the nightingale gulping down the scorpion as though it were a cricket. Foolish bird. But Giulia shouldn’t have tried to keep the nightingale as a pet. Foolish girl. And now she was the foolish mother who had let her daughter wander when there were still soldiers prowling the island. Why did she think that anyone with the name of Nardi was invulnerable? Because she wanted to believe it. Foolish woman. She who was supposed to be available always, sempre, upon whom others could rely. Now, because of her neglect, she’d let a Senegalese soldier poison her daughter. That was her vague conclusion. And how could a young girl survive a soldier’s poison?
“How could you, Adriana!”
What had she done? “Cosa?”
What? What does what mean? A soldier lay dying in the ravine. The war was almost over. In this case, almost was an important word. Paolo was already on his bicycle, creaking up the drive. Luisa stood by, twisting her hands in her apron and muttering, “Madonna mia.” Signora Ambrogi brought Adriana a glass of water.
Lorenzo took it upon himself to clarify the point: Adriana had found a wounded Senegalese soldier in the ravine. He was alone, yes?
“Sì.”
“Nessun’altro?”
“No.”
If it wasn’t a trap, then what was it? Giulia wondered. Once, her nightingale swallowed a scorpion. Now a wounded, solitary Senegalese soldier lay dying on her property. What would Signora Nardi do about it?
She would order Luisa to find Ulisse and bring him here—that’s what she’d do.
Giulia’s direction seemed to give everyone a purpose. Signora Ambrogi took Adriana’s empty glass and headed down to the kitchen. Luisa left to find Ulisse. Lorenzo untucked his shirt, lifted his revolver from the hidden holster, and checked the magazine and the back sight. He went to intercept Ulisse, and when Adriana started to follow him, he gestured toward the salotto with the barrel of his revolver, unintentionally turning his direction into a threat and drawing an exclamation of reproach from the girl.
Signor Ambrogi!
He offered a grunt of apology and tucked the pistol back into the holster. Adriana, pleased to have had such a powerful effect, insisted on coming with him. He turned to Giulia—the child must stay inside, he said. He was wrong, Giulia thought. Adriana should lead them to the soldier. It would be easier that way. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to say this. “Ulisse will accompany Signor Ambrogi,” she said. The men would go and bring the soldier back while Adriana waited with the women inside.
“No!” Adriana protested.
“Sì!”
“No, no, no!”
“Adriana, Lorenzo and Ulisse will bring the soldier to us. They will carry him here.”
“They will kill him.”
“They will help him.”
He will be brought to La Chiatta dead or alive, Giulia wanted to say. But she managed to add in a gentle voice, “We will wait.”
Lorenzo exited just as Luisa returned, and the three women waited with Adriana for the men to bring the dying soldier into the house and for Paolo to return with Doctor Grini. Luisa put a pot of water on to boil
, Adriana threw open the shutters, and Signora Ambrogi and Giulia shared a cigarette.
This war had introduced Giulia Nardi to three important pleasures: the pleasure of smoking, which she’d avoided these many years, the pleasure of simple food during a time of scarcity, and a newly heightened sense of what it meant to feel relieved. This morning, though, she’d been too exhausted to eat anything. And now she’d lost the feeling of relief. But at least the pleasure of smoking remained. She drew the cool smoke into her lungs, the sensation making her feel that the inhalation offered a spiritual sustenance, as if she were drawing into her body the ghost of the capable woman she used to be. She’d been waiting so long for the war to end. She could wait a little longer.
Adriana, pacing around the room, muttered something about how she knew, she knew, she knew.
What did she know? Giulia demanded.
She knew, she said sullenly, that she should have kept her soldier a secret!
Her soldier? Giulia thought. Her own, like a sweater or a dog or a fiancé! Like a daughter. Giulia’s daughter. Didn’t Adriana know what the African soldiers had done to Sergio Canuti’s daughter? Of course she didn’t know, because Giulia had refused to tell her. Her daughter’s ignorance was her mother’s fault. Her daughter’s kindness was her mother’s fault. That her daughter still hadn’t learned to be cautious with strangers was her mother’s fault.
The good feeling of smoke filling the lungs. The bittersweet memory after the world had complicated the feeling of pure relief. Who was this soldier, anyway? Why had he wandered onto Giulia Nardi’s land? Where was his commanding officer?
Rather than reprimand Adriana, Giulia tried to offer reassurance. Her daughter had been right to seek help. If the young man needed medical care, he would receive it under the roof of La Chiatta. Paolo had gone to find a doctor. Lorenzo and Ulisse had gone to find the soldier. Why wasn’t anyone returning? And where had her brother-in-law ended up? Giulia wondered. When would Mario give up his fondness for the Germans?
They waited and waited. Adriana stomped her foot and insisted on going to the ravine herself, but Giulia forbade her to leave the room. Signora Ambrogi watched their arguments with obvious disapproval but said nothing. In the kitchen, Luisa took advantage of the boiling water and cooked eggs.
After more than two long hours, Paolo returned without Doctor Grini, who was busy at the hospital and would not be able to come to La Chiatta any time soon. But Paolo had important news to share: rogue battalions were still fighting on Monte Capanne, the port of Marciana Marina was still burning, and twelve hundred Germans had been taken prisoner. And there was more. “Listen to this,” he said, lowering his voice as he described how he’d heard a man report that his brother had watched African soldiers roast a German over an open fire and then eat him on the beach at Le Ghiaie! Adriana snorted in disbelief. Giulia shook her head. It was true, Paolo insisted defensively. The man said that the soldiers had made his brother bury the German’s bones on the beach. It was true!
What was true? Retold stories changed shape, gained details, lost facts. War was a time when you had to choose: either you believed everything or nothing. What was the name of the man who had told Paolo this story? Paolo didn’t know. What was the name of the man’s brother? Paolo didn’t know.
But consider, Signora Nardi did not say, that in this war the most unbelievable facts were the most likely to be verifiable: more than a quarter million listed on a burial roll for a single city, thousands imprisoned, thousands firebombed, thousands disappearing overnight, their fates mentioned briefly in a newspaper that could be purchased for less than a lira. Giulia, in peacetime a skeptic, believed that the more unbelievable the story, the more probable it was. So many bodies buried in shallow graves that the explosion of gases polluted nearby villages. War spreading like a chain combustion following an original flawed chemical reaction. Bang, bang. Cover your head with your arms. A lot of good that would do. Not even an island was safe anymore. The foolishness of women, the way they gathered the young and the old and the impotent around them, closed the shutters, locked the doors, and waited for the danger to pass.
So far, La Chiatta had been spared. But that was about to change. Signora Nardi couldn’t bring a dying soldier into her home without expecting consequences.
Terra Pax
HE BLINKED. AND WHEN HE OPENED HIS EYES HE FOUND himself surrounded by a fog so thick he couldn’t see the rail of the ship. He assumed that he was back on his ship. Or maybe he was a prisoner on a spirit ship. He couldn’t dismiss this possibility. Somehow he’d known he wasn’t heading home. He was heading out to sea—forever out to the sea of purgatory on a ship pirated by spirits. Perhaps he was a spirit. And so was his companion. If he had a companion. He wouldn’t have seen the colorless rainbow if his companion hadn’t pointed it out to him. Or had Amdu pointed it out to his companion? An arch of pure light pouring through a hole in the foggy canvas. The only clear form in a world of mist. Was it a good sign or a bad sign? Rainbows meant the end of rain. Was this a good thing or a bad thing? And what about a rainbow that had no color?
If he wasn’t so tired, he’d have felt perplexed. After the rainbow faded, all he wanted to do was sleep. He did sleep. And later, when he was roused by voices nearby, he pretended to stay asleep. But he wasn’t really pretending. He couldn’t have opened his eyes even if he’d cared to try, even when whoever-they-were lifted him under his arms and by his ankles and carried him over a surface so uneven that they kept stumbling and dropping him onto the sharp stones. Mon Dieu!
What did any of this have to do with God? Who was God, anyway? Amdu thought about this question while he swung like a goat on a bamboo pole. Had God been the origin of the bright arch? Or had the bright arch been his Embodiment? Either way, the vision must have been a message of some sort. Was it a message of hope or a message of doom? Was a bright arch penetrating the mist a clue to the mystery of the future or to the past? And if the rain ended early, what would happen to the groundnuts?
But truthfully, he enjoyed being carried uphill like a goat on its way to a wedding feast. Unlike the goat, he looked forward to wedding feasts. The most recent marriage, he recalled, was of his youngest uncle, Alfonse Diop, to the daughter of his uncle’s second cousin. Amdu had more uncles than he could count. His youngest uncle now had a cousin who was also his mother-in-law. Irèna, who prayed five times a day and distributed half of every animal her husband slaughtered to the poor—pious Irèna, a follower of Cherif Hamallah, had tried to convince Amdu to be a Muslim in his heart. It was his fate, she insisted. A boy with his contemplative nature, his goodness, his purity . . . and didn’t he believe in the equality of all souls? Of course he did. But by then, Amdu already had a different plan for himself.
To be carried by two strong men out of the place where he had almost died seemed to him a logical part of the plan. To feel somewhere deep inside him the pleasant jiggling of silent laughter in response to the two grunting, stumbling men. To find himself treated to charitable but imperfect intentions. Not yet worthy of being worshipped, but worthy enough to be delivered from peril.
He blinked. And then he really was awake, swaying once again between the two men. They were white men, if the dry-riverbed color of their skin could be called white. Amdu sneaked searching glances through a squint. As long as they thought he was still without consciousness, they would continue to carry him. He would let them carry him, though from time to time they dropped him and left him on the ground while they took the opportunity to rest. With the grass tickling his face, Amdu heard the gurgling of an upended canteen and foreign speech that was clearly full of complaints. But if they considered themselves superior to the task of carrying a foreign soldier, they were still willing to pick him up again.
On they went across a meadow that smelled smoky and sweet, like a candle flame sputtering out in liquid wax. It must have been early morning, Amdu thought. Or late afternoon. Or it could very well have been midday, with the sun still hidden by
the heavy clouds. They could have been walking in place or around in circles. They walked until the clouds finally opened, revealing the blue vault of sky and the sun. They walked from one lifetime into another. And just when Amdu was thinking he should speak, he felt himself moving feet-first up a step. Somehow he knew he was passing through a door. He entered an interior as clear and cool as springwater and was lowered roughly onto a blanket on the floor—a blanket saturated with a fragrance he recognized. He blinked and saw what the fragrance had led him to expect.
“Bonjour, monsieur,” said the girl.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle,” he replied, which prompted an eruption of curses from the men, who had carried him all the way from the ravine when in fact it appeared that he could have walked on his own perfectly well.
Amid the uproar, the girl smiled at him, and Amdu lazily returned her smile with his own. And then he closed his eyes. When he blinked again, the white mist had returned.
The fresh water was intoxicating. The hens out in the yard chortled a beautiful melody. The clean white cotton sheets shone in the light reflecting off the tile floor. Puffs of clouds floating in the infinite blue outside his open window disappeared into the darkness behind his eyelids. A pungent liquid burned into the wound on his shoulder. Waiting for the pain to reach his fingertips felt like waiting in a cave for the echo of his name.
It didn’t occur to him to ask whether the cleanser being used was preferable to simple soap and water. He could endure the pain. It was enough to know that if he was alive now, he would probably be alive tomorrow.
When he sat up, it was evening, the shutters had been closed, and the floor tipped like the rolling deck of his ship. He knew for sure that he wasn’t on his ship. But sooner or later he would have to go back. Not until he regained his strength, though. For no clear reason, he felt entitled to take his time recuperating.
He stretched out his legs, noticing only then that he was wearing a striped cotton nightshirt, with nothing beneath. Someone had changed him from his clothes into the nightshirt, bathed him, and properly bandaged the wound on his arm. He no longer stank like the rancid juices of a slaughtered sheep. He felt fresh and clean, privileged, grateful, and awkward.
