by Joanna Scott
As it turned out, he wasn’t going anywhere. The girl had another plan in mind. She gave him some incomprehensible direction in Italian and grabbed him by the wrist as she tugged the tarp off the barrels. Amdu had to lock his knees to maintain his balance, and he stood in a defensive stance, mirroring the cat that had been hiding beneath the tarp—a hissing, straddle-legged cat, her ears flat against her head, her fur bristling.
Una micia, Adriana had called it. A pussycat. Why, she asked Amdu in French, had he been so afraid of a mamma cat and her kittens?
“Quel horreur!” Amdu said, failing to steady his voice sufficiently to achieve a tone that was properly ironic.
Just a mother cat defending the mewing, wriggling mass behind her. Just a cat and her kittens in their den. The full extent of Amdu’s stupidity had been revealed. But at least he had the chance to put something back in its proper place. After admiring the kittens, he stretched the tarp back across the barrels and smoothed the corners, an action meant to signify that the danger was over. And it was true, wasn’t it? No one else would be hurt. The Germans remaining on the island had surrendered, the Allied forces would be moving on soon, and the girl named Adriana was melting into giggles.
And then he was alone again, having lost Adriana to the signora’s voice calling her from an open window of La Chiatta. She had bid him a wry farewell and told him not to be late for his midday meal. Ciao, mademoiselle. He was alone and freshly startled to find himself where he was. A proper Tirailleur Sénégalais looking through an iron gate at the sea—the same sea that he had crossed to get here, though its blue seemed even bluer than he recalled, so blue that when a floating gull, appearing white in the distance, flapped off its surface, its wings were stained with the same tint.
The girl he’d come to save could only laugh at him. What would be his next test to fail? When would he have the chance to do the kind of work for which he wanted to be known? Until he had the faith and influence to perform miracles, he would have to wait patiently for something to happen.
He didn’t have to wait long. In the midst of a war, anything could happen: snakes could turn into cats, and mice could turn into little boys hiding behind the corner of the boathouse. Amdu heard them before he saw them: the scratching of dry leaves beneath little feet, the muffled grunt when an elbow was shoved into a gut, the whispered curses. He’d heard the same boys earlier from his room—their hooting and scuffling as they played in the courtyard. He didn’t know how many boys there were altogether, but he knew they had come to spy on him.
They would be disappointed that he had no rifle. To amuse them, he grabbed a wooden garden stake from a bundle propped against an empty stretch of wire. The pointed tip had broken off, but it would do. He crept forward, his new rifle tucked firmly under his arm, his finger ready on the trigger.
In Amdu’s game, he was following the trail of a German barbarian. He walked with his shoulders hunched, eyes squinting, senses alert. Step by step toward destiny. What’s that? A warthog’s snuffle. And that? The tip of a lion’s tail swishing above the grass. Branches crackling, pushed aside by the thick, filthy fingers of a man who has murdered many people. Don’t ever doubt that he’s the one responsible. Come along. Ever so quietly. Throaty protest of an invisible bird. Grape leaves stirred by the breeze. Where are we? Hard on the trail of the German barbarian. Step by step through the jungle, across the windswept veldt, into the mountains. Look sharp now. Up the rocky slope. Down the rocky slope and into the desert, to suffer courageously deprivations that would kill lesser men. Now is the time to justify our lives. To endure. God is watching. The soup is simmering on the stove at home. Our families are waiting for our triumphant return.
As he wound through the vineyards, Amdu kept glancing behind him to make sure the boys were following. There were two of them, both dressed in short pants held up by elastic straps, with light brown caps worn at a tilt. Whenever he turned his head, the boys ducked beneath the vines, so Amdu continued in pursuit of the German barbarian. At one point he heard a muffled argument behind him, and from their movements among the branches he could tell that the boys were looking for something. When one of them stood up bareheaded, Amdu guessed that they were searching for a lost cap. He was preparing to go back to them and offer to help when he saw the slightly smaller boy—the bareheaded one—push the other to the ground. A moment later the other stood up, waving the cap in a taunt. The boys grappled and collapsed in a tangle. Then they scrambled back to their feet, their caps planted back on their heads. The game continued. Amdu followed the trail of the German barbarian. The boys followed Amdu.
Three boys, including Amdu, playing at war. How long had it been since Amdu had been able to play at anything? Among the many qualities that gave him reason to boast was his talent for pretending. He had always been artful in his inventions, confident in his immersion in any odd game.
But wasn’t he too old to play games? Amdu was a man—a proper Senegalese rifleman, the grandson of General Diop. Or else he was a boy pretending to be a man. Or else he was a man pretending to be a boy who was pretending to be a man. It hardly mattered, as long as the game absorbed him. There were three players. Then a fourth boy, perhaps a year or so younger than Amdu, with thin brown arms and a red face, came running across the field to join them. He was armed with a pocketful of stones, which he threw ahead of him in an arc over the top of the seawall as he approached.
The boy joined the two younger boys, drawing them together to confer. While Amdu waited for them a few meters away, he pointed the stick toward the sky and idly shot at the clouds.
The boys broke from their huddle with a loud whooping. Amdu didn’t realize that now all three of them held rocks until they sent them flying in his direction. Two of the rocks missed him. One hit him sharply on the temple.
Why, those boys were making a terrible mistake! They had confused Amdu with the German barbarian. He wanted to explain to them that he was innocent. But then the boys threw a second round. One rock thudded hard against his back as he turned away from them. Another fell just to the right of him. The third hit his tender shoulder, sending a scorching pain from his neck to his fingertips.
No mistake had been made—the boys had chosen their target and aimed deliberately. Here on this estate he’d come to think of as the refuge he deserved, the boys he’d wanted to consider his friends were trying to hurt him. Maybe they were trying to kill him.
Run, Amdu!
Yes, he’d run, but first he needed to know why these boys hated him. Did they attribute to him the crimes committed by others during this war? Did they despise all members of his race? Or were they trying to destroy him because he was supposed to be destroyed? Was this a necessary part of the story?
These boys knew he was a welcome guest at La Chiatta. He’d given them no reason to hurt him. What new information had the older boy brought them to prompt this attack? Amdu turned back to them, prepared to ask for an explanation, but another rock, a pear-shaped piece of granite, came sailing through the air and struck him on his chest so forcefully that he staggered and fell.
Seen through his tears, the world became languorous. He watched the smallest boy prepare to throw another rock and then bring his arm down to his side, as if waiting for Amdu to stand up. He watched the older boy check his empty pockets. He watched the third boy strain his arm backward, as though pulling a slingshot, and then fling another rock at Amdu. He watched the rock soar like a bird riding an air current and drop a short distance from him. He watched the older boy scouring the area between the mounds of soil around the vines. The boy found a stone, weighed it in his hand, then turned to find his target. He was only a few meters from Amdu—close enough for a boy with good aim to do serious harm. Amdu watched as he readied himself for the throw. He wondered if the boy intended to throw the stone as straight and forcefully as possible. He wondered how long it would take the stone to reach him. He wondered how long it would take the dog named Pippa to lope across the field. Which would prov
e faster: the boy’s throwing arm or the dog’s running legs? He heard the dog growling, and the sound made him think of ocean surf sucked backward over pebbles. But that sound had always reminded him of people laughing. Remembering the sound of people laughing made him wonder what they found so funny. Then he knew. They were laughing at the dog. Dogs were funny, especially when they flew like a rock flies out of a boy’s hand. Up into the air flew the dog named Pippa, with her teeth bared and her wet gums shining. Into the soft flesh of the boy’s thigh sank the teeth of the dog named Pippa. Amdu watched without feeling much of anything as the howling boy pivoted in place, swinging the dog in a half-circle around him. He watched the younger boys watching, their jaws hanging in an expression that suggested both delight and terror.
If Amdu had learned to talk with animals, he would have told Pippa to let go of the boy’s leg. Muddy brown blood was already seeping out the corner of the dog’s lips. Amdu would have wagered that this was the animal’s first taste of human blood. He could guess that a dog with its mouth clamped around a thick, bloody piece of human flesh for the first time would never want to let go.
Amdu Diop, a proper Senegalese rifleman, felt a sudden urge to prove that he could act heroically. With the stick he’d used as a rifle, he pushed himself to his feet. Using the same stick as a cane, he wobbled over to the boy and the dog. Raising that sturdy, useful stick high above his head, he brought it down hard against the back of the dog’s neck.
The animal sprang backward as though from the force of an explosion and lay motionless in the grass. The boy sucked in his howl and stared. Amdu pushed the haunches of the dog, then shook his head in disbelief. The stick was intact in his hand, the sun was shining, and the dog named Pippa was dead. He hadn’t meant to kill her. He had never killed anything in his life. Even mosquitoes he’d always blown from his arm with a gentle puff of breath. How was it possible that he’d killed a dog—the same dog that had befriended him under the door and then remained so fond of him?
The bitten boy ran in long, limping strides back toward the villa. The two smaller boys stared at Amdu. He raised his stick at them, meaning the gesture as a question: how had this stick in his hand killed a dog? The boys seemed to think that Amdu was threatening them and they ran off, shouting wildly as they overtook the older boy and continued toward the villa.
Leaving Amdu alone with the lifeless body of the dog named Pippa. He lowered himself to the dog’s side and rested his cheek on her belly. She was still warm and soft between the outline of the ribs. She might have been sleeping. But she wasn’t sleeping. Amdu had killed her with a single blow.
It wasn’t right. It made no sense. He had not been born to be responsible for this. Without counsel, plans go wrong. Amdu had proved himself an abomination. He felt the eyes of the Lord watching him. Everyone was watching him, knowing him to be his father’s ruin. And yet he was entirely alone. He had wandered away from understanding into the assembly of the dead. He who digs a pit will fall into it.
The end of the matter. All has been heard. Fear God, and keep his commandments, for he will bring every deed into judgment, with every secret thing, whether good or evil. The earth will be desolate because of its inhabitants.
Unless—could it be—the dog lay dead in order for God to be made manifest? However unlikely the possibility, it was tempting to believe. Why else had Amdu been born but to work the works of God? What would happen if he spit on the ground to make clay of the dirt? What would happen if he rubbed the clay into the place on the dog’s neck where he’d struck her with the stick? Go, wash in the pool of Sio’am. What would happen if he prayed for the gift of one great miracle and promised, in return, to ask for nothing more?
Why, he’d put his hand on the dog’s belly where he’d been resting his head, and in a moment he would feel the gentle rise and fall of her breath, of course. He would see the dog’s moist snout glistening. He would wonder whether the dog had been breathing all along and he’d been mistaken. He would wait for the dog to open her eyes. Eventually she would roll upright and twist around to snap angrily at Amdu, the traitor who had tried to kill her while she was trying to save his life. Once she was fully awake and alert, she wouldn’t let him touch her.
As he watched her trot home across the field, he gave up wondering whether the event deserved to be added to the registry of miracles. All that mattered was the foolish promise he’d offered in exchange for divine intervention. To revive a dog, he had relinquished all claim to his magnificent potential. He regretted making such a vast promise. He knew he’d regret it more and more as time went on. But above all, he was a man of his word. So be it. He was through with his good work before he’d properly begun. He could ask for nothing more.
SINCE THE BEGINNING of the war and especially through the hard months of the German occupation, Adriana had been comforted to see evidence of the land’s persistence. As long as the island itself didn’t change, she knew that the power of the occupying force was limited. Though they could blow up schools and make people disappear, they couldn’t stop the sun from shining or the fruit from ripening, and when Adriana bit into a yellow pear, the juice would still dribble down her chin. It had always been this way. If the Germans burned one orchard, the trees would seed themselves elsewhere. The red blush of an orange would always taste sweet. Mounds of kelp would collect on the Magazzini beach. Buckets full of squid would be unloaded from fishing boats onto a dock. And if you weren’t careful when you were wading in the shallow water at Bagnaia, you might set your bare foot on the spiny bubble of a sea urchin.
But now that the Germans were gone and the island was at peace again, it was time for everything to be transformed with simple wishes. For instance, today she might wish that the wind would change direction or that the moon would turn scarlet in an eclipse. Tomorrow she might wish that she could breathe under water. The next day she would impress her mother by walking on her hands across the room.
It was the morning of the sixth day of the liberation of Elba, the third day since the Germans had retreated, and Adriana Nardi felt silly and happy to be who she was—a girl who lived in a villa where a Senegalese soldier named Amdu had taken refuge.
She’d concluded once and for all that he wasn’t a witch doctor. Witch doctors wouldn’t tremble at the hissing of a little pussycat. And he wasn’t the savage her uncle Mario had warned her about. He had no magical powers or dangerous motives. The truth was, she liked Amdu because he was perfectly alive, though how the quality manifested itself she couldn’t have described. She just felt it, the way she felt the warmth of the sun. All he had to do was stroll across the courtyard with his head held high and his arms folded across his chest, and she wanted to laugh in delight. It wasn’t that he was particularly handsome or noble. In truth, his forearms were too long and his elbows too bulby, his broad nose was dented on one side, and in six days his beard hadn’t grown beyond a feeble scruff. Yet everything about him seemed right and worthy. And if he appeared comical, it was because he’d obviously been born for a grander world and proceeded in a manner that was always a little awkward or exaggerated.
In the simplest sense, Adriana enjoyed the company of a gentle young man who was so different from anyone she’d ever known. There was more to it, however—more pleasure, more hilarity. The good feeling of being inspired to a new responsiveness. She wanted to see outside what she felt inside. The clump of red pistachio berries, the lemons streaked with green, the feathery blue blossoms on the rosemary bush, the yellow fuchsia and red poppies—these were too familiar and ordinary to express what Adriana was feeling as she walked from the boathouse after showing the kittens to Amdu.
She’d heard Luisa talking with her mother about the many funerals that would occupy Elbans in the days to come. A boat carrying nothing but coffins was said to be on its way from France, due to arrive that afternoon. She’d overheard Mario describe how at the hospital in Portoferraio he’d watched a mother pulling out handfuls of her hair as she wept over the corpse o
f her young son. And yesterday she’d heard Signora Ambrogi say that she wanted to sink into a mud bath at San Giovanni and never come up for air again.
But to a ten-year-old girl, very nearly eleven, who was walking through a vineyard on a sparkling summer day, all the talk of suffering seemed to belong to a story that was only half real, like the stories of Barbarossa and the Turks and the pirate Martino—the one who slit the throats of two children he’d captured and threw their bodies into the sea off the coast of Montecristo. That was supposed to be actual history, though to Adriana the story seemed as unbelievable as the stories of gods and nymphs. Even if the story was true, she liked to imagine a better ending for herself. What would she do if she were taken captive by pirates? Why, she’d break free of their chains, dive into the sea, and swim home. And what would she do if an artillery shell exploded overhead? She’d flatten herself on the ground and watch the glowing shrapnel dropping around her.
Her uncle believed that La Chiatta’s Senegalese guest was not to be trusted. He had warned Adriana to bolt her door at night. Or even better, she should come and live with him in Portoferraio until the soldier returned to his regiment. Adriana had politely declined. And though she failed to convince him that Amdu was harmless, she reminded her uncle how he used to say that there was nothing worse than a Bolshevik. Whatever else the soldier was, he wasn’t a Bolshevik.
Could Adriana be certain of that? her uncle had asked. Could she be certain of anything? he had persisted.
Such was her uncle’s relentless manner, always ending with a taunting lilt. Yet he was her only uncle, so she put up with him. She was even glad when she returned inside and heard his voice in the front hall. When he saw her he sent his hat the short distance across the hall to the hat rack, clearly trying to impress her, though the hat missed the hook and landed on the floor.
