Children of the Salt Road [Kindle in Motion]

by Lydia Fazio Theys

  “I think you’ll see that you’ve been caught up in a story land here, one that appeals to the artist in you so much that your mind is playing tricks on you.” And after two weeks, with any luck, the kid will give up and never come back.

  “I don’t know. I hear what you’re saying, but I still believe Nico is a ghost. Not some kind of compensating fantasy for my past mistakes.”

  “See what I mean? Let’s not talk about it anymore right now. Let’s not build sides. We’re on the same side, aren’t we?” Mark squirms from the hypocrisy of his own words. He’s built the sides with his ill-considered lie. Ill-considered? Not considered at all. What did he think she was going to do—shrug it all off? Had he not spoken on impulse, had he not led with his emotions, they wouldn’t be in this situation.

  Catherine sighs. “All right. I won’t say any more. Right now.”

  “Tomorrow, we’ll just enjoy ourselves in Erice. And the next day, we’ll be off to Riposto. It’s gonna be great. You’ll see.”

  “I’m going to run into the ladies’. I’ll be out in a minute.”

  Mark watches Catherine enter the restaurant, and when her scarf slips from her shoulders and she stoops to pick it up, she appears so vulnerable in his eyes that the guilt is overwhelming. He looks away, looks across the back of Catherine’s empty chair and down the street. His stomach heaves and his breath tightens as he finds himself looking straight at Nico, not more than twenty yards away. The fire juggler is between them, and Nico’s face appears, stony cold, in intermittent flashes between the hot flames of the tossed clubs. Nico holds Mark’s gaze for five, maybe six seconds, then turns away and fades into the crowd. Mark finishes his wine, pours himself what remains from the bottle, and signals the waitress for another.

  Craggy, medieval Erice, set on a mountaintop, was veiled in a gossamer mist earlier today. But the sun has done its job, and the town that guidebooks struggle to describe—there are, after all, only so many words for beautiful—now displays itself to perfection. The road up had been all hairpin turns and magical views of mountains and ocean and of the town itself above. Now, walking through the town, Mark has lost count of how many rolls of film he’s shot. With fortresses, castles, and turrets everywhere, he can’t stop snapping. Maybe Catherine had been right about borrowing one of those new digital cameras for this trip. And he might have agreed, but who wanted to be responsible for such an expensive item? And the technology—he doesn’t quite trust it. How is a picture you can’t hold in your hand even real?

  Catherine had waited to pull out her sketch pad until they were deep into some of the winding, hilly streets where she couldn’t resist the wood and stone embellishments of the buildings and doorways that surrounded her. It was the variety of niches, each with a petite statue of the Madonna, and each eccentric and winning in its own way, that she drew with a concentration he recognized. Some of these would surely show up in her work.

  Right now, Catherine draws a pink-cheeked Madonna, one with a golden crown and a milky vase of fresh red flowers at her side. Mark takes the opportunity to explore the nearby side streets. Each street here is unique, and although all are stone, some are long, narrow, and curving with a steep slope, and others are terraced into broad, shallow steps. None are flat; none are straight. Buildings in all shades of brown and pink step right up to the edge of the road, meeting the jumble of pedestrians and cars without benefit of sidewalks or buffers of any kind. Nooks, crannies, and impossibly small alleyways abound, some going off at odd and rash angles, mysterious off-ramps, to where is unclear. Here and there, stone archways straddle the street, framing the view beyond. The effect is a glorious multidimensional maze through space and time.

  As he walks, Mark keeps count of his turns so he can find his way back to Catherine. On a deserted side street, as he studies an arch, running his hand over the stone, a scuffling sound draws his attention. He looks up in time to see Nico and makes the briefest eye contact before the child disappears around a corner. Third time today.

  Shaken, Mark turns and retraces his steps to Catherine, who stands holding a map. Keeping one finger anchored on the map, she keeps turning to the left and right in what looks like an attempt to orient herself to her confusing surroundings. He feels a stab of irritation. Why not just turn the map?

  She looks up as he approaches. “Oh, good. You found me. These streets are like sets of concentric triangles, if that’s even a thing. I’m not sure where we are. Or how we ever got here.”

  Mark looks at the map over Catherine’s shoulder. “I think that’s the restaurant Giulia recommended,” he says, pointing down a crowded side street.

  She looks up. “You OK? You sound funny.”

  “Just hungry.”

  Catherine, squinting, points to a gray building in the distance. “That? With the black sign?”

  He points again. “No. I meant the one next to . . .” Mark’s heart pounds and he drops his arm. Nico stands in front of the restaurant. “Cath, do you see what I see?” Mark keeps his eyes on Nico, who turns and walks away.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. For a minute I thought I saw someone I knew.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Seth

  February 22, 1993

  Dear Notebook,

  Yesterday might have been the worst day in my life not counting the fire of course. I got called before a disciplinary council at school. Catherine was there and her husband and me. I was already totally freaked out about having to be there but then I saw her husband and I thought oh God, I recognize him and they’re saying I harassed them—both of them—and could it be possible that I did? Because why would I know him at all? But then no, I knew. It isn’t possible. I would remember if I followed someone around. I know I would. But then I almost passed out because I thought he might be the guy I saw looking at me on the street a few times. I couldn’t even concentrate on what they were saying for a while because it was making me sick—all these wild thoughts running through my head. I can’t see why he would do that so all I could think was I must be delusional. But then I thought, no, lots of guys look like him and I never got a really good look, so I’m OK. I’m OK. And I calmed down some, but I must have been sweating and looking pretty guilty.

  Catherine never even looked at me much, and when she did, I saw pity on her face. She talked about the notes and letters and presents. She didn’t really want to. I could see that. Her husband, though—he said I was stalking him. He named all these places I hung out looking for him. And watched him in some creepy way. Oh God, Notebook. Maybe it happened. Maybe when I thought someone was watching me it was because I was watching him? But NO. No. That can’t be. I didn’t even know where he worked before he said it at the meeting. I know now, though, and I’ve never been anywhere near there. When it was my turn, I told them all that. Not about him watching me. I was afraid they’d have me committed or something. But I couldn’t prove I wasn’t where he said I was. I have no friends and I’m always here alone. Too bad you can’t talk, Notebook. You would have vouched for me. So I got asked to take a semester off. Yeah—asked. Ha. And told I had to leave Catherine and her husband alone. It’s like a restraining order, only the school issues it. And if I don’t obey it, I think maybe they can take me to court and get a real one.

  I can’t figure out why her husband is making this stuff up about me. Because he has to be making it up. Maybe he saw that Bodyguard movie. Everyone was talking about it a couple of months ago. Maybe that gave him ideas about a stalker? I don’t know. Maybe Catherine complained about me to him and he’s trying to fix it up. I hate myself when I think I might have upset her that much. She’s so nice and never did a thing to me. I never meant to do anything to her either. What a fucking mess.

  The catastrophes in the papers were worse this time than usual even. There was a midair collision in Iran
and 133 people died. Even those words “midair collision” terrify me. Like the word fuselage. It’s a horrible word. You never ever hear it or read it except when there’s a plane crash. I can’t even sleep sometimes thinking about those words. Midair collision. Like you’re up there. You’re sitting out there in the air. And it must be really loud when it happens. Maybe some of them saw the other plane coming. I don’t know. It must have been really fast. And horrible. There must have been so much fire. Like the department store in China that went on fire and 79 people got killed. And another ferry sank. In Haiti and they don’t even know how many people died. Like 1500 or even more. How come it’s always such a round number? Are people so cheap in this world we don’t even have to count them exactly? What’s so strange is that the exact same day a ferry in Denmark almost sank but they saved everybody. So sometimes it works out. Like that Lufthansa plane that got hijacked last week but no one got killed. No doubt about it. The laughing clown picks some of us to be the lucky ones.

  I’ve got to call Dr W this week. I need someone’s help and if I have to take some pills for a while, well, at least I have no classes or anything to go to. I have nothing to get in my way. Because I have nothing at all.

  Total dead since I started keeping track

  Plane crashes: 1067

  Natural disasters: 5078

  Other disasters: 1631

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Mark

  As Mark had suspected and hoped, Catherine has fallen head over heels for Roberto’s place in Riposto. And who wouldn’t? Opening that big gate and driving along the private road lined with palm trees and through the rolling groves of lemon, you can’t help but give in to the scent of citrus and jasmine. At the end of the drive, a broad expanse of lawn waits with open arms. The old stone farmhouse claims pride of place there until the eye roams to spectacular views of the Ionian Sea in one direction and Mount Etna, a cap of smoke and clouds atop its peak, in the other. Roberto and his mother are warm and welcoming hosts, and the rooms are comfortable and homey. The children are not around much, which, right now, is fine with Mark. He has a vision of this spectacular property becoming an agriturismo with small outbuildings matching, as well as can be managed, the main house in style and character, able to accommodate many more visitors than their current two extra rooms permit.

  He and Catherine have fallen into an easy pattern of breakfast on the patio, days poking around tiny villages, and evenings playing cards and sitting outside in the warm darkness watching Mount Etna put on a show. There’s a small eruption going on, and although the locals take little to no notice, Mark and Catherine can’t get enough of the mountain’s bewitching transition from daytime blue through shades of gray against an orange-streaked sky until, as the sun tucks itself behind the mountain, Etna blends into the black, leaving behind a Cheshire-cat grin of red lava glowing in the night. Some evenings, they’ve been lucky enough to catch sight of a lava plume shooting upward, a silent flash of a glowing red phantom in the placid night sky.

  Today, they’ve driven up to Etna. Roberto had warned them they could drive only about halfway up the mountain, showing them on a map where they must park. Since there was an eruption, they would have to abide by the signs and barriers in place for their safety.

  Parking the car, Mark sets the emergency brake. “Looks like a great place to hike around. I wonder what Roberto’s mother sent in that basket. I feel like a little kid. I haven’t had someone pack lunch for me since fifth grade.”

  They arrange a blanket on the ground and sit. “Some hikers we are! Right back on our keisters.” Catherine laughs. “Come on. Let me take your picture over there, with the top of Etna behind you and the light so pretty. OK?”

  Mark walks until Catherine says to stop, then turns and poses, the smoking crater behind him in the distance.

  “Stop frowning!” Catherine adjusts the camera settings and frames the photo. “We want to believe you’re happy to be here.”

  “I’ll try, but I’m looking into the sun.”

  “Well, then turn your head a little bit.”

  As Mark turns away from the direct sunlight, his relaxed happiness gives way to alarm. He squints. It can’t be! Off to the side, behind Catherine, Nico watches. How could he possibly have gotten here? Did he stow away in the trunk? Is it coincidence—he just happened to be here today? Mark’s head feels at least twice its normal size, all spongy and too heavy for his neck. Sweat beads on his forehead, and a growing nausea makes it harder and harder to hide his unease. “I need to sit down a minute.”

  “You all right?” Catherine slings the camera strap over her shoulder and holds Mark’s arm as they go back to their blanket.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You sure? You’ve been acting funny lately.”

  “It’s nothing.” But “nothing” can’t make you feel like this. “Nothing” can’t track you down wherever you are.

  It’s their fourth day in Florence, and as far as Mark can tell, things couldn’t be better with Catherine and Stefano. They’ve worked together daily until early afternoon, and Mark has enjoyed his time here alone. With Catherine’s tips for avoiding the worst of the crowds, he’s managed several times to be the only visitor to some little off-the-beaten-track church or museum. The best part is he hasn’t seen Nico—except for possibly one time, but he wasn’t certain it was Nico at all. The more he thinks about it, the surer he is that he overreacted to a random child who looked his way.

  Yesterday, Stefano had received the go-ahead to show Catherine the statue he wants her to work on. Mark’s not sure he understands Catherine’s explanation: a growing demand for bronze copies of antique works requires copies to be exquisitely faithful to the original. This entails a meticulous multistage process and specialized skills—skills Catherine learned from Stefano years ago. Museums can lend out the copies of their most valuable works for display and study. In some places, to protect irreplaceable items from accidental or deliberate damage by members of the public, museums even display copies themselves, keeping the original in safe storage.

  Catherine has asked Mark to meet her at two p.m. at the Uffizi—one of the most important museums in the world—so he can see the statue when she does. Now, he checks his watch and steps up his pace. It might not matter to anyone else around here, but he likes to be on time. As he nears the Uffizi, Mark keeps an eye out for Catherine and waves when he catches sight of her.

  “Come on,” she says. “We get to go in a private entrance!” Catherine approaches a guard and shows him a laminated ID card.

  “I’m so excited, I could explode. Stefano told me what the statue is. They have it in a private room for us.”

  “Would I know it?”

  “It isn’t the Pietà or anything, if that’s what you mean. It’s called the Spinario. That means ‘thorn picker.’ But people call it Boy with Thorn. It’s an incredible Roman bronze. A beautiful one. I saw it when I was here the first time. Right now it’s on loan to the Uffizi from a conservatory in Rome. And they’ve given permission for us to make and keep a single copy.” Mark notices the “us,” a good sign. “Obviously, I’d have to work on it here, but I wouldn’t have to be here all the time by any means.”

  Catherine’s pace grows quicker as her excitement escalates, and Mark has trouble keeping up. She stops and takes a deep breath when she reaches a large door set into a marble frame at the end of the corridor.

  “You sure I belong?” Mark already feels like a fifth wheel.

  “Of course. This is a real privilege, seeing something like this with no ropes, no crowds, nothing. I want you to see it too.” She presses a buzzer set discreetly into the wall, and a guard lets them in.

  Soft natural light pours in through six tall windows on the outer wall and through multiple skylights in the double-height ceiling. In the center
of the room is the statue. Larger than life-size, it depicts a seated young boy with one foot bare and upturned on the opposite knee. His face is a study in concentration as he tries to remove a thorn from the foot. Stefano is there, as are another man and a woman, both impeccably dressed and representing the Uffizi. Catherine makes introductions.

  “So, Catherine—and of course Mark,” says Stefano. “Look as much as you like.” The expression on Stefano’s face suggests a man about to hand out cigars.

  “A small human moment—so common, so unimportant—captured thousands of years ago.” Catherine touches the boy’s hair. “A little change in the haircut and it could be today.”

  “Yes,” says Stefano. “And perhaps my favorite thing about it is that we also call it Fedele—” He turns to Mark. “This means faithful. Because some think this is a messenger boy who completed his task, making sure to deliver his message before tending to his injured foot.”

  “I’d forgotten that,” says Catherine.

  As they admire the statue, Stefano explains its long history. The original Greek statue is long gone, but the Romans preserved versions of it, copying and imitating it many times. Since then, artists around the world have continued to reproduce, imitate, and otherwise depict it, both faithfully and with variations, but always recognizably. There is even a painting—a seventeenth-century still life—that shows a plaster cast of the boy, his back to a skull and pile of bones that rest next to an artist’s brushes and palette. “So you see,” says Stefano, “this boy has been brought back to life many times over more than two thousand years. It will be up to Catherine to bring him back one more time—for the Uffizi.”