On the second level, she hears the cellist and rests for a moment to listen. The music leaks through the closed door and envelops her on the stairwell, the notes sure and stirring. Bach or Beethoven? She’s not sure.
‘Ciao, Francesca!’ Laura Fogliano emerges from her apartment above on the third floor, looking tired and unusually untidy. Her short black hair is uncombed and her large dark eyes have the drained look of a young mother lacking sleep.
‘Ciao, Laura, how’s Luciana?’
‘You can hear for yourself,’ Laura grumbles as the cries of the little girl cascade through the building. ‘Sorry, I can’t talk now—I’ve got to get those boys into the bath.’ She rushes past to fetch her sons from the courtyard.
The doorway of the family’s apartment is wide open and Frances exchanges waves with Laura’s mother, Nonna Fabrizia, who is trying to calm her granddaughter. ‘Calma, carissima, calma!’ she coos, rocking the baby in her arms, her hips swaying.
As Frances opens her own door, she muses how different it all is to her previous two postings; the luxurious Seattle apartment in striking distance of the explosive Mt St Helens, and the quiet house at Lake Taupo nestled below New Zealand’s volatile volcanoes. But this was her choice. After the emotional parting from Tori in New Zealand, she didn’t want to be isolated.
The beat of so many lives crammed together in one building was a crazy atonal human symphony, offering a strange sort of comfort; the baby’s cries blending with the cello, plates clinking in a kitchen over fragments of conversations, a games show blaring on a television.
Her place is dark and empty. She throws open the green shutters on the windows and the doors leading onto a small terrace. Shards of sunlight bounce off the white marble table and red leather sofa and fresh air breathes life back into the room.
Yanking off her worn boots that double for riding and climbing, she then pulls off her leather jacket, shirt, jeans and underwear and leaves them messily on the floor, walking naked into the bathroom. Her green eyes stare back at her from the mirror as she runs her hand again through her dishevelled hair. She wipes a line of dust and sweat coagulated in a crease around her mouth. The combination of the dive and constant congestion on the roads has exhausted her and she’s feeling every one of her thirty-eight years.
She luxuriates under the hot shower, a contrast to the hurried wash at the dive shop, where she and Marcello removed their wetsuits and sloshed around on the cold concrete floors.
Looking down her muscular body to her feet she sees sand and pieces of shell collect on the bottom of the bath. The sight pricks a childhood memory; her mother washing her in the tub, wiping off debris trapped in her bathing suit after a rare visit to the British seaside. She makes a mental note to ring her mother. Soon.
A large bruise is forming on her left hip where she fell back hard on rocks under the sea. She rubs the blue purplish spot but doesn’t feel any pain.
Lingering under the streaming flow, she considers the hot water and bubbling gas surging out of the seabed at Baia. How might they fit into a new pattern of volcanic activity throughout the Campania region? Seismic tremors are increasing and the seabed is frighteningly active. Early warning systems to predict what might happen are her speciality, but even she has to admit that whether the tremors are symptoms of a major eruption is pure guesswork.
The water runs cold. She adjusts the taps but there is no more hot water. Goose pimples form on her skin and she leaps out.
Frances pulls on a funky denim skirt decorated with Italian bling she’d picked up at the weekend market, a stylish pair of high black boots with Cuban heels and a fitted black T-shirt. Just as she’s scooping her work clothes from the floor to her bedroom, she hears a key opening the door and a slam.
Riccardo is standing there, unusually quiet and fidgety. She greets him with a kiss on both cheeks.
‘What’s up? You look like someone’s stolen your dinner.’
He forces a smile that creases his tanned, open face. He’s missed a shave or two and black stubble on his chin matches the colour of his thick curls. ‘Something odd is going on at the university and the observatory. I don’t like the feel of it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m picking up some strange vibes. I’ve tried to talk about the research I’ve been doing with Marcello on the Avellino eruption of Vesuvius. Professor Corsi and Professor Caterno keep brushing me off. I’ve bumped into both of them in the last few days and they avoid me. They make me feel like I’ve got dog shit on my shoes!’
Frances looks fondly at her friend. In his early thirties, Riccardo Cocchia is a large, broad-shouldered, demonstrative man.
‘Call me Ricky!’ he had said, taking her under his wing when she’d arrived in Naples, offering up his spare room. ‘That’s what they call me in Australia.’
Other scientists had been less than friendly to her mixed pedigree from America, Britain and New Zealand. As an international vulcanologist, she’d experienced resentment before from people rusted onto their jobs, threatened by newcomers. But Riccardo was different, perhaps because he was an outsider himself. He had grown up in Melbourne but was drawn to Italy, his grandparents’ homeland on the tumultuous island of Stromboli. He shared her passion for volcanoes and trying to predict their behaviour—it was in his blood.
Frances had often seen him embroiled in loud arguments. He didn’t give way easily but he didn’t bear grudges. She hated seeing him morose. ‘Listen, why don’t you clean up and we’ll go out to eat. I’ll tell you what Marcello and I discovered today. More bad news the venerable professors might not want to hear.’
‘OK. And I’ve got something to show you.’ He dangles his backpack in front of her with a mischievous smile that makes him look like a boy again.
The trattoria two streets away is busier than usual but Luca Barra, the proprietor, beams at them and beckons the two regulars inside. ‘Ciao! Come in! All the window seats are gone but you can sit there if you like.’
He points to a small corner table at the rear of La Lanterna. The tables are dressed with cream embossed linen tablecloths, candles, fresh flowers, chunky silver cutlery and thick glasses for water and wine. Rich aromas of garlic, onions and herbs waft through the room and although it’s just going on eight, many diners are well into their meals. At the largest table, seven people are ploughing into large pizzas, most of them the Neapolitan staple—margherita—topped with tomato, oil, buffalo mozzarella and a basil leaf or two. Another group is eating zuppa di pesce, large bowls of steaming fish soup.
Frances and Riccardo quickly order their favourite dish and wine, a bottle of falanghina from a vineyard near Baia.
‘Salute, Frances! You know, it doesn’t matter how bad the day is, a good bowl of pasta and a glass of vino always cheers me up.’ Riccardo raises his glass to his lips and takes a small sip.
‘I’ve noticed. It’s contagious. I’m just as hooked as you now.’ She gulps a large mouthful of wine and laughs when she sees Riccardo’s surprise.
‘You drink too quickly,’ he chides her. ‘That’s what they do in Australia. It’s not Italian!’
She grins at him, takes another big sip and tops up her glass.
The waiter delivers two plates, each wrapped in a crown of white crinkly paper. They quickly peel it off to reveal a pile of steaming tomato-coated pasta combining a feast from the sea: mussels, clams, prawns, calamari, octopus and fat chunks of fresh fish.
‘Linguine ai frutta di mare! Buon appetito, eat up!’ Riccardo urges her.
‘This is delicious. It would cheer anyone up.’ Frances winds the long strands of pasta around her fork and savours the taste. ‘So what do you think is behind your snubbing? Caterno and Corsi set up Progetto Vulcano. Why would they behave like that?’
Riccardo sighs. ‘There seems to be some double game. They ask us for information on the risk to the population, but when we come up with the goods, it’s as if they don’t want to know the bad news. They definitely don’t wa
nt Marcello involved.’
‘Well, he’s been essential to my work; I couldn’t have done the diving at Baia without him. Is it because Marcellos’s an archaeologist? Professional rivalry?’
‘Who would know!’ Riccardo raises both his hands in frustration. ‘But now we’re sure of one thing. All of us, scientists and politicians, must change the way we look at Vesuvius. The volcano might be dormant but it is still lethal. All we ever hear about is the 79 AD Pompeii eruption, but the Avellino eruption, three-and-a-half thousand years ago, was much bigger. It destroyed all of the area where Naples now stands. It means the whole city is in danger.’
The restaurant hums with the sounds of sated diners but Frances has suddenly lost her appetite. She leans across the table towards him. ‘And today we saw for ourselves how active it is under the seabed. There’s been severe damage to the artefacts and it’s really bubbling.’
Riccardo reaches under the table and drags out his backpack. ‘By the way, this is what I wanted to show you.’ He pushes his plate away, pulls out a cloth bundle and unwraps it on the table.
‘My God…you’ve got to be kidding! They look human.’
‘They are.’ He runs a finger over three bones. ‘Femur, tibia, skull. Bronze Age woman in her twenties, died 1780 BC. She was killed after the Avellino eruption. We’ve got plenty more back at the lab, and there are hundreds on the sites Marcello found and documented.’
‘That’s extraordinary. Can I touch?’
‘Sure. She won’t feel a thing.’
Frances looks closely at the skull, its mouth open with many teeth intact. She shudders, remembering another one she had found in the crater of Mt Ruapehu in New Zealand. If you dug around volcanoes long enough, bones would always make their way to the surface. ‘You just wonder how she died.’
‘We think we know. Suffocation. We found her with another skeleton, a male, underneath a metre of pumice. They had their hands over their faces. We could see the instant of their deaths.’
Frances gently touches the skull and tries to imagine what sort of life the woman had and whether she had any notion about the danger of Vesuvius. ‘Will you take me to the site where you found her?’
‘Sure, if I’m not banned from continuing the work.’ He gently rewraps the ancient relics.
‘Maybe we’ll find out what the resistance is about tomorrow,’ Frances muses. ‘We’ve got all the team together so it could be the time to ask questions.’
Over Riccardo’s shoulder, Frances sees a young man dining alone across the room. The candlelight picks up the cloudy greenish blue of his eyes.
‘Looks like someone’s stolen your dinner now, Frances. What is it?’
‘It’s odd. I’ve just seen someone who looks very familiar but I can’t place him.’
Riccardo twists around and follows her gaze. ‘That’s Pasquale Mazzone. He’s the one you hear playing cello in our building. Come and say hello.’
He has the gentlest of demeanours and his pale complexion is framed by auburn-coloured hair that illuminates his unusual eyes. ‘Piacere di conoscerla. Pleased to meet you.’ His voice is soft as he clasps her hand. ‘I’ve seen you come and go on your motorbike.’
‘And I’ve enjoyed hearing you play. The cello’s a favourite of mine.’
‘Then come inside one day and listen properly.’
When he smiles his eyes shine like precious stones. They unsettle her but Frances knows she will accept the invitation. She smiles back at him.
‘Thanks. I’d love to.’
CHAPTER THREE
Rows of buzzing and blinking computer monitors fill the hub of the Naples Central Observatory, crowding the walls of the long room from floor to ceiling. The machines are a modern mirror of the innards of the ancient volcanoes of southern Italy.
‘Attention, everyone. Before we begin our meeting, I want to show you the new equipment we have just acquired. Hopefully it will make our job a little easier.’
Professor Camilla Corsi stands in the centre of the Progetto Vulcano taskforce, eight scientists, handpicked for the joint project between the observatory and the university, assigned to bring together all the volcanic research in the region. She is slim and stylishly dressed in an expensive tailored black suit and crimson silk shirt, contrasting with the casually attired group she leads. Her thick black hair is brushed back and held with a comb, accentuating her carefully made-up angular face.
‘These are the new generation of seismographic machines.’ She points to a dozen newly installed computers against one wall. Her voice is deep for a woman’s and attests to years of smoking that have made her look older than her forty-four years.
She balances on high-heeled designer shoes, flattering her shapely legs and disguising the fact that she is very short. ‘They are twice as sensitive to earth tremors and sounds and will boost our capacity to predict any changes emanating from the magma below Mt Vesuvius, Campi Flegrei, Mt Etna in Sicily and Mt Stromboli in the Aeolian Islands.’ She turns to her deputy.
‘Professor Caterno, could you give a demonstration?’ she gestures imperiously. ‘Use the Stromboli example.’
The Professor of Vulcanology, Bartolo Caterno, is a solid, balding man, a good ten years older, and has the technical expertise Camilla lacks. If he resents playing second fiddle, he doesn’t show it.
He turns on one of the computers. The screen lights up with a pink and blue hue. ‘This is a replay of what happened last March when there was a large night-time explosion in the crater of Stromboli. Here it is captured on the infra-red camera.’
The video pictures of the rocks inside the crater are pink and blurry and remind Frances of the early moon landing images. There’s a sudden bang, rocks explode, then the picture stops. He swings around in his chair.
‘You see, we had all the equipment, all the seismographs placed all around the island and the flanks of the volcano, but no warning at all of the eruption.’
He turns back to the screen. ‘Now watch this.’
Clear views of the crater appear.
‘These are live pictures of the interior of the crater. You can see what is happening right now. It’s very active with all the smoke and steam. Now keep watching.’
He taps the keyboard and the screen keeps switching to different angles from other cameras. ‘So, we have the crater covered. Now look.’
He punches more codes on the next keyboard and the next. ‘The wavering lines show what’s happening in seismic terms. You can watch the cameras and see how they’re reflecting the waves. Then this one here,’ he points to a third screen, ‘is picking up the sounds.’
‘Thank you, Bartolo,’ Professor Corsi interrupts. ‘So what we are witnessing is a greatly increased sensitivity in the monitoring. We believe this will give us earlier warnings and more accuracy and with your help we will be improving that all the time.’
‘But will they make the politicians more responsive to the public danger?’ Riccardo’s question hangs in the air.
Professor Corsi turns to him sharply. ‘Signor Cocchia, maybe you should restrict your remarks to things you know about and not make such careless comments. I would like to remind all of you that we are scientists, not policy-makers. Our job is simple. We must present the best data, within our terms of reference.’
She turns on her heel and calls back over her shoulder. ‘Please follow me. Our chancellor, Professor Galbatti, is waiting for us in the conference room and we can continue our meeting there.’
‘Whew!’ Frances exclaims too loudly before she can stop herself. Others in the group turn to look at her. Riccardo flashes her an amused glance and she crinkles her forehead in response. This is her first experience of Camilla’s toughness and she wouldn’t want to be in her firing line.
When Frances met her for the first time in her grand office in the university, she had been utterly beguiling. ‘Welcome, Signorina Nelson, we’re honoured you have come to Naples,’ she had said, offering her manicured, red-painted nails. She had ex
uded charm and courtesy and was quite unlike any vulcanologist Frances had ever met.
‘Political operator first. Scientist second. Powerful friends. Don’t cross her,’ Riccardo had warned.
Now they file behind the professor like schoolchildren, along a long corridor lined with images of Vesuvius, around into a foyer and through to a large meeting room.
‘Ah Professor Galbatti, how kind of you to come.’ Professor Corsi ushers her team into the room.
Alfonso Galbatti smiles broadly, rises from a padded burgundy leather director’s chair at the head of the table and moves towards Camilla. He’s a solid, squat man with hardly any neck. He has only to lean slightly to hold her shoulders as they kiss each other, first on one cheek, then the other. She quickly releases herself and turns to the group.
‘We are very fortunate that the honourable Alfonso Galbatti, Chancellor of Campania University, has made the time to come here personally. It is entirely thanks to his efforts that we have attracted further government funding for the project.’
Frances watches a two-way river of oozing flattery.
‘Come, come, professor, you are underselling yourself. Ladies and gentlemen, if it hadn’t been for Professor Corsi, none of this would have happened. Not only is she a gifted scientist, she has a business brain to match. You are in very good hands, I can assure you. And now if you will excuse me, I have some pressing matters to attend to at the university. But I wish you good luck with Progetto Vulcano! Professor, a word before I go?’
His body bends stiffly into a small formal bow. He straightens himself without acknowledging the group further and leaves the room with Professor Corsi.
Pliny's Warning Page 2
