Pliny's Warning

by Nicholson, Anne Maria

  ‘A scientist with a business brain! You’re in good hands! I think he knows more about her hands than he’s letting on,’ Riccardo mutters as they take a place around the table.

  ‘It was a superb round of arse-licking,’ Frances whispers back.

  He laughs but before he can reply, Professor Corsi is back in the room. She has freshened her lipstick and smooths back her hair. Flicking off the lights she walks to a white screen on the wall. ‘Professor Caterno has helped me to prepare this PowerPoint plan. Let’s begin.’

  While Caterno operates the laptop computer, she indicates the images on the screen with a long pointer. The blue and white light dissects her face and body like a Picasso painting.

  ‘You can see we have a programme for the next six months to coordinate our approach in the region. Each of you will have your own area to inspect and talk to other vulcanologists in the different sites. As you know we have too much conflicting information from too many sources and it’s the goal of Progetto Vulcano to bring it all together.’

  An animated image of Vesuvius erupting fills the screen. A red mass rises like mercury through the centre of the mountain and pours over the top, tumbling in all directions.

  ‘Ah, this is the latest on the projections for Vesuvius if it erupts, though it could be hundreds of years before it does. This shows how the magma would force itself up through the crater. We want to be able to reassure people that we will be able to predict when it will happen and they will be able to get away in plenty of time. This is central to our task.’

  ‘Professor, there’s a lot of disagreement about the prediction time. I’ve heard variations between one day and two weeks. What’s the official line going to be?’ Frances asks.

  ‘We will have at least a week or two of warning signs, earthquakes and so on. And we will be working hand in hand with the Civil Defence to prepare people to evacuate if it looks like an eruption is imminent.’

  ‘I think that is too optimistic,’ Riccardo interrupts. ‘We have to consider the worst-case scenario and I think it’s as little as twenty-four hours.’

  Professor Corsi stares hard at him and pauses very deliberately before replying. ‘Signor Cocchia, I think we should agree to disagree at this time. Maybe we can discuss this at a later time. For now, we should move on.’

  ‘But surely…’ Riccardo stands up and squares his shoulders. ‘Surely as scientists we should be talking about those things now. Professor, as you know, I have new evidence of the Avellino eruption that points to a much more dangerous threat from Vesuvius than Civil Defence is currently considering. The heart of Naples is in danger, yet is not included in any emergency plan. There are millions of people at risk and we should be telling them.’

  The room is silent, save for the hum of the computer. All eyes are on Professor Corsi. She pauses again and sighs. ‘I mentioned before the terms of reference for Progetta Vulcano. At the risk of repeating myself, I believe I have to tell you again that we have certain duties to perform…but that does not mean we should all go off on different tangents just because this person or that person says they’ve made some new discovery. Professor Caterno is a recognized world authority in vulcanology and he has assured the government there will be plenty of time to evacuate. A couple of weeks. Isn’t that right, professor?’

  Bartolo hesitates and nods his head slowly. ‘Yes, I have given that advice. That is not to say I’m not willing to listen to other views.’ He shifts uneasily in his chair and refuses to meet her eye.

  Professor Corsi narrows her eyes and smiles, her shiny red lips catching the light of the projector. ‘Well, of course we all want to listen if there’s anything worth hearing.’

  She turns towards Riccardo. ‘But I have no time for anyone acting recklessly and alarming people. Our mission is clear. This is a vulcanology project. It is not an archaeological or an anthropological project. If we have to listen to everyone who’s found a new rock or a bone in southern Italy, we will never move forward. So I ask you again to stick to what you know about.’

  Her eyes scan the room and she finishes in a low steady voice. ‘That is, if you want to stay on the team and not go back to studying the hills of Australia.’

  Riccardo’s face is flushed and he shuffles some papers in front of him. No one else speaks.

  ‘Signorina Nelson.’ Frances starts as Professor Corsi focuses on her. ‘As you are the newest member, I think it would be helpful to us and to yourself if you visited our Stromboli Observatory to see how they’re managing with the acoustic monitoring. There have been problems with the system. Riccardo,…’

  He looks up at her, surprised by her now familiar use of his first name. ‘You could accompany her to the Aeolian Islands as that is one place you do know something about. Isn’t that so?’

  ‘Stromboli, yes,’ Riccardo says quietly. ‘Of course I would like to do that. I did most of my training there, not in Melbourne.’

  ‘Good. Now let’s move on.’

  Frances smiles to herself, admiring Professor Corsi’s ‘good cop, bad cop’ routine. Rule with an iron fist, then throw some lollipops into the crowd. ‘Professor,’ she interjects, ‘I inspected the seabed at Baia yesterday. There’s a lot of volcanic activity and some damage to antiquities and…’

  ‘Yes, yes, very good, Frances. Why not put it in a report and I’ll have a look at it? Soon we will put all the material together for consideration.’

  She firmly brings the briefing to a close and as they leave the room, Professor Corsi turns to Riccardo. ‘Signor Cocchia, could you stay behind a moment, please?’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Sounds of laughing schoolchildren wake Frances from a recurring dream. She is back in New Zealand and lost on White Island, drifting through steamy mists rising from a boiling lake. Tori’s warnings are ringing in her ears, warnings she ignored.

  A white cotton curtain blowing in the window brushes her cheek and the sounds of Corso Vittorio Emanuele return her to Naples.

  The sight of a pile of dirty clothes in the corner of her room makes her shrug off the dream. Wrapping herself in a sarong, she picks them up and takes them to the terrace, almost tripping on a large pair of women’s bloomers lying on the ground. She looks upwards through forests of clothes hanging from balconies above her but can’t tell the source of the runaway underpants. She glances at her watch. Just before seven thirty and the warmth of the sun suggests a beautiful day ahead. The children in the courtyard below talk, shout, laugh, grabbing a few precious minutes before they’re sucked into the nearby school. Bells ring sounding the start of classes and, abruptly, there is silence.

  Riccardo’s washing machine is broken so Frances washes her clothes by hand in a large tub on the terrace. After rubbing the dirt spots off some jeans, she swirls some shirts and underwear around and around in the murky water, refills the tub with fresh water and swirls them again, watching the soap suds gather on the top.

  After a life of functioning washing machines, dryers and fixed clotheslines, doing laundry southern Italian style had come as a shock. But now she enjoys the routine, keeping in tune with her neighbours and playing a guessing game. The clothes are the clues to the occupants of the apartments. Just below she can see the Fogliano family’s profile: baby Luciana’s pink jumpsuits and tiny vests and a lacy dress for Sundays; the twins’ jeans and T-shirts, and a couple of baseball caps; a striped top she has seen Laura wear; and some large shirts that must belong to her husband, Peppe, who runs the nearby petrol station.

  She squeezes out as much of the water as possible from her own clothes and pegs them to a line that dangles over the street below. She fastens each piece carefully, not wanting them to fall on some unsuspecting person’s head. Four pairs of black pants and a lacy bra spread across the line. Once she resigned herself to making her lingerie public she had tossed out the old stuff and started again, marvelling at the endless array of sexy Italian designs.

  She picks up the damp pair of voluminous white pants and wonders
who owns them. Almost on cue, something bumps against her shoulder. A small cane basket hanging on a piece of rope has dropped in front of her. Looking up, she can’t see where it has come from but guesses its purpose. She plops the bloomers inside and instantly the rope is pulled up. She follows its course until it disappears onto one of the highest balconies. An old woman’s voice calls out. ‘Grazie, thank you.’

  ‘Prego, you’re welcome,’ Frances calls back.

  Back inside she unlocks the shutters and glass doors opening onto a tiny balcony with a partial view of Vesuvius. Beyond the lane and across the city, the day is clear and she can see the sparkling bay and one of the flanks of the mountain. Riccardo’s revving motorbike breaks the quiet of the day. After the meeting at the observatory, she had completed some research work and returned home alone.

  Frances dresses for a day of trekking, hoping the visit to the volcano is still on. Riccardo’s keys crunch in the door and when she opens it he looks exhausted. Smiling ruefully at her, he dumps his helmet and backpack heavily onto the floor and thumps around the room.

  ‘That bitch has garrotted me,’ he complains.

  ‘Who? What’s happened?’

  ‘Camilla Corsi, of course. That stronza! She’s scrunched my balls over my last report on Vesuvius. You heard her yesterday talking about being alarmist. That was directed at me.’

  ‘Ah, yes, I was wondering how your quiet word went.’

  He smacks a fist into his hand. ‘She says I have to pull my head in. And it gets worse. She says the university doesn’t want to be associated with the work Marcello and I are doing. Plus she’s threatening to withdraw my funding and kick me off Progetto Vulcano.’

  ‘That’s outrageous. Surely she can’t do that.’

  ‘I think she’s doing Alfonso Galbatti’s dirty work.’

  ‘But wouldn’t the head of the university have to put his name to it?’

  ‘Hah! There’ll be nothing in writing, they’re too clever for that. It was one of those “pulling me aside for a chat in the corner” numbers. I’ve got no doubt he’s behind it. But I’ll fight it. At least Marcello is independent of the university and can say what he likes. Mind you, he needs research money too.’

  ‘Have you talked to Marcello about it?’

  ‘Yes. I stayed over with him last night.’ He pauses and grins at her. ‘Sorry, I should have let you know I wasn’t coming back.’

  ‘Hey, I’m not your mama! I wasn’t worried. But I am a bit concerned about your situation. What did Marcello say?’

  ‘Indignant, to say the least. Angry. Pissed off, or incazzato, as the Italians say.’

  ‘You’re becoming more Italian than the Italians.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right!’ he laughs. ‘But only to a degree. I’m not afraid to speak up against the authorities, not like a lot of the locals.’

  ‘I’ve noticed!’

  ‘Anyway, you can ask Marcello yourself. We’re going up Vesuvius today. Do you still want to come?’

  ‘Sure do. When?’

  ‘He’s coming by in the four-wheel-drive in half an hour. OK?’

  ‘Suits me. But I’m dying for a coffee. I’m going to head down to the bar.’

  ‘Good. I’ll see you there shortly.’

  Frances bolts down the steps and nearly bowls over Pasquale carting his cello in its case on a small trolley down the stairs. ‘Oops, sorry, Pasquale…’

  He laughs, and as they walk down together, she notices his eyes again, no less extraordinary in the gloom of the stairwell than in the candlelight.

  ‘It’s OK. You must be late like me.’

  ‘No, just hurrying for my coffee. Where are you going?’

  ‘To the Conservatorium of Music; I go every day for lessons.’

  They amble along the lane, on to the main street and part company at the local café. She watches him wander down the uneven pavement towards the station, his cello case mounted on a small skateboard following him like a large pet dog.

  The café is full of people crowding around the bar. ‘A large café latte, please, Massimo,’ she calls out.

  ‘Sure, Francesca. Anything to eat?’

  She looks at the lines of pastries and sandwiches crowded four levels high inside a glass case on the counter. Cornettos bursting with custard and jam; flaky pastries stuffed with sweet ricotta cheese; fresh bread rolls bursting with prosciutto ham, cheese and eggplant. She points to a round soft roll dotted with ham. ‘The Neapolitan panini, please.’

  ‘Giovanni, get that for her.’

  It’s only a small bar but there are three men working, all dressed formally in black trousers, white shirts and perky navy bow ties: Massimo, the owner, who makes it his business to know all his customers by name; his seventeen-year-old apprentice, Giovanni, with the latest buzz cut and diamond studs in his ears, and, at the till, Roberto, pushing seventy and still working enthusiastically after more than fifty years.

  Frances moves to one end of the counter alongside four others eating their breakfast standing.

  ‘Ecco! Here it is.’ Massimo pushes the cup towards her and hands her the roll in a piece of paper.

  She bites into the fresh roll and sips the foaming coffee, just finishing as Riccardo appears.

  ‘Espresso, please,’ he asks Massimo and turns to her. ‘You look as if you were born here,’ he teases.

  ‘Yeah, I rather like la dolce vita.’

  ‘Well, enjoy. It may not last!’

  His tiny cup of coffee arrives. He piles in three spoons of sugar, stirs it quickly and drinks it in a second. When his cellphone rings he walks outside to take the call. Frances picks up the bill for both of them and pays Roberto three euros and fifty cents.

  ‘Marcello’s a minute away,’ Riccardo calls to her. ‘Let’s go.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The traffic is gathering momentum as they drive through the narrow roads to reach the tangenziale expressway linking to the road to Vesuvius. Their vehicle is larger than most and Marcello slows on corners to avoid cars and motorbikes banked up on both sides. A bus looms towards them. He swerves sharply into a driveway, barely missing three motorcyclists who have also leapt into the space, to let it pass.

  Frances blows at a pile of dust on the dashboard and writes her name on it with her finger.

  ‘Sorry my car is so dirty,’ Marcello apologizes. ‘There’s a lot of dust everywhere. And I must confess I haven’t cleaned it since my last holiday. I keep it like this so the thieves are scared off!’

  ‘Naples has a shocking reputation for stealing cars. I remember friends a few years ago leaving theirs for half an hour and finding it gone. Is it still as bad?’

  ‘Who knows? My cousin had his car stolen in Melbourne. Another friend had his car stolen in Torino last month. I think it happens everywhere.’

  ‘Hey, that was probably one of my cousins in Melbourne,’ Riccardo calls from the back. ‘Sounds like a good excuse not to clean your car!’

  ‘You’re on to me!’ When Marcello laughs, his whole face lights up and Frances sees how, despite their passion for their research, both men still make the most of each day. She notices his strong hands on the steering wheel, tanned like the rest of him. They’re the hands of a working man rather than an academic; testimony to years of excavation, digging on ancient sites throughout Italy and beyond into Tunisia.

  They drive for about an hour, inching along as thousands of cars try to squeeze into the lanes.

  ‘Here we go. Finally!’

  Marcello turns off at an exit marked Ercolano Portico. Once off the highway, the traffic thins as they follow a narrower road to the Parco Nazionale, the national park of Vesuvius.

  ‘My God, the garbage hasn’t improved!’ Frances points to huge mounds dumped every hundred metres or so along both sides of the roads. A putrid odour rises from the detritus; abandoned fridges and furniture and hundreds of plastic bags burst open to expose rotting food and clothing.

  ‘It’s disgusting,’ Riccardo spits.
‘And nothing changes.’

  ‘When I first came to Naples I thought there must have been a garbage strike. But what’s going on?’

  ‘Il Sistema. The fucking system,’ Marcello exclaims.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ve been here long enough to notice that things in southern Italy move slowly or not at all. Il Sistema. Everything is controlled. And garbage—garbage is the new cocaine,’ he says bitterly.

  ‘You mean Mafia?’

  ‘Yes, our version. Everyone sees on television the odd shooting on the streets, a corpse found here or there. That’s not new, it’s the same fighting among the big families, the drugs, cocaine, heroin, pills. But now Il Sistema is much more sophisticated. It has a hold on our economy, the banks, the government, half the shops in Naples and all the services, so if their contractors don’t collect the garbage, everyone gets angry and they’ll pay more. Extortion!’

  ‘So how long does this stuff stay?’ Frances asks as they pass into the national park where the garbage piles are just as large.

  ‘No one will say. No one will act. They say there’s nowhere for it to go. You would not believe this but one politician suggested using the crater of Vesuvius as the dumping ground.’

  ‘You’re kidding!’

  ‘He’s not,’ Riccardo replies. ‘And it wouldn’t be the first time. There are several calderas, old craters, outside of Naples, including one in Campi Flegrei, filled with garbage.’

  ‘That seems impossible. Surely that’s against environmental laws.’

  ‘The laws, the laws…Il Sistema is the law. I’ll tell you something, Frances, the law here can be extremely strict on some things. Yet, if there are people of influence behind the scene, suddenly there is no law. Wheels within wheels—you understand?’ asks Marcello.

  ‘You’re right about the laws,’ Riccardo agrees. ‘It is against the law to dump garbage in a seismologically unsound area. And a volcano would have to be the most unstable. Yet, that is what happens.’