Four Hundred and Forty Steps to the Sea

by Sara Alexander

  “What is?” I asked, feeling my chest tighten.

  “That boy from Li Parlati. Someone told me they found him by the ships.” An arthritic finger lifted to her throat and mimed a knife swiping across it.

  I don’t remember hearing anything after that, not the sound of the pastries falling to the floor, Marco yelling for me to slow down, the whispers along the alleys as the news spread across our town. I will never forget the look on my best friend’s face as I reached her house. The way she gripped me, the tremor of her tears. The weight of her as her legs resisted their load.

  My heart broke.

  The home I’d known full of laughter suffocated with the echoes of despair.

  Chapter 13

  The sun dipped toward the horizon, as Marco led me out of the Rispoli house. We left tears behind us as a second wave of visitors flowed in, loaded with food and murmured prayers. He hooked his arm in mine and shuffled downhill in silence. I drew to a stop outside the front door of the villa. That’s when my own sobs tore through me. I had spent the best part of the day being a buffer for my friend, letting her cries and those of her family crash against me with the stillness of our Positanese rocks. I was strong and calm for them. Now, in the quiet dusk, I allowed my grip to loosen. Marco held me tight. I must have made more noise than I’d planned because Rosalia’s cousin opened the door to see what was beyond. I reached for her hands. “Oje nè, go straight home. I’m so very sorry.” I took a breath to tell her but the words caught at the back of my throat.

  “It’s your cousin, Segnurina,” Marco began, “we don’t want to be the bearers of bad news.”

  “Whatever’s going on here?” the major asked, stepping in behind the young girl.

  Her eyes darted between the three of us, confusion streaking toward dread. I looked up at the major, eager to restore my calm, but in vain. The more I tried to speak the harder the tears thwarted my efforts to a soggy mess.

  “Good heavens, come on inside, Santina.” He reached a hand out to Marco. “My name is Henry, Santina works for me. You are?”

  “Marco,” he answered, “fratello di Santina.”

  “Fratello? Oh—brother—I see,” he answered. It puzzled me to hear the twinge of surprise in his voice. My life was compartmentalized. It never occurred to share anything of my past with the major. I kept it hidden. It seemed ridiculous all of a sudden, impolite, even. I heard people shuffle around me, Rosalia’s cousin leaving, Marco sitting down beside me. A glass was placed on the table in front of us. I looked up. The major placed a second glass for Marco.

  “Now,” he soothed, “you are to tell me who has done you wrong. Something terrible has happened, that much is obvious. Do I need to call the police?”

  I shook my head. Concern grayed the major’s face. He looked at me, his eyes warm but prying; a lawyer delving in for the facts with polite tenacity.

  “No, Signore, nothing like that. I’m so sorry. I feel so stupid making all this fuss. I am fine. It’s Rosalia’s brother. He—” The words swirled into sludge in my stomach. The major looked to Marco, then to me, impatient for an answer, for reassurance. Marco struggled through a mumbled explanation in Neapolitan. Off the major’s frown, he ran a finger across his throat, coming to my rescue.

  “Murdered?” the major said, his voice a whisper.

  “Down by the docks in Napoli,” I began, “he was involved with the wrong crowd. Or, his crowd upset another. Something like that. It’s a tragedy. None of us knew.”

  Then the sobs exploded once again. Marco wrapped me in his arms. The major moved around to my side of the table and squatted down next to me. Marco relinquished his grip. My hand was in the major’s. I didn’t follow his words. I couldn’t hear anything beyond the pulsating in my ears, feeling a great urge to pull my hand out of his. His skin was cool to the touch, his hand wider than I thought. Mine was couched inside his like a child’s. I wanted this cradle to soothe, even though I craved to be quite alone all of a sudden. His touch steered me to shore.

  “That’s it, Santina. Just breathe. I’m so very sorry, my dear.” He smoothed a stray hair from my face. I felt the tip of his finger trace my cheek.

  “Grazie, Signore,” Marco interjected.

  The major stood.

  “Grazie to you, Marco—please, you may stay as long as you need.”

  His arms were pantomiming where he lacked Italian. Marco followed his exaggerated gestures.

  “Good God, Henry, you’re not doing that awful thing of speaking loudly to foreigners in the hopes they’ll understand, are you?” The doctor swung around the doorway, the ice in his glass clinking the gin from side to side.

  We all turned.

  “James, something dreadful has just happened,” the major replied.

  “I can see. Your acting is atrocious.”

  I watched the major suck in some air and lengthen, choosing not to return the retort. The doctor saw me. He took a quiet step forward.

  “Santina—please tell your brother he is welcome to stay.”

  “Thank you, Signore,” I replied, turning to my brother. “Per piacere, Marco, eat with me, I’ll make us some supper.”

  “I don’t know, Santina,” he replied, shifting his gaze over the terrace, as if he were trespassing all of a sudden.

  “It’s fine, Marco, the major never says anything he doesn’t mean—of that you can be sure.”

  “Only for a little while then.”

  I led him down to the kitchen. He sat, silent, as I brought a small pan of broth to a simmer, threw in a fistful of pastina and some fresh cut carrots and celery.

  “Are you alright, Marco?” I asked, without turning to him.

  “Sì.”

  “You’re so quiet all of a sudden—can I help?”

  “No.”

  I watched the pastina float in the liquid. The image of Rosalia’s tears stung my mind. I wondered who was comforting her now? We ate the soup on the lower terrace. Marco kept his head down, as if someone might steal his bowl.

  “I’d like to see your home one day, Marco.”

  “No you wouldn’t.”

  I let his refusal hang in the steam from our bowls. He caught me staring at him. He let his spoon drop to the rim. “Why are you looking at me like that? My God, you’re acting like I just cursed our mother!”

  My eyebrows raised.

  “Well, aren’t you?” he asked without waiting for me to answer. “You want to see the pigsty I live in? Compared to the palace you serve in? Want to compare how well you’re doing to me, is that it? Go ahead, big sister. Show me how it’s done. Your poor little brother, raking around the dead.”

  “Marco, I didn’t mean—”

  “I think you did. I know you did.” He gave an angry swirl around the cooling broth. “I live with two other men. It’s a hovel.” I wondered if he was making slurping noises just to irritate me. “Feel better now?”

  I let my spoon drop into the liquid, watching the handle slide down the rim and shift under the floating cubes of carrots, my appetite disappearing with it.

  “It’s late. I’m going to go.” He stood up and pushed his chair under the table. “You know where to find me.” He reached the doorway and turned back to me. “Grazie for dinner.”

  There wasn’t time for me to answer before he disappeared. When I reached the terrace, he had already let himself out of the front door. I stood there for a moment, a puppy waiting for its owner. Then I shuffled back to the kitchen to clear.

  The major stepped in. He took a seat.

  “May I get something for you, Signore?” I asked without taking my eyes off the task at hand.

  “No, that’s quite alright, Santina. I just wanted to make sure you were feeling better.”

  I wiped my hands on the dishcloth and turned to him. “I’m alright,” I said, hoping the words would take me there.

  He replied with an unhurried smile. “Actually that’s not what I wanted to say. Preposterous thing to say really. Utterly British. I know yo
u’re not all right. I suppose I want to check that you’re able to not be alright, without panicking. Being able to not be alright is a rather wonderful lifelong skill. Everyone is very fearful of fear, of grief. These atrocities are tragic. Yet so very human.”

  His eyes met mine. His collar was open. His hair wasn’t his typical neat sweep off his face, but tousled, the red streaks deeper amber than usual.

  “What I’m saying, in the most clumsy fashion possible, is, even in the most painful scenario, there is perfection. All is as it should be.” He sighed a snap of laughter with a shake of his head. “Yes, from your expression I can tell it sounded far better in my head than out.”

  I laughed. My eyes felt puffy and sore.

  “Don’t be scared of breaking, Santina.”

  He looked into me. The words were paternal, but his expression pinned me to stillness. I felt bare; an electric thread of liberation and terror splintered up my spine. He could see I felt broken. He filled in the cracks with mercurial words, soldering the gaps with his gaze.

  “Don’t stay up too late, will you,” he said at last, jumping to his feet. When he reached the door he spun round. “Santina—have you ever been to Pompeii?”

  The absurdity of the leap in conversation made me frown before I could control it. He chuckled, noticing the fact. “James and I are taking Adeline to the hospital a little farther up the coast from Sorrento, for some treatment. She’ll be staying there for a few weeks.”

  He must have read my response despite my silence.

  “I know,” he continued. “I’m working hard on believing it myself. He’s reassured me in the way only he knows how. If we reach it tomorrow and it’s a horrendous prison, we shall turn around and return home directly. With my wife.”

  His face creased into a question. I could sense his struggle; he longed for some kind words from me, a nugget of reassurance, yet at the same time he knew he’d edged over the boundary of my duties. Then he performed a deft turnaround, like he always did when he spoke to me as a friend. “I have a good sense of how you’re feeling right now, Santina. I hope you allow yourself to let those sensations permeate you. Don’t shut them off. If it’s something Adeline taught me, it was how to feel, so very deeply. Pain and pleasure make you feel the terror and joy of life.”

  He coughed, clearing away the thought.

  “A change of scenery might do you a world of good? No, that’s altruistic posturing—the change of scenery will do me a world of good.” He looked at me, expectant. “I would love to share it with you.”

  Another pause.

  He stepped in before I could answer. “If you’d like to. You may find ancient history dull. And I would judge you heavily on that, of course.”

  We both laughed then.

  “Elizabeth?” I asked, steering us back to reality with reluctance.

  He shifted. “I’d already made arrangements for one of our neighbors’ help to cover for a few days.” He cleared his throat again. If I didn’t know better, I would have said he looked nervous. “Of course, you could take those days for yourself, I suppose—good heavens, I’m taking a liberty rather. Truth is, I’m dreading this hospital and I need to make the trip less torturous. I need to be peaceful for Adeline. Perhaps if I led us on a little stroll through antiquity, showed you the place that made me fall in love with this part of Italy, it would eclipse the abandonment of my wife—for a day at least.”

  He looked at me. I didn’t feel like his housekeeper. He smoothed our bristling nerves with a tilt of his head. The expression that cast across him was elegant resignation. I admired him for standing in the awkward silence, acknowledging what he was feeling without expecting anything in return.

  “I’m babbling,” he decided at last, shaking his head with a sigh, “I haven’t really thought this through.”

  “I would love to come,” I answered, stopping him from unraveling another sentence. He lit up. Then gave a stiff nod back to composure and left without a word. I turned to the sink.

  “We’ll be leaving just before dawn!” he said, with a sudden pop through the doorway that almost made me let go of the bowl in hand. I caught it before it slipped onto the tiles.

  “I’ll be ready,” I said, my face widening into a smile I hoped he wouldn’t mistake for mockery.

  “Yes.”

  I watched him take a breath to speak. His eyes were smiling too. No words surfaced.

  He turned and left.

  The awkward bubble burst as he did.

  * * *

  We left the house at dawn. I packed Adeline’s bag, the doctor packed all her medications. The major ran a warm bath for her. I lingered by the closed door, holding her large leather travel case. I hoped his singing soothed Adeline as much as it did me. An old English ditty, he’d called it when he had taught it to me some weeks ago. A funny word, I had decided; a staccato sound, a falling stone tapping on the cobbles. The rhythm indeed was cheery enough, but the words were thorny. The song reminded me of my own folk songs. I didn’t know too many love songs from our hills that swam a merry stream of melody without some dissonance, some surprise dip into a sonorous key. Perhaps the hot blood of the Amalfitani wasn’t so far from the temperate British after all. Our melodies had the power to filter through a soul’s true sentiments far better than words alone.

  Giuseppe met us at the bottom of the hill. Pasquale’s brother had been hired as a driver for the day, something he seemed all too happy about.

  “Buon giorno, Santina—lady for the day, I see!”

  Off my glare, he changed tack. “So sorry to hear about the Rispoli boy.”

  “We all are,” I replied, taking my place beside Adeline, between the major and I on the backseat.

  As we curved out of Positano, the major slipped his hand into Adeline’s. I tried to tune into her energy beneath the alabaster countenance. Her pools of blue looked darker in the suffused light. Gone were the dancing eyes that had bewitched me in London. I glanced down at her hand. Perhaps one day she might paint again. Perhaps this short sojourn would bring her back after all. I looked over to her other hand. The major ran tiny circles around her wrist. The beautiful simplicity of the movement expressed more than any brash demonstration of romance. I thought about Paolino singing to me across the room at the party. How different this love beside me was. And here, a man willing to sacrifice his idea of what would be best for his wife for her sake alone. I knew the next few weeks would be tougher for him than he would like to admit.

  The sanatorium just north of Castellammare di Stabia reminded me of the monasteries from the countryside where my mother grew up, farther south along the coast. It was a small building, modest in design with thin smooth columns lining the portico across the main entrance. The major led Adeline out of the car, hooking his arm in hers.

  “Do come with us, Santina, you may be of assistance should we need it,” the major said, turning back to me.

  I followed them and the doctor into the dark cool inside.

  A starched nurse welcomed us. A long corridor ran from the center of the entryway. Where we stood, we could see it faced onto a courtyard garden. At its center there were several raised beds with vegetables and, around, a spray of flowers. This was nothing like the stories I’d heard about the hospitals in Naples. I could see relief wash over the major’s face too.

  The doctor strung together a few phrases and a male doctor appeared, greeting him like a friend.

  “Henry, this is Dr. Giacomo, the gentleman who I’ve been writing to. He studied for a while in England, you remember me mentioning him, don’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Please,” said Dr. Giacomo, “I can lead you to Adeline’s room. We don’t advise you stay too long. It can be very upsetting for our patients, I’m sure you’ll understand.”

  “Yes,” the major said, disguising the emotions I could see racing in his eyes.

  The doctor and I watched the figures of Henry and Adeline disappear down a corridor off the main strip.


  “I should think we ought to offer them some privacy, don’t you, Santina?” the doctor said, turning toward me.

  “Yes.”

  We strolled back toward a bench just beyond the entrance.

  “It’s a beautiful place, Doctor.”

  “Yes,” he replied, lifting his trousers and taking a seat on the bench, signaling for me to join him. “Henry wouldn’t believe me of course. He loves Adeline more than I could ever imagine. He adores assembling a fierce exterior, but my friend has a molten center. Always has done. Even from when we were children. That’s what all the girls found so dreadfully compelling. Never mustered that veneer myself.” He shook his head with a boyish smile. “What you see is very much what you get.”

  He watched me smile.

  “And you are a light, Santina. Thank heavens for you. I am all too aware that your town affords the kind of beauty I can only dream of living in, but even the panorama of your sea can lift the spirits only so much. Henry misses his wife.”

  “I know. I see it. In lots of ways.”

  “If he didn’t have someone like you, a beautiful young lass with a spring in her step and intelligence beaming out of her, I know his life here would be a very different experience.”

  I felt my cheeks redden.

  “I speak out of turn. I always do. I don’t care. I’ve seen enough people die to know that life is horrendously short. I can’t waste any more time not saying what I feel when I feel it. If my father taught me nothing else, it was not to live anything like he did.”

  “Yes. My father too, I mean.”

  He flashed me a warm smile and lifted himself off the bench.

  “I’ll take my bag from the car now. Dr. Giacomo and I will run through the plan for the next few weeks, and he’s arranged transport for me to the port in Naples.”

  He reached out a hand. I put mine in his. He shook it.

  “Thank you, Santina. Keep up the good work, won’t you? Several people’s lives depend on it. More than you’ll ever know.”

  The major reappeared in the doorway. He looked tired but hopeful. I left the men to their goodbyes in private. Inside the car, Gennaro met my eye in the mirror.