Four Hundred and Forty Steps to the Sea

by Sara Alexander

  “My children hate me”—he drooled—“all I need is a way out. You save your beloved brother. And have your father out of your hair. For good.”

  “You taught us that hate.”

  “Maybe!” he spat, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “But it’s all I knew. You’ve made no mistakes? You’ve done everything the perfect way?! Congratulations!” A second wave of tears struck him, with more force than the first. Again, the glassy reflection of my own shortcomings, my own warped choices. Only shadows between my father’s decisions and mine, after all. I kept my lips pursed shut, I didn’t want him to see me lose my temper any further.

  “You have any idea what it’s like?” he whined, clogging the argument. “Up in those godforsaken hills? You think my father was any better? You ever think to look at my scars? No. Young people? They are the victims always. You see to the end of your nose, no farther. You hate me that much, Santina?! Then give me the money I need, and I will be dead to you. Even more than I am now.”

  “How much are you expecting me to pluck from the air?”

  “One thousand lire.”

  “Are you mad?”

  “I’m desperate. I take away your brother or you get rid of me. What’s it going to be?”

  He stopped crying. There was a spindled strength to him, like a thin weed that will not be scraped away with a hoe. A final revelation that we grew from the same root after all. “How do I know you won’t come crawling back as soon as you’ve drunk it all?”

  He ran his fingers across his gaunt face. I could hear the scritch against his stubble even from where I stood.

  “The police are in town today. If they come to your house, you know they are on the scent. They are after Marco, Santina. They’ve already questioned you, no?”

  I nodded, terse.

  “They will be back. Harder this time. I wanted to tell you this last night.”

  I shook my head. His presence was as claustrophobic as ever.

  “I’m sorry, Santina.”

  “Everything so urgent. Such panic.” I tried to hold on to my resolve but it started to crumble, scuffed pebbles along the ridge of our cliffs, tumbling out of sight. Unwanted images blasted my mind, Marco’s edge, the knife I’d spied in his hut, the robbery, the boat. It all added up to uncertain business but not necessarily dangerous. The picture my father painted was of a true criminal. He had no proof. Was I prepared to risk it? Could I live with the possibility that because of my stubbornness, my father might tell lies about Marco and send him to prison?

  My rage knew no bounds. He could have skipped town long ago. He could have kept away. He needn’t have swum into this watery mess. But that was my father all over. He delighted in this malignant play. He lived for this meddling. It was his fuel. And, should I even consider giving in to his demands, what was to say he wouldn’t return week after week, demanding more? Threatening me again and again? Yet who was to say I could live with myself if I gambled my brother’s freedom?

  Around us, our Positano sparkled into primary-colored focus, the blue of the sea, the proud red of the bougainvillea, the yellow bursts of bikinis; a parallel paradisiacal fantasy. And here we stood, upon the shingle, our lives in the balance.

  “I have no more to say, Santina. I turn to you because there is no one else who can save Marco. Or me. Our family never stuck together. Perhaps this once, we can make things good.”

  “You don’t make things good with threats.”

  “Oh hell, call it what you like, Santina! You always had a way with words. That’s why I knew you would be fine. You have a great life. Keep it that way! I’m reaching out! You just see punishment!”

  We stared into the silence.

  “You make your own mind up, Santina. I come to you tomorrow evening for the money. If the police have been, you know it’s true. If not? What will be will be.”

  “Everything is so simple to you.”

  He let out a wheezy laugh then.

  I did the only thing I could. I turned away from that skeletal man, picked up Elizabeth, and began our hike back to the villa. This time I walked slower. This time I sent out thanks for holding her hand in mine. Marco’s face blurred into mind. Motes of memory swirled inside me, catching at the back of my throat. I don’t know who had hurt me more—my father whimpering for help with threats or my brother for being obtuse about his life? My rage turned inward; how did I let myself become so vulnerable to both of them? When did I become responsible for their lives?

  It was time to uncover the truth.

  Whatever the consequence.

  Chapter 25

  On our return, I butchered several handfuls of artichokes, taking out my needling frustration on anything other than the almost four-year-old prodding me at every turn. The heat usually left me unfazed, but today it bore down like a vise, walls inching closer, suffocating temperatures that made the simple act of breathing feel like a minor victory. Even the light had a dead weight, void of air, the act of moving through it a leaden exercise. I tore at the fluff at the middle of the leaves, scraped the hearts into a separate bowl, and quartered the florets. Elizabeth sat upon the terrace just beyond the door with a large enamel bowl of water she splashed in happily, making a delighted mess around her.

  The slivers of garlic fizzed in the olive oil. I added the artichokes, threw in several wedges of potatoes, tipped in a fistful of parsley, a wiggle of water. A whoosh of steam rose up from the pan, pungent, promising, but providing little of the distraction I craved. My mind galloped on, pounding the same thoughts.

  “Are you alright, Santina?”

  The major’s voice caught me off guard.

  I spun toward him.

  “Good heavens, you look frightfully pale. Perhaps you ought to take the afternoon to rest?”

  I shook my head. My forced smile stayed locked in my mind, unable to break the surface. He stepped toward me, the sun beating down around him in painful dazzling stripes.

  “I’m fine. Lunch may be a little late. I’m sorry.”

  “Not at all.”

  I would have liked him to leave then. Float back to his reading, or correspondence, anything other than hovering in my periphery. I could sense him standing there, waiting for a longer answer, eager to listen. I would have liked nothing better than to tell him everything right then and there. For a stark moment I knew he was the only person I could trust with the burden of all of this. I turned to face him again. He’d moved aside a little so that the rays traced the gentle sculpt of his jaw, his white skin luminescent in the copper air. It wasn’t just the elegant outline that made him compelling, but the exquisite openness with which he held the space now, so attuned to my mood, eager for me to feel comfortable and explain. I’d seen that expression many times before. It was the one that drifted over him after a particular passage of a certain poem, a pert expectance, the ability to hover in unanswered questions for an indeterminate time. I’d seen him like that late at night sometimes, as I prepared the kitchen for the following morning. In the space between the open door and the dining area, he might linger by his favorite picture, or stop reading for a moment and let his gaze wander beyond our walls, to a space both private and vast.

  “I have less patience than I normally do today. I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Awful condition, this human one,” he answered with a bronze smile, which I mirrored, but mine felt like a paper cut.

  The bell clanged.

  I wiped my hands on my apron and walked toward the door, passing Elizabeth just as she lifted the bowl and tipped the entire contents over herself, squealing in watery delight, jumping up onto her feet and dancing wet footprints across the terra-cotta. On another day I would have enjoyed her delirium. Today I marked it as one more thing to attend to in the heat of the afternoon, scrubbing foot marks away.

  The same two policemen greeted me. The taller snarled a diagonal smile.

  “Signorina Santina. The pleasure once again.”

  I felt the major step in behin
d me.

  “Gentlemen. What can we do for you this time?”

  The sweaty one wiped his brow. Several mustache hairs curled toward his lips.

  “Signore, buon giorno. We won’t take too much of your time, of course. Just a few more questions for your employee here and we will be on our way.”

  The smell of scorched artichokes reached me.

  “Excuse me one moment,” I said and left without waiting for a reply, nor inviting them in. The kitchen was hot with a blackened smell. I turned down the gas ring to minimal, added a splash of water, watching it sweat over the scorched leaves. I placed the lid on top.

  The men were already sat down, waiting. I picked up Elizabeth’s overturned enamel bowl and gave a perfunctory glance around for the child.

  “It’s alright, Santina, Elizabeth has gone inside to play. No need to worry.” The major wanted these two out of his house as quickly as I did.

  “Please. Take a load off your feet, Signorina,” the small man purred. He reminded me of a larded meat joint, rolled and ready for the oven.

  I took a seat. My father’s words echoed in my head.

  “Last time we came you were quick to confirm your brother’s whereabouts the night of the robbery, that is correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Since then, Signorina Santina—that’s a quaint name for a housekeeper, isn’t it, Giancarlo?” he perked, glancing over at his incumbent partner. “Little saint. Had an aunt called that, I think. My grandmother’s cousin. She was anything but. What’s in a name though?”

  The tall one sniggered. He reminded me of an adolescent joining in with laughter a beat too late, desperate to demonstrate understanding. The major straightened his collar. It didn’t go unnoticed by the small officer.

  “But we tarry. Let us get to the meat of our visit.”

  “The juicy bit,” interjected Tall.

  Small slit him a look.

  “So you see, Santina, we’ve had more witnesses wriggle out of the woodwork since we last paid you a visit. And we can now start to stitch together quite the colorful quilt. Your little brother is more than one sees with the naked eye.”

  I had expected a second snigger from Tall at the use of the word naked. I sat silent, trying not to let my converging thoughts trigger any expression. I wouldn’t allow my eyes to wander over to the major for fear of reading any concern or, worse, kindness, that might have made my voice wobble of its own accord.

  “I suppose I thought we’d be kind enough to stop by and see, if in the time we’ve been away, your memory might have jogged anything more to the surface? Because you see, when we gather all the evidence it’s the people who are withholding information who are going to be punished alongside the criminals. You can understand that, can’t you?”

  Small’s little black eyes flicked toward the major and then back to me.

  “Family is a wonderful thing, is it not? I don’t think anyone north or south of Napoli knows about family. Not what it truly means. We die for one another. And that is as it should be.”

  He gave his mustache a perfunctory twiddle. It twisted straight back down to where it had been.

  “I’m so sorry Santina isn’t able to help you any more than last time, Signori.”

  Small and Tall turned toward the major. Though I knew he couldn’t have understood the Neapolitan, he had read my body language and now translated for the men on my behalf.

  That’s when we heard the shrieks above our heads.

  “Henry darling! Henry, my love! Look at our little painter!”

  Our eyes followed the sound. Two faces gazed down at us. Both were paint-streaked. Adeline’s patter sped up now, the words sputtered out at manic speed, her eyes dancing, part terrified rabbit, part victorious. Elizabeth’s white skin was covered in red and yellow splats and smears. She giggled and waved a paintbrush down at us. That’s when we noticed her tiny feet resting on the ledge that ran along the top of the stone balustrade the length of the upper terrace. Adeline’s hands were around her waist, but the sight turned my marrow to ice.

  I leapt to my feet and ran up the stairs. I reached Adeline’s room and snuck inside without making a sound. I could hear the major talking up from the garden now. Cooing to his wife, keeping her talking, trying to make sure she stayed calm, prodding her with gentle encouragement to remove their child from the perilous perch.

  Meanwhile, I watched Adeline’s jerky movements, her spine rippling with hilarity, every small twitch a thorn, making the dispersal of my panic even harder. I watched her red-green-blue hands around her daughter moving as she spoke. I walked toward the balcony, registering the paint across the tiles, an overturned jar of water trickling brown-green sludge across the desk into a muddy puddle.

  I was outside with them now, in the square of terrace beyond Adeline’s double doors. Neither had registered me. Elizabeth started stamping her feet.

  “Look at me, Papà!”

  “Wonderful, Elizabeth! A real painter!” he called up, disguising every fray of concern in his voice. “Come downstairs now, my darling, and show me what you’ve painted, yes?”

  “But isn’t it marvelous, Henry darling? Isn’t it just perfect, my love?! So long I’ve thought about this, Henry! She likes me, Henry! See this? After everything, Henry? She likes her mamma, don’t you, Lizzie?”

  That’s when she tickled her, and Elizabeth shrieked with laughter, rising on her toes, skimming the edge. Panic snaked around my throat.

  “Addie darling, bring her down to the garden, let’s paint down here, yes?” the major called.

  “But do you see, Henry? The child understands! You should have seen the way she held the brush, Henry dear. An absolute natural! I feel immortal now!”

  That’s when her arms reached up toward heaven. In the split second she did so, Elizabeth lost her balance. I grabbed her just as her foot lifted up and over the edge. I clamped my arms around her, squeezing the life I’d saved back out of her.

  Adeline whipped round. “Santina darling! Whatever is the matter with you, let the child go, look at her, she’s screaming! Whatever’s the matter?!”

  “Sorry, Signora.”

  Adeline stepped inside to where I stood within the cool safety of the bedroom, disentangled my arms, and lifted the painted doll onto her hip, swaying this way and that, twisting them across the tiles in a maniacal celebratory waltz. Elizabeth’s shrieks bounced off the tiles in wailing echoes. The light spidered over them through the shutters. I was watching a skeleton cradle the life it would never have.

  The major stepped in.

  “There’s Daddy! Henry, look at her! Why did I never see how stunning this child was!” Her lips traced her chubby face, planting hurries of kisses all over it. I was unnerved by the whole scene, watching a conductor lead an orchestra through a frenetic passage, resisting their urge to keep time, swerving the tempo with players struggling to maintain rhythm. Around they twirled, sweeping over the tiles, leaving red paint smears as they did. The smudge of patterns was like the heaving evidence of a dragged bleeding body.

  The major wrapped his arms around the both of them, lulling them toward stillness. I watched him retrace his daughter with gentleness, easing them all out of the narrowly escaped tragedy. Here was the life I was so woven into, yet invisible, gazing at it through smoky glass.

  The major looked over at me, centered amidst the chaos, witnessing his own flurry of emotion without being consumed by it, a quality I could not relinquish my admiration of, this compelling ability to feel with such depth but remain at a safe, philosophical distance; a rowboat anchored, undulating on the sea without resistance.

  “Do see to the men downstairs,” he said, his voice soft. “I’ll be down directly.”

  Small and Tall were wandering around the terrace, caged cats stalking their territory, hungry, restless.

  “Scusa, didn’t want to keep you waiting,” I said.

  “A child nearly falls to her death. We wait. Is no problem. You, on the other hand, l
ook like a sheet in the wind,” Small said.

  “Anything more you need my help with?” I asked, surprising myself with the steel in my voice, despite the whirlwind of the past few minutes.

  “Lunch maybe?” Tall cackled, sniffing the air like a pup.

  “I am giving you one more chance to tell us what you know, really know, about your brother,” Small interjected. “There are people, not such nice people as yourself, who are willing to tell us things. You understand that?”

  “I will help any way I can,” I replied, knowing that assisting them would be the last thing I could ever do.

  Small searched me for clues. Tall stood motionless, a clay figure before the artist has etched in lifelike details.

  “So, we go. And buona fortuna to you all. From the looks of things, you have your work cut out for you here. Part housekeeper, part nurse. There are places for women like her, you know. Someone should tell him this is no place for a child. Sad to see women ruined like that”—he shook his head with pantomimical sadness—“especially ones who must have been beautiful once upon a time.”

  His pomposity was nauseating. I knew if I let the words punctuating my thoughts fly out I would be doing nothing to divert suspicion. I opened the door.

  They turned back, in unison, a well-rehearsed double act performing their encore.

  “Be safe, Santina,” Salvatore said, as they shuffled down the few steps to join the alley.

  * * *

  The major agreed to give me the early part of the afternoon off to recover.

  I raced to the cemetery.

  The gates were locked. I shook them until a sleepy Marco poked his head out of the hut.

  “What on earth are you doing?” he slurred.

  “Let me in this instant!”

  “Shhh . . . you’ll wake the dead!”

  I rattled the cage a little more. His movements sped up at last.