by Elyse Lortz
“—you were more angry at me than you were at him.” The gun fired again, this time lodging the bullet between my eyes.
He was right.
Damn the man, he was right.
Perhaps he didn’t even know how right. I hated him at that moment. I had hated him with everything in me as he asked for the pen. How could he—a man far better than any in the world—be ready to die when he had so much to live for?
“Lawrence, I—” I cut him off with a swift string of words.
“I know it was—is—a horrible thing to think, and I shall endeavour not to do so any longer. If that isn’t enough, if you wish that I would leave, I can always go back to England for a time, or however long you need. Perhaps I could go to Italy. I have always wanted to go there, and you yourself have suggested it now and again. If that’s what you want, I can leave tomorrow morning.”
“Why would you do a blasted thing like that? Jo, I don’t consider those thoughts to be unusual, or even entirely immoral. You are having a natural reaction to traumatic circumstances. I am not at odds with your words, only that they did not appear sooner. Those ‘sinful’ thoughts of yours are to be expected—and, dare I say, commended—as a show of your own strength and morality.” I could not believe what I was hearing. It was an explanation so reasonable compared to mine, so damnably reasonable. I lifted my head toward the other side of the room to see Keane’s face, a mirror to all the confusion swirling around in my brain. Though, in his case, the chaos had been quelled through the accumulation of wisdom bestowed upon him by the bettering of years. He had lived through two wars, and I only one. He had served in the heat of battle, while I had passed the last years wallowing in his company. He had been my rock—my cornerstone—for so long I could not imagine my life differently. Everything had been set in its rightful place. Who was I to change that now?
With an elongated huff, Keane ended the final puffs of his cigarette, smearing the darkened ash into the tray. He rose from his chair, stretched, and took a few methodical steps along the carpeted floor. And then, as by a magician’s sleight of hand, Keane’s dry chuckle floated as easily as his tobacco smoke.
“My dear Lawrence, morality—or, at least, the definition of the word—stretches so far as to distinguish the extent to which an action is right or wrong. Right actions—honourable actions—dictate one’s character, while the actions of those such as Miss Smith and Michael give only one purpose to life. You come to live for the evils of mortal natures. It swallows you whole without thought or glance to your true nature. If I am thankful for anything in my old age, by God, it is that the world has not ceased creating those great shows of youth, finished with wisdom beyond their years.” He picked up his cigarette case and slipped it effortlessly into his pocket with a nostalgic twist playing at the edge of his thin lips. “That, Jo, is the greatest purpose any man can have in life, and, as long as there is another person with such love and kindness toward humanity, I may live fully and be glad of it.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Summer 1916—Palermo, Italy
HE’D RATHER HAVE BEEN drunk.
He could survive being drunk. He understood the pain of excessive alcohol lingering in his veins. He had experienced hangovers more pleasant than the constant churning in his stomach as he struggled out of the creaky old bed. His long legs remained oblivious he was on land, rather than the pitching and tossing deck of a ship. After a long, painful, but successful mission, the young Brendan Keane leaned over the cracked mirror looming above a battered washbasin.
By Jezus, he looked a fright.
The rust colored scruff on his face had thickened into an unruly mass of hair. It wasn’t too long, but it wasn’t holding the same dignified effect the young man had hoped for. There was no doubt he would have it shaved off that very day. That very moment, if he had mind to do so. He ran a hand through his blonde hair, noting it too was in desperate need of a trim before he looked like Jesus himself staggering up to Calvary. By George, he already did. Wincing with the effort, he fingered the darkened skin encircling his left eye. The spreading purple infested with yellow blotches was an unfortunate comparison to his natural pallor.
Immediately the events of the evening before roared into his memory with the force of a thousand tanks, tearing down the better, more beautiful trees with its filth. Fury, hot and deep, burned his soul as surely as the devil’s own trident. He rifled desperately through the decrepit wooden stand for a package of cigarettes he had stashed there upon his arrival in Palermo, but there was nothing but empty packaging. Nothing. God, it would be better if he had been drunk and hung over. It was more acceptable to be drunk than bruised. He wished he was drunk. He wanted to be drunk. There was more dignity to it in a country drowning in wine.
‘Dignity. Always dignity.’
Yes, that’s what his late father always said. Old John Keane, dead at the age of forty and leaving a young boy a man. That had always been a point of bitterness best left overgrown and unattended. Thomas was the eldest. It was his responsibility to care for their mother, himself, and—
Brendan shuffled further through the drawer, shoving aside shirts and socks until at last he found them lying carefully against darkened wood. The little folded papers bound together by an old necktie which had shriveled into little more than a collection of poorly intertwined threads. It was difficult—near impossible—to find a serviceman without such a collection, hard to find a man who didn’t have someone waiting behind the curtains of home. Someone dreading the telegram. Yes, there was always someone. Some had a mother, but she was dead too. Many had their pretty darling, but he’d been in most every capital in the world and still hadn’t found her. No, he had a sister; a dear, sweet, innocent girl wronged by anyone who dared not understand her enough to love her. She had been born when he was seven, and by God he was going to protect her no matter what happened in the world. He was all she had. Heaven knows Thomas and their mother hadn’t given her the light of day. And their father had died when she was still just a wee infant tossing in her wooden cradle. Their father, a man sitting by the fire with a pipe clenched between his teeth and a ring of bluish haze encircling his head. A man who had little enough time for him, unless it was overrun by a string of holy beads. Conversations of life—a child’s life—was undignified, and that was not to be endured.
Dignity. Always dignity.
God, Brendan thought, he needed a smoke.
It took some effort, but he managed to dress efficiently despite the constant thumping between his ears. As he reached for his necktie; however, his stomach gave a nauseating lurch and he quickly abandoned it on the bed before tentatively tugging the suspenders over his shoulders. His shoes were a bit more of a struggle, but he was soon ready to enter into the world with as much enthusiasm as a man near death might.
The late morning sun graced the clear sky as a dancer would a stage. Everything had its place. The gondoliers whistled their gentle tunes while embarking on the constant voyages up and down the river. There were fewer of them than Brendan recalled from his first visit to Palermo, and some cynical part of him could not resist wondering how many of those boat men now laid face down on enemy soil. No doubt the numbers were excruciatingly high, but such was war.
War.
How he despised that word.
What did war mean but millions of young men slogging through shallow trenches with the knowledge they may not live to see the light of day again. War was nothing. Nothing save a fulfillment of humanity’s need for violent killing until the other side surrendered to their wishes. It made him sick, and yet, if it was his hand upon the trigger, would he hesitate? Would he dare? Or would he become the dignified epitome of a war hero?
Dignity. Always dignity.
Stiff and tired though they were, his legs carried him dutifully to the tobacconist's on the corner, then on toward Romanici’s. It was a small establishment that overshadowed the churning river with such grace and life as man ought to know a thousand times
over. Like the villas stationed on either side, it was brightly painted with vibrant decor scattering the exterior.
It was also the only restaurant Brendan knew that was run by a gentleman under fourteen stone and without a mustache spotting his upper lip. A pair of wiry spectacles had settled on his long, defined nose and made his eyes twice as large as anatomically possible, engulfing half his face in chocolate pools darting back and forth across the various tablecloths. At the instant the scrawny man caught sight of Keane, the seaman knew he was doomed and quickly found himself in the small man’s vice-like embrace.
“Eh, buongiorno amico mio.”
“Buongiorno, Gaetano. Come va?”
“Sto bene. You’re improving, my friend. Good. It is always good to go somewhere, rather than nowhere.” Keane chuckled.
“Wise words from a wise man.” Gaetano held the taller man out at arms length.
“Me? Wise? No, amico. I’m only a small, skinny man.”
“With a large heart and a fine taste for wine and food. Speaking of which . . . ” Keane nodded toward one of the wooden tables pushed furthest into the corner of the well-lit room. The owner smiled.
“Oh, sì. You wan’a eat somf’ing good to eat. I’ll tell Angela. She’ll make you a somf’ing that’a fill you up in no time. And wine too?”
“Isn’t it a bit early?” Gaetano slapped Brendan on the back. Considering his rather unconventional size, it startled the seaman by just how strong the man’s arm really was.
“It’s never too early for some good wine among old friends, eh? Now you wait here while I go have mia moglie make a little somf’ing for you.”
‘A little something’ indeed, Brendan thought as an enormous plate of sauce-laden pasta was soon set before him. Mozzarella cheese had been heavily grated utop the steaming mass; creating both a masterpiece and a feast.
“Eat, my friend.” Gaetano urged him as he placed a large glass of wine on the table. “It’s no good if it’s cold.”
“It's only one in the afternoon.”
“Good. Lots of time for it to digest as you tell me about your life. Young man like you should have plenty of stories to tell old Gaetano. How you got that black eye is a nice beginning. Now, eat up. It’s no good if it’s cold.”
“EH, SO IT’S WOMAN TROUBLES that's got you in so sad. Have more wine. Wine to a man is like prayer to the soul.” Brendan Keane accepted the red liquor with a steady hand. What was it? His third? His fourth? Funny, he just didn’t seem to care anymore. It was as though all the troubles of the world no longer were large enough to bother him. Gaetano poured another glass for himself and leaned back comfortably in the wooden chair.
“Yes, you’ve got woman troubles, my friend. But don’t let that hurt your spirit.” The Italian swung his arm wildly back toward the half a dozen couples peppering the restaurant. “There are’a thousand girls out there. Thousands. And they’d all like you. They like Englishmen. ‘Ow you talk’a gives them da goose pimples. Make ‘em all go crazy.” The young seaman shot up in his chair.
“Why the devil would I want all of them?”
“I know, I know. You want Natasha.”
“And why wouldn’t I? She’s intelligent and—”
“—and you love her.” Keane slammed back into the seat, the wooden hind legs teetering dangerously. His voice; however, was steady and lethal as a poised gun.
“I never said that. By God, Gaetano, I never said that.” The little man laughed, encouraging the red wine in his glace to dance and swirl gently. There was a little more laxity to his chortle, just as an obvious flush had settled over his nose and an extra twinkle was added in his eyes.
“You didn’t need to. You, me amico, are like me: are a man of amore. You love the woman’s mind and heart like a drunkard loves the vino. You will find your amore someday, but not today. Tomorrow you might. Tomorrow you might fall for a girl so hard your head spins in circles. But that is not today. So drink up, and toast the woman you will love like the drunkard does the vino.” Brendan chuckled and moved his glass toward his host.
“God, I will miss this, Gaetano. All of it. The warmth, the language, the wine. All of it.” A splash of liquor missed the glass.
“You ‘a leaving me so soon? When your ship leave? A few weeks? A month and you leave me? Tell old Gaetano when.”
“Friday.”
“Three days?” The Italian sighed, almost offended by the mere thought of leavins such a glorious land. Does one dare think of leaving Heaven? Of leaving Paradise? But he did not know time as Brendan did. He did not question death, for he believed it far away. Gaetano was a man of moments, and if those millions of moments somehow created a passing of years, so be it. He would not die, he thought. He would not leave his beloved country. He would live life as it ought to be lived, and that was enough for him. It ought to have been more than enough for any man. This was his land of moments, a world of color and joy up until the day the moments—those valuable acceptances of a life lived to the fullest—stopped.
With great gusto, Gaetano Romanici raised the glass above his head, allowing the red wine to sparkle in the midday sun. “Three days is not long enough to live a lifetime, but I am an Italian, and a lover. Then let us drink. Let us drink and drink and drink until we are drunk in love of Palermo.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“CANCEL!” KEANE BELLOWED from his perch on the edge of the stage. “Why the devil would you want to do that?” Harrison hardly flinched from my companion’s steel glare. Brave man.
Or an incredible fool.
“I don’t want to do it but I don’t have any other options. A girl has died, Brendan. Doesn’t that make a difference?”
“Of course it does. I’m not debating that. But shouldn’t that give us all the more reason to keep the show alive?”
“I agree with the professor.” Mrs. Klein stated evenly. “I think we all knew what . . . troubles . . . Daniel had, poor girl, but that’s no reason for us not to continue on as planned. Besides, James, think of all the money you have invested into this project.”
“Money?” I leaned forward in my chair. “Just how much money are we discussing here? Three hundred? Four?” Mr. Harrison shifted between his feet, a hand pressed securely against the side of his stomach. The amount was more of a shock than the director’s previous announcement to obliterate the show itself.
“FIVE THOUSAND!” I feared Keane might teeter off the edge of the stage. He was himself a well-established man and, though I never knew the exact extent of his financial standing, I suspected he could live a hundred years in the finest luxury without so much as a glance toward his account books.
But five thousand dollars?
A cold chill shot up my spine.
“James,” Mrs. Klein said gently. “Couldn’t you find another girl, someone else who could play Eliza.” I quickly saw the conversation’s dangerous direction, careening wildly toward the nearest cliff over which it might hurl its desperate want of steadfast loyalty. I glared back at the several sets of eyes, especially the pair glittering blue with amusement. A few quick strides sent me retreating toward the carpeted aisle.
“No. Absolutely not.”
“But think of it, Lawrence—”
“—No, Keane, I won’t. It would be a disaster. Find someone else; someone with more experience in the theatre. I simply will not have five thousand dollars balancing on my theatrical ability, or lack thereof.” Keane huffed and, violently tugging on his left ear.
“Someone of your age should be more confident.”
“Confident? Keane, confidence has nothing to do with it. And, for heaven’s sake, don’t look at me like that. I am not one of your blasted patients.”
“No, you are not. I would never ask them to fulfill so dentranmental a task. Now, will you do it?” I could distinctly feel his thin, trained hands tugging the rug out from under me.
“If I don’t?”
“Then we can both return to England without anything more adventurous
than having seen the effects of an opiate overdose—something we have both seen before—and live out bogusly important lives in a world that is itself bogusly important. There is no summer finer than having spent it surrounded by musty old books and imbeciles haunting you at every bend. The Autumn chill shouldn’t be quite so horrid as last year, and I’m certain your publisher would be able to reschedule your appointments in, oh, three months or so.” The frayed threads of an impish grin played at the end of his thin lips and his eyes were entirely bereft of all smatterings of grey. They were as blue and bright as an endless ocean glittering beneath the evening sun.
A sun that burns for light.
“Fine. You’ve convinced me. When do we start?”
“Right now. This very moment.” Keane laughed, rubbing his hands together with energy enough to conjure a storm worthy of God himself. “What say you, James?” The director looked upon me appraisingly.
“I think she’ll do alright. Does she have a quick ear for these things?”
“The finest.” My companion assured him with far more conviction than demonstrated in the cold sweat approaching the nape of my neck as Harrison considered the proposition. At last, my fate was sealed with a solid nod.
“Good. Alright then, we’ll start from the beginning.” A wave of his hand brought an immediate surge of cast members taking their place on stage. There a world was created and recreated as we drilled the first act repeatedly until my mind swam in a hollow murk. Syllables became severed letters. Seconds became painful accentuations of a needle. And every breath stung with an acute urgency one had best ignore, else they become enraptured with the ill-gotten glory.
I was not a complete novice to the theatre by any means. I knew how to stand that my face was open to the audience’s ridicule. My voice reverberated crisply through the hollow emptiness of the establishment; bounding from one wall to another and capturing the ears of all who might bear witness to listen. It was not quite so nice as Keane’s clipped English, for his not only echoed, but danced in tones I had heard a thousand times.
