by D. M. George
“The legend says she killed herself because her voice lost its seductive powers.”
“No. Her passing was my fault.” Poseidon eyed Sabina keenly. “She is gone to me forever, but…” He struck the ground with the handle of his trident, and a luminous green fog surrounded Sabina’s spirit and corpse. He slammed it down again and a gust of wind blew the fog away.
Sabina blinked twice and discovered herself back inside her healed body. It felt different though. She looked down and screamed. A sprinkling of thumbnail-size iridescent scales started on her sides and coalesced low on her hips into a long fishlike tail. Twitching translucent fins had replaced her feet.
“I don’t want to be a mermaid! I want to be a girl again. Please turn me back!” Sabina pleaded. “I need to take care of my father. He’s sick.”
“Hear me and lift your spirits. Your father will recover and you will fish with him again.” He circled Sabina, inspecting her form. “Hmm, too young…” He gently touched her cheek with a prong of his trident and she aged twenty years. “Too scant here…” He touched the trident to her sternum and adult-size breasts erupted. “Perfection! Hitherto, you shall be named Parthenope.”
“But why? I’m not her.”
“Penance. You are a living shrine to my love for Parthenope.”
“But I don’t know how to be a mermaid!”
“Gird yourself in your new powers and be grateful. You bend water, weather, and marine life to your will. You speak all languages and you sing and play the lyre better than any mortal.” Poseidon unclasped one of the many gold chains adorning his neck and placed it around hers. “Behold this cameo—it was to be a gift for the first Parthenope, a gift of eternal youth.”
“But—”
Poseidon scooped Parthenope into his arms. “Rejoice in your new life as a creature of the sea and cast out your sorrows.” He stepped into chest-deep water, took her hand, and let her float. “I gave you a goodly tail, now bend it.”
Parthenope flexed her tail. Its power surprised her as she rose out of the water up to her waist.
“Excellent. Now harder!”
Parthenope kicked again, with more effort, and flew high into the air. She flopped back into the water on her stomach. The Nereids giggled.
“Twist your fins like the rudder of your father’s boat.”
Parthenope spun around so fast she became dizzy. The Nereids broke into song, Triton blew his conch shell, and Poseidon kissed her on both cheeks. She cringed at his touch.
“Fear not. I would never deign to seduce you, only admire you from afar.” Poseidon climbed into his chariot, raised his bejeweled hand, and drove his hippocampi into the churning whirlpool.
Parthenope cried inconsolably.
Baia
Here I go, Perla thought. My first date in a decade. She tucked her hair behind her ears for the hundredth time and crossed the parking lot toward the Marina Piccola pier. The week had passed at a snail’s pace in anticipation of her snorkeling trip with Vito. Could she pull this off without acting like a dork?
The clinking of cutlery and plates filled the air as waiters at the waterside restaurant prepared their outdoor seating area for the lunch crowd. Vito’s boat came into view as she turned onto the pier. He lounged on its cushioned bow, looking like a model in an aftershave ad. Her heart raced and she struggled to compose herself. Was this handsome man in the unbuttoned shirt, modest swim trunks, and slip-on canvas shoes actually waiting for her?
Vito spotted Perla and jumped onto the dock to greet her. She loved the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. Vito took her hands and inclined his head to kiss her cheeks, but the roar of an engine made him pull back. They looked up just as Circe’s vintage speedboat careened around the breakwater into the harbor, well over the speed limit. At the last moment, she throttled back and gurgled to a stop next to Vito’s boat. A flag with a singing pig, the Castrati Prosciutto logo, flapped in the breeze above the stern.
Damn Circe and her grand entrances! The clinking cutlery ceased. Waiters stopped setting tables to stare, along with everyone else within earshot of Circe’s powerful inboard engines. But the moment she stood up, removed her scarf, and shook out her raven hair, all attention focused on Circe and not her boat. She deftly tied a rope to a metal cleat and climbed onto the dock with so much balance and grace she seemed to levitate—a miraculous feat considering the low-cut pencil dress and red-soled stilettos she wore. Who goes boating at ten a.m. in a cocktail dress? When neither breast fell out, the waiters, probably feeling cheated by gravity, resumed their work.
Circe focused on Vito like a hawk and swooped in, crowding Perla out of the way.
“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend, Perla?” Circe said, her voice silky. She ravaged Vito with her amber eyes and pressed her upper arms against her sides to make her dramatic cleavage protrude farther.
Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look, Perla’s mind screamed at Vito. She’s testing you!
“Uh, this is Vito. Vito, this is Circe.”
“Good morning,” Vito said. He held Circe’s gaze for a polite second, not once letting his eyes dip to her décolletage, and focused on the boat behind her.
“Che bello! A 1958 Riva Tritone Via! May I see inside?” Without waiting for an answer, Vito stepped around Circe. He crouched alongside her boat, caressing the shiny mahogany bow. It resembled a long wooden bullet.
“They call this the boat of kings. Prince Rainier once owned one. There were only 257 made,” Vito gushed.
His brush-off was subtle, but Circe rose to the challenge.
“Step inside. Perla doesn’t mind, do you, Perla?” Circe said as she wafted back into her boat, sat down, and leaned her arm across the back of the turquoise-and-white leather bench seat.
“We were just leaving,” Vito said, winking at Perla.
“Go ahead. We have time.” Perla was touched he mistook her fear of Circe for jealousy. The image of Circe transforming Matteo into a pig was tattooed on her visual cortex.
Circe leaned toward Vito, giving him a clear view down her dress, but he skillfully averted his eyes again and moved to the back of the boat. “This beauty has two 175-horsepower, six-cylinder, 5.5-liter Chris-Craft engines and a push-button transmission.”
Circe clicked her red talons against the retro steering wheel for a few seconds and stood up facing Perla, her back to Vito. She tipped her head in his direction, gave a subtle smile, and nodded twice.
“I have things to do,” Circe announced. She hopped onto the dock, straightened her dress with a wiggle, and sashayed toward town with her Silvano Biagini snakeskin satchel clutched under one arm. No goodbyes.
Vito frowned. “Friend of yours?”
“God no. She scares me.”
Parthenope peered around the crumbling wall, her hair floating in a titian corona. She spied on Perla and Vito as they streaked by on their matching underwater scooters, legs dangling behind them. Curiosity had gotten the better of her; she had to see for herself the man whom Perla had met on Ischia. They gripped the handles of their three-foot-long plastic bivalves and darted about like seals at play. They raced around submerged statues, rolled, shot to the surface for air, and dove under again. Curious devices: to steer, they simply leaned in the direction they wanted to go and water, shooting from the hole in back, propelled them forward like scallops in a hurry. The man slowed and circled the statue of a forlorn woman wearing a crown of laurels. Green algae obscured her features and mottled her once-white complexion. Parthenope pitied the statue—a fellow prisoner of time.
“Behold my glory, ungrateful creation of mine.”
Parthenope recognized the keening dolphin voice behind her and spun around. Poseidon and his trident glided toward her, no entourage in tow. His chariot was parked in the distance, and his hippocampi grazed on sea grass.
“Poseidon, it’s been centuries,” Parthenope replied tartly, also speaking dolphin. She burst into bubbles of laughter at the sight of his tight Speedo b
riefs.
“Dare you mock me?” Poseidon lifted his chin defiantly and shifted his weight to one hip. “This miraculous garment feels divine; a modern invention worthy of my majesty.” Poseidon focused his attention on Parthenope’s neck. “My Nereids report you gave away your cameo. Why? You know the dire consequences.”
“Why? Because of that…” Parthenope leaned around the wall and pointed at Vito. He was touching Perla’s arm lovingly to show her something. “That is exactly what I’ll never have.”
“The gates of death have opened for you. Your age will accelerate and you will pass through within a month,” Poseidon said. “Your beautiful countenance is fading. Soon you will wear the face of a sea hag.”
“I welcome death. You cursed me when you resurrected me as a mermaid.”
“I laid the treasures of the sea at your feet! I bestowed upon you powers possessed by no mortal, but all I hear are bitter grievances. I have seen your tears, and there is no peace in my heart. How can you not be happy with my divine gifts?” Poseidon twisted the point of his beard.
“How can I possibly be happy? I’m doomed to sit at the water’s edge for eternity, watching happy couples without ever knowing a man’s love. Does that sound like fun to you?”
“Oh, for shame. Where is your gratitude? Lest you forget, you were a knot of limbs when I came upon you.” His hand tightened around the trident, whitening his knuckles. His emerald and sapphire rings flashed angrily.
“Go ahead. Stab me—I dare you! Do me the favor of ending my misery.”
Parthenope delighted in Poseidon’s befuddlement. He squirmed as appropriate words escaped him.
“I asked you to make me a girl again, but instead you made me your dead lover to allay your guilt. Why should I be grateful?” Parthenope’s face reddened. “You said I was your penance—what a hypocrite! Have you changed your ways in two millennia? Has my existence improved your judgment? Tamed your impulses?”
Poseidon’s sheepish look spoke for him. “Verily I should kill you, but your temper binds me, excites me. Never have you embodied the first Parthenope truer than in this moment. I see her spirit in you, not just her replicated body. Your beauty slays me.”
Parthenope glanced at Poseidon’s crotch and scrunched her face. He looked down and discovered his Speedo did little to hide what was happening beneath. Poseidon reddened and smashed the handle of his trident into the ground. The earth trembled. Strings of bubbles billowed out of the sand like a forest. Several moments later they cleared and Poseidon was gone.
“Holy cow! What happened?” Perla sputtered as she and Vito broke the surface.
“A small earthquake,” he said, lifting his mask. “Baia sits on a caldera. There’s constant hydrothermal activity around here. It’s what made the city sink over the centuries.”
“Where did all the bubbles come from?”
“Trapped gas. Not uncommon, but I’ve never seen so many bubbles at one time and over such a wide area. We need to get out now. Sometimes superheated geysers of water are released with the gas. Il Duce doesn’t want to get parboiled.” Vito bared his clenched teeth, sucked air between them, and made a painful Il Duce face. He heaved the Seabobs onto the boat’s swim platform, boosted Perla up, and followed her on board.
Perla yanked her feet out of the water and rubbed the faded scars on her right forearm.
They settled into the backward-facing bench seat.
“Let me rinse off the salt,” Vito said and poured two bottles of sun-warmed fresh water over her head. He unfolded a fluffy, lavender-scented bath towel and wrapped it around her shoulders. The brief hug, which wasn’t a hug, felt good.
She watched Vito as he chatted about the many dives he’d made in the area. He was so sexy—a perfect mix of vulnerability and confidence without a trace of Italian machismo. He had an impressive physique for a man in his late fifties: a solid, well-defined chest, flat belly with age-appropriate softening around the sides, muscular biceps, and runner’s legs.
“Wait here,” he said and climbed under the bow of the boat to retrieve a cooler. He came back holding a cold bottle of prosecco, two wineglasses, and two half-pint containers of gelato.
“Which do you prefer, rum raisin or bacio?”
“Bacio? What does that taste like?”
“Let me show you…” Vito kissed her lightly on the lips. His beard brushed softly against her cheek.
“Whoa, what was that?” Perla blushed.
“Bacio means ‘kiss’ in Italian. It also means dark chocolate hazelnut.”
“Definitely bacio then.” She fantasized about him dripping it into her belly button and licking it out.
But Vito did something more erotic, more profound: he covered her hand and laced his fingers through hers. He might as well have clamped a jumper cable to her heart. Her muscles tensed, her skin rippled, and she fell hopelessly in love. On the spot. With just the touch of his big, warm, safe hand. This wasn’t supposed to happen, wasn’t part of her plan. God, what would she do now?
As if on cue, the little devil who had tormented her all her adult life stamped on Perla’s shoulder and whispered into her ear. “You know men Vito’s age prefer younger women. If you weren’t wearing the cameo, he wouldn’t give you the time of day.”
Why can’t I enjoy this day, this moment, for the gift it is without thought of the future? Perla argued with herself.
“Because you’re a fraud and you know it. You don’t deserve him.”
“I admire you,” Vito said.
She blinked the devil away. “How so?”
“You’re brave, coming to Italy by yourself, starting a new career doing what you love. I’ve never met a woman like you.”
Desperate, not brave, Perla thought. “What kind of women do you usually meet?”
“My second wife—we divorced nearly two years ago—wasn’t adventurous like you. She hated all sports, especially ones that got her wet. She complained it ruined her hair and makeup. All she cared about were her clothes and being the center of attention. Your friend Circe reminded me of her.”
He pressed his palm to her cheek. “That’s what I like about you, my darling Perlita. You’re not hung up on your appearance and you like to try new things.”
Ha! If he only knew… Vito’s sincerity amplified the shame of her deception. She opened her mouth, closed it again, and examined her cuticles.
“How is your writing progressing?” Vito changed the subject, as if sensing her self-consciousness.
“Thank you for asking.” Perla perked up. “I’m done with my second article and into my third. The deadline is three weeks away.” She loved the way Vito’s chocolate eyes fused with hers as he listened.
“Italy has swept me up in a whirlwind of activity and personal connection I never expected. Simply being here changes a person. It’s funny. I set out to do Italy. You know, consume it, bend it to my agenda and leave—but Italy did me instead.”
“In what way?”
“From the moment I arrived here, a tangible sense of otherness enveloped me. This sounds weird, but it’s like the Amalfi Coast is a stage that has conscripted me to play a part in its eternal drama. I feel history is wagging its finger at me, saying, ‘Don’t think you can come to Italy without participating in Italy.’ I came here to write stories, but it seems I’ve become the story.”
“I know what you mean. I never feel more alive than when I’m here. To me the water is transformative, magical almost. It’s why I come every summer.”
“Definitely magical, like the ancient gods walk and swim among us.” Perla wanted so badly to tell him about Parthenope and the truth about Circe but feared she’d scare him off.
“Maybe they do. I thought I glimpsed a statue of Poseidon underwater today—one I’d never seen before. It must have been the bubble storm. When I looked again, it was gone.”
“Yep, these waters are full of surprises.”
Perla watched the cliffs of Sorrento grow larger. Slow down, she told the d
ay, I don’t want my date with Vito to end. It had been an adventure, like everything else she’d experienced so far in Italy. And she’d managed not to embarrass herself, despite her debilitating insecurities. A flicker of self-confidence warmed her chest.
Vito’s phone buzzed. He looked at the number and immediately powered down the engine.
“Excuse me, Perla, it’s Roman. I have to take his call.” A serious expression erased his smile as he listened. “Damn it! We’re needed.” Vito hit the throttle and cranked the wheel away from Sorrento, toward open water southwest of Capri.
The day had heard her.
The Migrants
A seagull perched on top of Parthenope’s rock, head atilt, watching her yank a shell comb through her hair. The comb snapped in two.
“Dreck!” she spat out, crushing the pieces in her fist and flinging away the crumbs. She braided her hair furiously but couldn’t calm her hands. What gall Poseidon has! She seethed. How blithely he maintains his innocence! Hours after their argument, she couldn’t stop grinding her teeth. He might be a god, but he was completely devoid of introspection. He couldn’t understand, or wouldn’t admit, that all he had given her was existence, not life.
Spying on Perla and Vito had been a bad idea after all.
A dolphin poked its head out of the water and jabbered excitedly in its barky-laughy voice. Parthenope’s back straightened and her face tightened. “Damn it!”
She plunged into the sea. They streaked through the water full speed to the southwest of Capri. A pod of dolphins joined them, and the water roiled with slick gray backs. Parthenope led the way like a sailing ship’s vengeful masthead, leaping high into the air, urging the dolphins to go faster.
A commotion of watercraft came into view several miles out to sea. A small, open-top fishing boat carrying a half dozen dark-skinned teenagers listed to one side. As Parthenope approached, her keen ears picked up their wails of protest. A large, high-powered fishing trawler with the name Pride of Naples painted on the side circled the crippled vessel.