by D. M. George
Parthenope stopped swimming and narrowed her eyes.
A group of men, some wearing high-visibility safety vests, cheered when the small boat flipped over. The captain of the trawler grinned and spun his big steering wheel. A black T-shirt with a caricature of a face with a jutting jaw and downturned mouth stretched over his bulging belly.
“Go to hell, African scum!” he shouted, swamping his victims in big, rolling wakes. “Italy is for Italians!”
Without a life jacket among them, the boys grasping at the overturned hull lost their hold and sank beneath the waves. The vigilantes whooped in jubilation.
Parthenope growled. A hundred waiting snouts turned her way. She screeched a command and the dolphins disappeared.
Less than a minute later, the fishermen abruptly stopped laughing. They crowded to the side of their boat, transfixed by what was happening. In the near distance, the heads and shoulders of the drowning Africans broke the surface. The sea churned with movement. The migrants coughed and gasped for air as something pulled them away from the Pride of Naples.
“What are they holding on to?”
“Dolphins…? It can’t be.”
“Traitors.” The captain grunted and cut the engine. A look of incredulity wiped away his frown. He turned in a full circle. “What the hell…?”
Conversation ceased. The water stilled to a deadly calm, not a ripple disturbing its glassy surface. The wind stopped blowing and the seagulls overhead scattered.
Parthenope detonated from the deep and vaulted over the trawler in a high, arcing jump. The men crouched in place as she flew over their heads. She resurfaced and wobbled like a sprung jack-in-the-box, her body on display above the hips. Bulging eyes stared at her over the railing. Long ribbons of hair streamed down her breasts and stomach like red paint. Her eyes blazed aquamarine fire.
“Oh my God, it’s Parthenope the mermaid—she’s real,” one man whispered.
“And she’s mad…,” said another, backing away from the railing.
“We’re screwed,” said a third.
Parthenope shook her fist and let loose an earsplitting scream. “NOT WHERE I LIVE, YOU DON’T!” She rotated her accusing arm above her head like a conductor in front of an orchestra. Fifty feet behind her, thirteen large triangular fins broke the surface in perfect V formation. As the fins sliced through the water, the vessel began spinning—slowly at first, then faster and faster. It tilted violently, throwing the crew to the floor. Some of the men fumbled with life jackets, others froze in place.
The captain restarted the ignition and hit the throttle. The powerful engines whined helplessly as the boat was sucked backward into a swirling bowl of seawater. The trawler spun like a top, upended, and disappeared into the maw of a giant whirlpool. Parthenope snapped her fingers and the funnel collapsed. She waited, treading water.
Five life-jacket-wearing crew members popped to the surface. The armada of sharks parted around Parthenope and set their dead eyes on the flailing men. A feeding frenzy ensued: torsos jerked back and forth, screams garbled, limbs detached, and entrails unspooled like garden hoses. A pink cloud of blood bloomed around the last man alive—the captain.
The sharks retreated.
“You’re all mine.” Parthenope’s ungodly cackle filled the air.
“Stop—don’t kill me! I’ll do anything you want!” the captain screamed. He stretched his arms out in front of him as if he thought he could push Parthenope away.
Parthenope observed him calmly, sizing up her prey. She glided slowly from left to right, stopped, and pressed an index finger to each side of her face in the spot directly below the earlobes. The captain heard a soft pop, like the sound of knuckles cracking, and screamed even louder. Parthenope’s chin dropped three inches. She opened her unhinged jaw impossibly wide, relishing the moment. Bad men always made her want to show off—why not enjoy the powers she’d been given? Lips drawn, she flexed her muscular gums so that her razor-sharp incisors tilted inward like a rattlesnake’s.
Parthenope disappeared and a split second later blasted into the air like an upward-flowing waterfall, the captain’s upper arm clamped between her teeth. She whipped her head back and forth like a dog with a chew toy, chomping through flesh and bone, severing the arm before falling back into the water. Out of the corner of her eye, Parthenope saw boats approaching and indulged herself with one last jump. This time she had the captain by the neck. With a few gobbles and shakes, his head whizzed into the sea with a satisfying plop.
“What’s going on?” Perla asked.
Vito slowed as he approached Roman’s and Abdu’s boats. Abdu, one of Roman’s other tour guides, pulled a boy out of the water by his arm.
“Migrants in trouble,” Vito said, pointing at the hull of the submerged fishing boat. “Traffickers probably took their money and left them drifting at sea.”
“Wow! Dolphins! They’re holding on to their fins!” Perla shouted as Vito cut the engine.
The dolphins motioned with their noses as if saying, “Over here, over here!”
Vito threw out life jackets to the closest boys. Once they were afloat, the dolphins chirped and left.
“Incredible,” said Vito. “I’ve heard stories of dolphins aiding swimmers in trouble, but I’ve never seen it before—and a whole pod too.”
Roman jumped into the water to drag the weakest of the swimmers to Abdu’s boat. Vito hoisted a shivering boy onto the swim platform, and Perla helped him over the transom, sat him down, and wrapped him in a towel.
“There’s water under the bow,” Vito said over his shoulder.
Perla opened the big cooler chest and took out several bottles. She unscrewed the top and handed one to the boy, who guzzled it in one breath. Vito pulled another boy on board, and Perla gave him water as well. As soon as they emptied their bottles, they gestured for more. Perla brought out the extra case of water Vito had stashed below.
All the migrants were soon rescued: Abdu had three in his boat, and Roman and Vito each had two. Roman passed out the sandwiches he’d packed for the snorkeling tour he’d canceled when he got Abdu’s call.
Vito rummaged through his cooler for the last of the gelato and handed a container and a plastic spoon to each of his two passengers. “Welcome to Italy.”
One of the boys laid his hand across his chest and said, “Elvis,” then tapped his friend’s chest and said, “Mike-Jack.” Neither appeared older than eighteen. Elvis caught Perla’s hand in both of his and thanked her with a toothy smile. She imagined his mother somewhere in Africa, sick with fear and not knowing where he was.
After finishing his gelato, Mike-Jack stood up and pointed to some floating debris.
“Something else went down here,” Vito told Roman. “I’m taking a look.”
Vito motored to the spot, put the engine in idle, and reached over the edge to fish out a yellow vest. He pointed to an empty life jacket and jumped down onto the swim platform to pick it up. His hand jerked back lightning fast, as if it had burned his fingers. Strapped in the life jacket was a headless, one-armed corpse.
Elvis stood up and began an excited pantomime. The water droplets pilling on his matted hair sprinkled his midnight-black skin. He pressed his hands together and made a diving motion above his head, cupped his pectorals like they were breasts, pretended to stir a big pot, spun in place, scissored his arms at the elbows, snapped his teeth, and shook his head while saying, “Fish lady” over and over.
Vito looked perplexed; Perla just nodded.
Vito rejoined Abdu and Roman and held up the yellow vest. They glanced at it in dismay. Abdu crossed his muscular arms and frowned as Vito told them about the body.
“Leave it. We’ll call it in to the coast guard after we get back to Capri,” said Abdu in perfect English with a French accent. The others agreed.
“I called Mother. She’ll have transportation waiting for us in Marina Grande,” Roman said. “Let’s go.”
Roman and Abdu revved up their engines and to
ok off for Capri. Vito followed in their wake.
“What happened here? What’s the deal with the yellow vest?” Perla shouted over the noise of the engine. She stood directly behind the driver’s seat, clutching the edge of the canopy.
“The rise of populism in Italy has spawned so-called law-and-order patrols. Newly empowered thugs wear yellow vests and prowl the beaches to ‘secure’ the area from migrants selling trinkets. These citizen militias are growing bolder with their harassment. They’ve started policing the coastline in boats, looking to intercept migrants before they land. There have been rumors of murder.”
Elvis’s pantomime and Parthenope’s presence made more sense to Perla now. Whoever those men were, they’d gotten what they deserved; Parthenope owned this corner of the Tyrrhenian.
“What will happen to these boys?” Perla wrapped a second towel over Elvis’s and Mike-Jack’s shoulders. The sun beat down, but they still shivered.
“We’ll get them back on their feet, find out where they want to go, and help them as much as we can.”
“It sounds like you’ve done this before.”
“Not often, but more lately. The Libyan Coast Guard is policing their coastline better these days and intercepts most of those big rafts full of migrants—the kind you see on the news. So what’s happening is smaller boats are leaving from the tip of Tunisia, which is a straight shot to Sicily. If they stray off course, some make it as far as the Amalfi Coast.”
It was a lot to take in. Perla hadn’t known these things were happening in Italy. “In light of the current political climate, maybe you should bestow a different name on your… your Mr. Happy”—penis was such a clinical word—“Il Duce sounds like a compliment to the man.”
Vito’s uncharacteristically serious expression alarmed her. “Another Benito Mussolini is my greatest fear for Italy. Personifying him as a pene is an insult, not an honor. Unfortunately, he’s no longer the strutting peacock from the past. Neofascist groups are recasting him as a national savior and evoking his strongman legacy to take the law into their own hands.”
“Aren’t you taking the law into your own hands?”
“Doesn’t matter—if you’re complacent, you’re complicit.”
The Blue Grotto
The formal entrance to Teddy’s house sat below a tiny carport, under a brick archway. Perla pushed the buzzer next to the heavy wooden door and soon heard light footsteps tapping through the courtyard. Teddy, wearing a gingham apron, welcomed Perla inside.
“Come in, come in. I was just serving lunch. Would you like something to eat before we go shopping?” Teddy asked.
Perla followed her into the house through the tiled entryway and down a flight of stairs to the kitchen. Elvis and Mike-Jack sat at a long table in the adjoining dining room, surrounded by heaping plates of food. They clapped when she pulled out a chair and joined them. Teddy went into the kitchen and refilled the bowl of ravioli.
The teenagers had transformed in the five days since their rescue. Their sunken cheeks had filled in, their hair was fashionably barbered, and instead of rags, they wore Zegna designer jeans, polo shirts, and Davinci leather sandals.
“What happened to the others from the boat?” Perla asked, accepting the glass of Orangina Teddy handed her.
Teddy ladled another helping of ravioli onto Elvis’s and Mike-Jack’s plates even though they held their hands up in refusal. “They wanted to go to Marseilles, so Roman drove them there. Elvis and Mike-Jack were the youngest of the group, so I invited them to stay with me.”
“They seem fairly well recuperated from their ordeal. And their clothes—good heavens, they belong in GQ magazine. Aren’t you overdoing it a little?”
“It’s the least I could do. They came with only the rags on their backs. And besides, there are no department stores on Capri.” Teddy laughed.
“What are they going to do here?”
“It’s all arranged. Maria’s husband, Etienne, has hired them as busboys at the restaurant in the hotel he manages. I’m fattening them up before they start work. I’ve also hired a tutor to teach them Italian. He’s coming this afternoon, so it’s a perfect time for us to go shopping.”
“Thanks again for your help. I really want to dress nicely for Vito’s dinner party. He’s only seen me in beachwear, and I stained the one good dress I had. Will you show me how to dress like an Italian? Italian women are so elegant.”
“Don’t worry. I can tell Vito is very fond of you. If you show up wearing a burlap sack, he’ll still think you’re the most gorgeous woman in the room.”
Elvis and Mike-Jack watched them as they spoke.
“However, there are a few wardrobe dos and don’ts all Italian women follow.”
“Is there anything on this island I can afford though? All I’ve seen in Capri town is designer labels. My favorite brand these days is Kirkland.”
“You’re in luck. Maria’s boutique is off the main street and doesn’t carry big name brands, which is what makes it so popular among locals. Also, she’s having her annual summer sale.”
Teddy retrieved her handbag from her bedroom, gave Elvis and Mike-Jack an affectionate squeeze on the shoulder, and led Perla down another flight of stairs and through the patio door.
“Why do you do it, Teddy?” Perla asked.
They stood on the steps above the pool.
“Do what?”
“Open your home to complete strangers like Elvis and Mike-Jack? It’s really nice, but you don’t know anything about them. They might be criminals on the run.”
“Perhaps, but it doesn’t matter.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m doing it as much for me as for them. For my grandfather actually. It’s a long story.”
“I’m listening.”
They descended to the lower garden and slowed as they passed under the lemon arbor. Teddy had a faraway look in her eyes, and Perla inhaled the heady citrus-blossom perfume.
“During World War II, my grandparents lived near a small town in Romania. My father and aunt were young teenagers in 1944, the year the Nazis began large-scale deportations of Romanian Jews to Auschwitz. The family doctor, who was a good friend and a Jew, appeared one night and begged my grandfather to hide him and his wife. He’d been to the farm many times over the years and knew of the cellars and outbuildings.
“My grandfather was fully aware the trains were a one-way trip to hell. He hated the Nazis and agreed to hide the couple, but the day before they moved in, the Gestapo rounded up the townspeople and made them watch a public execution. A man hiding Jews in his barn had been betrayed by a neighbor to collect the bounty offered by the Nazis. The Good Samaritan and his entire family—a wife and three children—were lined up against a wall and machine-gunned down. After witnessing that, my grandfather reneged on his promise. He told his friend he couldn’t risk the lives of his children.”
The garden path ended at the imposing iron gate. Teddy opened it with her big key and relocked it again once they were standing in the whitewashed alley.
“What happened?” Perla asked as they began their steep ascent to Capri town.
“A week later, the doctor and his wife were arrested and deported. The decision haunted my grandfather for the rest of his life. He blamed himself for their deaths. He had the power to save them but chose not to.”
“What a terrible dilemma… Did your grandfather regret his choice?”
“He said that given the chance to do it again, he’d do the same. He was willing to risk his own life, but his responsibility to protect his family outweighed his responsibility to help a friend. His moral clarity didn’t make him feel any better though.”
“But Italy isn’t under Nazi occupation now,” Perla said, “and Elvis and Mike-Jack won’t be sent to death camps.”
“Political winds can change quickly. Which brings me to the point of my story… My grandfather’s experience fueled many dinnertime conversations growing up. He liked to think up hypothetical s
ituations and then challenge my brother and me to decide what was legal, what was right, and how much of our personal safety and possessions we’d risk to protect someone else.”
Teddy stopped at the top of the first set of stairs to catch her breath. “So you could say I’ve been waiting for Elvis and Mike-Jack all my life. This is my test. Sure, times are different, but these boys’ circumstances are dire and their futures uncertain, which is enough for me.”
“Wow. Teddy’s underground railroad,” Perla said, impressed by this entirely new facet of Teddy’s character.
“My obligation is clear. And it’s entirely personal, not political. Have you ever thought what you would do if a refugee in need landed on your doorstep?”
“No, I haven’t…” Perla hated to admit to herself that in her insulated suburban lifestyle, not getting a Saturday appointment at the nail salon counted as a crisis.
At the top of the hill, the alley opened into Via Vittorio Emanuele, and a crush of shoppers swept Teddy and Perla away. They veered off into a narrow side street where the crowd became a trickle. Maria’s boutique had only one small window, but once they were inside, the interior space expanded into an urban cavern. Vaulted white ceilings contrasted a blue-tiled floor that tunneled deep into the old building.
Maria greeted them enthusiastically, her tiny hands fluttering in excitement. Her fingers were so short her hands resembled baby starfish. “He’s molto delizioso! I noticed how he looked at you in Ischia. Good job, Teddy.”
Perla blushed and Teddy kicked Maria playfully on the ankle.
“So I was set up?” Perla frowned and put her hands on her hips. “Was Vito aware of this?”
“No, no. He had no idea.” Teddy rubbed the back of her neck. “Don’t be mad. I can’t help myself—matchmaking is my passion, and I’m quite good at it. I like to see people happy, and it gives me great satisfaction to set the wheels of romance in motion.”