by D. M. George
“Perla, it wasn’t your fault. You’re not a geologist.”
“I know, but it still haunts me. I later learned from the ranger who came to our rescue that the water temperature can change from 86 degrees to 199 degrees in five seconds. Fish caught in an eruption cook instantly. These scars,” Perla said, rotating her right arm, “are all I have left of Scott. He never regained consciousness and died a day later in the hospital.”
Vito got out of the tub and wrapped his terry cloth robe around her. He tucked a towel around his waist, led her out to the balcony, and pulled her onto a chaise, tucking her between his legs. She leaned back into his arms, and he kissed the top of her head.
“I’m driving up to Rome at the end of the month for a doctor’s appointment,” Vito said after a few minutes.
“Are you okay?”
“Just a routine checkup. The reason I brought it up is that I was thinking of asking you to join me in Rome and we’d spend the weekend in Saturnia, but after hearing what happened to you at Hot Creek, it’s probably a bad idea.”
“Where and what is Saturnia?”
“It’s a small town about ninety minutes west of Orvieto, a couple of hours north of Rome. The Cascate del Mulino, near the town of Saturnia, is a spectacular terraced hot spring that resembles the Pamukkale thermal pools you see in travel ads for Turkey.”
“Sounds beautiful. I’d like to see it.”
“You don’t mind? The other option is to spend the weekend in Rome if you prefer.”
“Let’s go. Sorgeto Bay with Teddy was the first time I’d visited a thermal spring since Hot Creek and I didn’t panic. Next came the Poseidon Thermal Gardens and Baia with you. It seems I can’t go anywhere in Italy without crossing paths with a hot spring. I’ll be fine.”
Perla was mindful that July was coming to a close. The trip would fall on the weekend before the contest deadline, her last weekend before she was to fly home. Was Vito thinking the same thing? Their future was the elephant in the living room neither had addressed.
Janus
Perla pushed back her chair and stretched her arms over her head. The past three days sequestered in her hotel room had been productive. She’d finished her final edits without any distractions and buffed her words until they shone. Finally her four articles were done. Well, as done as they would ever be. It was time to complete her contest entry, relax, and reflect on the weekend ahead with Vito.
Perla started to upload her files to the TravelBauble website, but she hesitated. This time she’d do it. This time she wouldn’t let the fear of typos and bad grammar make her procrastinate another week. She couldn’t anyway—the deadline was Monday. Her cursor hovered over the Submit button. Just click it and put your fate as a travel writer in someone else’s hands, she told herself. It was time.
But her hand froze. The confidence that had buoyed her spirits moments earlier had evaporated. Her pulse quickened. Were her headlines compelling enough? Did she hook readers in the first paragraph and keep them engaged on an emotional level? Even though she’d asked herself those questions a hundred times, the old broken record began to spin. My writing isn’t perfect enough. I can say what I said more eloquently. Perla logged off the website and snapped her laptop shut.
She sighed and struck a deal with herself. I’ll review my articles one last time after the weekend. Her mind would be fresher on Monday after all. And with the time difference between California and Sorrento, she actually had until nine p.m. to make the submission deadline. Plenty of time…
Perla stood up from her tiny desk, threw her notes into the trash basket, and locked her laptop in the room safe. She missed Vito. Only two more days until their rendezvous in Rome—she couldn’t wait. It had been difficult asking for this time-out to finish her writing. Since their first night at Vito’s house, they’d seen each other daily. Whether it was a quick lunch at the harbor or a long sunset kayak ride, every moment they shared became more precious than the last. And every hour spent apart was torture.
Perla’s stomach complained that it was past lunchtime, and her thoughts shifted from love to food. What would it be today—cheese and fruit? She grabbed her sweatshirt and left the hotel. The small market where she liked to buy groceries was just a block away. As soon as she stepped onto the sidewalk, a deep-throated rumbling sound began echoing between the buildings. Seconds later, a black Lamborghini convertible glided around the corner and double-parked in front of her.
Circe! The temptress put her car in neutral and uncoiled her body from the driver’s seat like a cobra rising from its basket.
“Circe, what are you doing here? You’re the last person I expected to see.”
Circe locked eyes with Perla and swayed her head slightly, as if to hypnotize her before striking. “I ran into Parthenope yesterday in Capri. She asked me to tell you she’s sorry and to give you this.” Circe held out a bottle of her honeyed wine. “She wants you to come and drink it with her.” Her tone was indifferent, bordering on contempt.
Perla reached out tentatively, careful not to touch Circe’s daggerlike fingernails. She wore some designer’s little black dress. Did she even own jeans and a T-shirt?
“I don’t understand why she wastes her time with mortals. Especially you. You’re a pathetic excuse for a friend. So selfish.” An aura of witchiness backlit Circe’s perfect human facade.
“I’d love to stay and talk, Circe, but don’t you have a herd to replenish? Some men to lure with your oversized udders?”
Circe sniffed like Perla was something unpleasant stuck to the sole of one of her four-inch stiletto heels. “Be a good friend and hurry, before it’s too late.” She spun around, slithered back into her car, and peeled away, middle finger in the air.
What was wrong with Parthenope? A bad feeling twisted in Perla’s stomach. She hadn’t seen her for almost two weeks, the longest stretch since arriving in Italy. Parthenope’s petty jealousy of Vito, the sardine attack, and the clothes-swiping stunt at the Blue Grotto still infuriated her. That rationale, however, felt flimsy the moment she thought it. Anger was just an excuse to neglect the one who’d made it possible for Vito to fall in love with her in the first place.
Perla suddenly felt very shallow. A true friend would have confronted Parthenope immediately, hashed out their feelings, and put the incident behind them. What kind of person had she become? Perla ran her fingers through her hair with both hands. Her moral compass had been spinning out of control since the day she’d put on the cameo.
Perla skipped lunch and caught the next ferry to Capri. An hour later, she paddled to Parthenope’s rock but found it vacant. Circe’s ominous warning to hurry rang in her ears. Where was Parthenope? Was she in trouble? Perla hid her bag and tethered the kayak. She stripped down to her swimsuit, activated her gills, and dove underwater, wine bottle in hand.
The route to Parthenope’s cave seemed different. The subsea landscape wasn’t as colorful as she’d remembered. The rays of sunlight filtering down had lost their sparkle, like a diamond ring after divorce. Perla searched and searched and finally found the entrance to Parthenope’s lair. She surfaced inside.
The scene before her took her breath away. Parthenope reclined on her submerged chaise, an old woman. Her once billowy fins drooped listlessly, her signature riot of hair was thin and streaked with gray, and her former perfect figure bordered on skeletal.
“Good Lord, Parthenope, you’ve aged!” Perla choked out.
“You came!” Parthenope’s lashless eyes widened with delight. She clutched the armrests and pushed herself up. “I’m sorry for what I did to you at the Blue Grotto.”
Perla wasn’t listening; the implications of Parthenope’s appearance assaulted her brain. “Oh no, no, no… It’s the cameo, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
Perla squeezed the pendant as the magnitude of her discovery sank in. “Parthenope, I’m sorry I neglected you. I haven’t been a good friend, but… but… Why did you give me the cameo, knowing what woul
d happen? Why are you killing yourself?”
“Loneliness killed me centuries ago. Immortality is cruel.” Parthenope’s voice chimed with its usual resonance. “Seeing you with that man was a mirror to my fate, a reminder of what I need but will never have. I confess I don’t hate all men—I just hate being unable to have a normal relationship with one.”
“I can’t abide this. Death is not the solution. Put this back on right now.” Perla fumbled with the clasp of her necklace, but Parthenope held up her palm, refusing.
“No. I’ve made up my mind.” She eyed the bottle in Perla’s hand. “Let’s just drink and say goodbye. There’s an opener in there somewhere.” She crooked a finger at the alluvial fan of junk piled behind her chaise. “It’s blue.”
Perla dug through the detritus and found it: a corkscrew with a glittery plastic dolphin handle. As she worked on the cork, realization gonged like a church bell: if she gave back the cameo, she’d lose Vito! Her stomach somersaulted. Never, under any circumstances, could she reveal her true age to him. She imagined his horror-stricken face and her pathetic pleas for him to accept her as she was. Vito was her life now; she couldn’t lose him. And what about the road trip they’d planned for the weekend? Would Parthenope hang on another five days? Don’t even consider it, she warned herself.
Perla handed the open bottle of wine to Parthenope. Maybe if she drank slowly, waited until Parthenope passed out, she could put the cameo around her neck. Once Parthenope had transformed into her young self again, surely she’d change her mind about dying. And if not, Perla would have bought time to figure out another way to save her.
Perla reluctantly took a tiny sip of the wine, remembering how it had affected her at Circe’s party. They passed the bottle back and forth like old times. Terrible choices pressed heavily on her conscience, weakening her self-control. Sips became gulps.
The honeyed wine’s narcotic effect seemed to revive Parthenope. The grayish cast to her skin faded and her normal ivory coloring returned. She looked stronger. To Perla’s surprise, Parthenope put two fingers in her mouth and let out a shrill whistle, looking like a zombie hailing a cab.
The sound echoed inside Perla’s head. Her senses separated from her body, reality wobbled, and piano music came from an empty corner. Euphoria welled up inside and her pulse raced. The sensation of breathing radiated beyond her body. The cave walls inhaled and exhaled with her as if she were inside the island’s lungs. The plastic bottle opener caught her attention, and she was utterly captivated by its beautiful handle. Her vision telescoped. The blue was so blue… It intensified and expanded. She gazed deeply into the specks of glitter and beheld the universe.
Parthenope had hailed a cab of sorts. Four dolphins poked their heads out of the water at her feet. “I’m not dead yet,” she said, “and there’s a friend I want to bid farewell before I am. He’s an oracle whose guidance I’ve relied on for centuries. Come with me. He may have advice for you too.” Parthenope slid off the end of the chaise and into the water. Two dolphins came to her side, and she put an arm around each of them. She directed Perla to do the same.
Sure, why not? A dolphin encounter on acid. She had done it once in Cancun but on a tequila high instead. Perla jumped in the water. Its viscosity had changed to thickening Jell-O. Parthenope screeched a few words and the other two dolphins sidled up to Perla, scrutinizing her with those suspicious permanent smiles of theirs. She placed a hand on each dorsal fin and they sped off.
The color palette of her first swim with Parthenope returned in chemically enhanced spades once they entered sunlit water. The dolphins doubled in size. Specks of refracted light spumed like confetti off their noses in psychedelic patterns. Filaments of color brushed her face. The dolphins spiraled through the water in slow motion toward their destination: the Faraglioni rocks. The three massive sea stacks loomed higher each time the dolphins surfaced for air. Under the drive-through arch of the center monolith, the Faraglione di Mezzo, they stopped. Parthenope dismissed her dolphins and kissed each goodbye on the forehead.
“Follow me!” Parthenope shouted at Perla.
They sank side by side, scooping upward with their arms. As the water darkened, Parthenope’s white skin seemed to incandesce like a jellyfish or a wraith floating in the night.
Minutes passed before a shadowy recess appeared in the rock wall. Straining her eyes, Perla made out an intricately carved frieze atop four massive Doric columns. Parthenope gestured toward the pitch-black portico. Perla shivered. If only Parthenope could amp up her bioluminescence—she could really use a flashlight right now.
I’m drunk. I can do this, Perla told herself. She groped her way up the stone staircase, pulling Parthenope by the hand. Up and up they spiraled. Faint light began to filter down from above, growing brighter with each step.
Perla and Parthenope broke the surface in front of the circular vestibule of a cavern. Sunlight streamed from an oculus high above. The ancient mosaic-tile floor depicted a scene of the heavens. Around the perimeter stood a ring of marble statues whispering among themselves, watching their visitors’ every move.
“What is this place? Where is your friend?” Perla asked Parthenope, who sat on the top step with her tail in the water. Perla knelt next to her, shivering. Were those statues really talking?
“Just wait.”
The statues fell silent. A shuffling sound preceded an unusual shape emerging from the shadows. A rag-covered black figure, which resembled an oversized Saint Bernard in baggy clothes, approached in a slow, loping gait. It was no dog, but not entirely human either. The big shaggy head had no visible face. It walked on all fours with spread fingers. The short legs had no knees and its feet angled outward. A big key, which hung on a long chain around its neck, scraped against the tile. Two wooden canes lay on the floor. It grasped them in its gnarled hands and pushed itself up to full height, approximately five feet tall.
The monstrosity hobbled toward Perla and Parthenope and lifted its head. The long dreadlocks parted to reveal an exquisitely repulsive face. Shar-pei folds of skin obscured its black eyes, large warts sprouted from its nose like a Halloween gourd, and its tangled gray beard swept the floor.
“Do as I do,” Parthenope whispered. She rolled onto her stomach and touched her forehead to the floor. Perla imitated her, wondering whether the beast was real, a visual distortion, or a full-blown hallucination. The wine amplified her fear, wracking her body with tremors.
“Parthenope, I see you are in transition. Your friend too. Welcome.” The air trembled with his soft, raspy words, his breath an oily cloud of flatulence.
Perla remained facedown while Parthenope turned over, sat up, and addressed the abomination. “Pater, I bring you this pearl as a gift.” She opened her hand to reveal a glowing, gumball-size orb. She nudged Perla. “Perla, may I introduce Janus, god of gods, god of beginnings, endings, transitions, and dualities—”
Perla raised her face.
Janus swiveled his head 180 degrees like an owl. He shook his dreadlocks to expose a second, perfectly duplicated face on the back of his head, which interrupted Parthenope, and uttered, “Of the present…”
The head turned back to its original position. “…of the past…” And swung around again for the back face to add, “…of gates, passages, journeys, and harbors.”
Perla fainted into a heap. Parthenope’s and Janus’s voices roused her. She wondered how much time had passed. Holding perfectly still, she cracked an eyelid.
“Your end is near. I see death in your future,” Janus said, leaning over Parthenope. “The ultimate transition. But every ending is also a beginning, every death a rebirth.”
“Death will be a blessing.” Parthenope lifted her chin. “I never asked to be a mermaid. Immortality has been like death. My short time as a mortal was my only true life. I welcome the end of consciousness.”
“Death takes many forms.” Janus stroked his beard. “Yours involves a diseased perception, a new sight, a dropping of scales…”
“Mine will be a physical death,” Parthenope said, correcting him. “No more transformations for me, no more riddles. I am in charge of my own fate.”
“I assure you, you will die a mortal’s death.” Janus leaned heavily on his cane as if his legs hurt.
“I’m not mortal, so that’s impossible. It’s cruel to tease me and out of character for you. You’re not a cruel god, Pater.” The color rose in Parthenope’s face.
“Trust me, daughter.”
“Let’s talk about Perla instead,” Parthenope snapped. “What’s in store for her?”
Perla’s ears perked. She opened both eyes. The first things she saw were the thick brown toenails on Janus’s twisted feet.
“She is confused about what is important. She has two faces like me, but they are not identical. Her inner self battles her outward appearance. She possesses the power to make them one but lacks the courage. Her transition will be fraught with mistakes and regrets.”
The rapt statues hummed their agreement.
Perla gulped. “I want to leave now.” She sat up and moved closer to Parthenope, avoiding eye contact with Janus. The butterflies and rainbows she’d experienced earlier were long gone. She was sick, tired, and terrified.
“It’s time to go,” Parthenope said. “Thank you, Pater, for your wisdom and for being my lighthouse throughout the centuries.” They touched their right palms together in goodbye.
Parthenope started to whistle for her dolphins, but Janus intervened. He pointed a cane at the base of the wall next to Parthenope. A door-size opening materialized in the rock.
“Let me help you home,” Janus said with affection.
The sound of rushing water drew Perla’s attention. A chute dropped into the darkness behind the new door, like a surreal water slide. Perla stood up, lifted Parthenope under the arms, and dragged her to the threshold. They sat side by side on the ledge, held hands, and pushed off.