I put both feet on the floor, but my head feels thick and my arm hurts like hell. I’ve sweated through my borrowed shirt. Standing, I brace myself against the furniture. My balance is off, even without the movement of the water.
“I’m going downstairs to grab our stuff,” I say.
Henry nods, slowing the boat in accordance with the posted limits as we approach another marina. “As soon as we dock, I’ll come down for mine.” He quiets, but his worried eyes scan my face. I’m guessing I look as shitty as I feel.
Once in the stateroom, I dig ibuprofen out of my pack. Chug the remaining water in my canteen. A little more deodorant. Move to the tiny bathroom and splash some water on my face, run a wet hand through my short hair, refill my canteen.
I remove Xavier’s edelweiss and drop it in the trash because it’s just too itchy to deal with. I’ll have to take my chances without it.
I’m ready to go, even if my body feels heavy with plague.
In the second cabin, I find Xavier’s backpack and the black duffel. I’m not keen on digging through someone else’s personal belongings, but I need the first part of the temple key, the one Shamira gave us back in Spain. Where before I thought it would be too risky to have texts and the key parts with us, we now don’t have much of a choice.
Henry proves to be a capable skipper, pulling the boat into a slip in a small marina in the Bay of Naples. I bring up his pack too, rejoining him in the cockpit just as he turns off the boat and jumps onto the dock to tie us in place. The city at night sparkles with lights from streets and buildings, but apprehension washes over me as I realize we are in yet another foreign place, with absolutely no idea where to go next.
“You ready?” Henry says, his hand extended toward me. “Taxi first.” I nod and take his hand, climbing off the boat. My legs feel like I’m still on the water. As we hurry out of the maze of docks before someone stops us, I go over the plan in my head.
Take a taxi to the neighborhood where the next circus is located.
Find a hostel nearby.
When the sun comes up and the shops are busy, we set our stage: a quick slice to Henry’s abdomen; he stumbles into the area outside the circus venue where I will be loitering; theatrics will ensue; I will heal him.
People will see.
We need people to see us, just like they did in Spain. Then we wait and watch to see who our fishing expedition brings us.
Our taxi driver seems quite happy to have a 2:00 a.m. fare to share his narrated tour of the city. He drives north and then east from the marina, pointing out the Castel Nuovo as we pass. His broken English/Italian is thick, though, so I’m hardly catching the rest of the landmarks as he takes us deeper into the maze of Naples.
When he turns down a street that hardly seems big enough for the tiny Fiat we’re squeezed into, he hits the brakes hard and points out the passenger’s side window. “Here—in Napoli Sotterranea—we have our world-famous circus, Circo della regina. Circus of the Queen! Named after Queen Margherita. Very popular Italian woman. Fighter for our people,” he says. “You want a circus? You must go! Tomorrow. You will looooove it. Molto bello.”
“We love circuses,” I say.
“You need a place to sleep? I know a place—a hotel. Piacevole—very nice. Cheap too. My cousin will give you a great price,” he says.
Henry is already digging Euros out of his bag. “Grazie. We will get out here. Grazie, grazie,” he says, adding a nice tip.
“Be careful on these streets at night,” the driver says. “Not safe for tourists!” He then speeds away.
“I think you offended him,” I say.
“I don’t want to end up at his cousin’s hotel paying out the nose for dirty sheets,” he says, looking around us. “Come on. We passed a hostel just down the way. Let’s move. You need rest.”
With our backpacks secured, Henry wraps his arm around my shoulders and pulls me along to keep up his fast pace. Naples is chaotic. It’s very dark, and the cobblestone streets are crazy narrow. Even though it’s late, life bubbles around us, especially in the tiny cars and mopeds that scream past and from the skinny balconies that stretch all the way up the structures. Centuries-old brick has been exposed on building facades where modern concrete has fallen away. Walls sullied with weathered posters, patchwork plaster repairs over damaged brick, so much graffiti, tired awnings flapping lazily in the cold wind that whips down the alleys—definitely a different vibe from Barcelona.
When we reach the hostel, I’m about to drop from exhaustion and pain. And my fingers feel swollen and sticky in my glove. I know I’m going to find blood when I pull it off.
Henry ushers us inside, giving the small brass bell on the wooden counter a jingle.
“Buonasera,” says a white-haired woman emerging from a velvet curtain behind the check-in desk. “May I help you?”
“Do you have a room?”
She looks at us over the top of her glasses and my breath catches in my throat. Please tell me she doesn’t recognize us . . .
“She looks sick. Are you unwell, mia cara?”
“I’m fine. We had a bumpy flight.”
“Ah, sì,” she says. “I do not like aeroplani. I will bring you sparkling water. That will help your tummy,” she says, moving the mouse to bring her small computer to life. She offers us a room with our own bathroom, and Henry pays her for two nights. We then follow her down a short, dark, tiled hallway, up a flight of stairs, and down another hallway. We wait while she unlocks the door into a cozy room with a set of bunk beds, the space lit by a candle-shaped lamp on a small side table with two chairs. The room overlooks the street, which is actually perfect. The hostel-keeper hands Henry the key and says she will leave water and bread outside the door for me.
“My name is Maria. Do let me know if I can be of help to you. Benvenuti a Napoli,” she says as she exits.
Henry draws the curtains over the window and helps me out of my pack, but when he clicks on another small lamp, he sucks in his breath. “Genevieve, your hand.”
Sure enough, the blood has soaked through the fabric of my glove. I can feel my heartbeat in the still-open wounds of my arm. My head is heavy and I’m nauseated as he leads me to sit.
“Help me wash it,” I say. “I’ll just take more antibiotics.”
However, when I stand again, it’s obvious I’m in big trouble. I can hardly bear my own weight. Henry helps me into the bathroom, onto the cold, white-tile floor. As he pulls off my coat, he gasps. My shirt sleeve is soaked in blood, dried and fresh, and a quick glance at the wood-plank floor behind us reveals I have left a drip path.
I cannot heal myself.
And Aveline knows this.
If this continues, I’ll be dead long before Iraq.
“God, I’m so tired.”
“Genevieve, we have to get help.”
“No. Wait—I’m fine. Help me clean and rebandage it. I’ll be better in the morning. I need to sleep for a bit.”
“You’re sleepy because you are hemorrhaging. Whatever Aveline is doing, it’s going to kill you,” Henry says. He sounds panicked. “Please—you might need a hospital. A transfusion or something—”
“We cannot go to a hospital, Henry. You know that as well as I do. We just have to figure this out.”
Henry kneels on the floor next to me. I’m now lying on my side, my left arm stretched out, leaking onto the floor. “Genevieve, please, I can’t do this without you. I . . . you are my best friend. You’re everything to me,” he says, stroking my forehead. “You have to let me get some help.”
I close my eyes, and when I open them again, Henry has slid a folded towel under my head and is cutting the bloodied bandage off. He washes the wound by squeezing out a washcloth soaked with warm water, which sets me into yet another vertiginous spin of overwhelming pain. Aveline’s carving burns brightly with my blood. Worse, streaks stretch angrily from the sliced, malodorous flesh.
“This is very infected,” Henry says. “You could lose your ar
m, or worse, if we can’t stop it.”
Henry sits back on his heels. The room is quiet, other than the noise floating up from the street.
“Gen, darling, can you hear me?” I can. He pets my forehead, but I feel like I’m floating above my body. “Genevieve, please—look at me.” Henry’s voice is tougher than I’m used to. And when I manage to shove my fifty-pound eyelids up all the way, he looks scared. “I am going to help you remember what it feels like to be healthy. Alicia and I will force your body to heal itself. We can fight this—we can fight Aveline—but you need to help me. You need to concentrate and show me a time when you were healthy and strong so I don’t have to dig through your head. Can you do that?”
Eyes are so tired. Just let me sleep . . .
A strong pat to my cheek jolts me awake again. “Oww.”
“Did you hear me? Alicia and I are going to help you. Please—think of a time when you were physically healthy. When your body was strong. When you were powerful enough to care for Gertrude and Houdini and play the violin and perform on the silks for the adoring crowds and run through fields with Violet. Remember, Genevieve. Your life depends on it.”
“I miss my elephants . . .” I whisper. The tear burns as it drains from my eye. It feels like the last drop of moisture in my body.
“And we’re going to get you good and strong again so we can go home and be with Gert and Houdini and even your humongous house cat. All right? Think, Genevieve. Think. Show me how brave you are.”
Henry clamps on to my left hand, not pausing even when my blood transfers to his skin. The warmth from his touch swarms through me. I smile. Like standing in the first rays of spring after the longest, coldest winter.
My eyes flicker open. “Alicia . . . hi . . .”
“Remember for us, Genevieve,” Henry says again.
It’s July. We’re in a tiny town in Minnesota, and it’s so hot, so humid. The venue where we’re performing is on a huge lake. Everyone is deliriously happy about that. The big top is up and the day’s rehearsal is over—no performance today—so Baby and Delia and I have Gertrude down at the water’s edge. She’s pregnant with Houdini, so she’s even happier than the humans to be splashing in the cool water. She sucks up the lake and sprays everyone and everything, throwing her trunk back and forth, splashing like a preschooler, flopping onto her side to create waves, and then trumpeting so loudly it echoes off and pings around the towering trees. She’s so boisterous, cabin residents are out on their docks with cameras and binoculars to get a glimpse of the beautiful queen of Africa frolicking in their backyard.
Even Violet and Ash are in the water with us, Vi being unusually brave near the elephant as Baby hoists us on to Gert’s back over and over again so we can dive in and then swim around her front to feed her mangoes and banana from the huge bin on the sand.
We cannot stop laughing, even as we handstand and then backflip off Gert’s rump. Every few flips, she sucks up more water, lifts her trunk over her head, and douses us. Delia screams with glee when Baby throws her over his shoulder and sprints into the water with her. When they surface, they kiss.
Violet and I pretend to be disgusted and then see who can do the longest handstand before Gertrude knocks us back into the lake.
I feel strong and free and powerful. My balance, my muscles, my acrobatic body, my boundless energy . . . I want to stay here forever with the people I love most in this world.
“Genevieve,” Henry says softly.
I take a huge breath in, like I’ve just broken through the surface of that cold Minnesotan lake, my eyes wet not with lake water but tears.
But the pain . . . it isn’t eating me alive and I don’t feel like I’m going to puke up my kidneys.
Henry releases my hand so he can scoot close and help me sit up. I look down at my arm—the rivulets of blood have stopped. The carved wounds are still angry, but the streaking is lessened. “Henry . . .” My eyes meet his. His upper lip and forehead are damp with perspiration but his cheeks are pink and his eyes could light up a night sky.
“Did that help?” he says, smiling.
“It worked. You did it.”
“We did it.” He puts a hand behind my head and kisses me hard on the mouth, his forehead pressed against mine when our lips part. “Please, promise me if it gets that bad again, you’ll tell me sooner. Genevieve . . . I can’t do this without you. I can’t do anything without you.” He kisses me again.
Once we’re sure I’m steady on my feet, Henry cleans up the blood and sets to washing out my shirt in the sink. When he’s done and the shirt’s shaken out to dry over a towel rack, I gently wash my arm and hands, goose bumps rising on my bare skin. We find a single roll of gauze in his pack, barely enough to cover the wound, so we use it to wrap a maxi pad layered with antibacterial ointment over the carving. It’ll have to do until we can get to a pharmacy in the morning.
“You’re like a real grown-up,” I tease. “You didn’t even blush when I suggested this MacGyver-ed solution.”
“It’s quite clever, actually. Super absorbent. That’s what we need right now.” He smiles.
As I dry off, my reflection in the oval, gilded mirror looks pale, the dark circles under my eyes more pronounced than they’ve ever been. Henry places his hands on my bare shoulders, over the straps of my black sports-style bra, sending a frisson of warmth through me.
“I’m so glad you’re okay,” he says, kissing my shoulder before moving to pull off his own shirt. “I’ll take the top bunk.”
I grab his hand. “No. Please. We can squeeze in together. I don’t want to be alone.”
“Do you promise to behave yourself?”
I stretch up and kiss him. “Never.”
As I move out of the bathroom, I feel so much stronger—it’s amazing, and I’m so grateful and relieved. Not today, Aveline.
Henry has brought in the small tray Maria left outside our door—sparkling water and a few delicious-looking round buns. I drink down the water and inhale the sweet bread, glad to have something in my stomach so I can swallow more ibuprofen before sleeping.
Henry scoots against the wall on the bottom bunk, the blanket open and inviting me under. I tuck in, shivering as he stretches the coarse bedclothes up and over my shoulder.
“Do you suppose Xavier has lost his shit yet?” I ask.
Henry wraps his arm around me over the top of the blanket. “I know he has.”
“Right. Alicia.”
He kisses the back of my head. “Sleep now. We will deal with reality in the morning.”
“Henry . . . thank you.”
“I can’t do this without you,” he repeats from earlier, his voice low. “I love you, Genevieve.”
My eyes pop open, but I don’t move. He’s never said that before. To me. Out loud.
No one has ever said that to me unless they were related. Well, except Violet. But she and her dumb brother are practically my siblings, so that’s not unexpected. But hearing it from Henry . . . it brings on that warm-and-fuzzy feeling I always swore I’d never succumb to. Boys were Violet’s thing. They just seemed like heartache and trouble to me.
Henry doesn’t seem like heartache and trouble, though. And his words make me feel like we’re more of a team, that when it comes down to it, both of our individual doubts about what we’re doing—to burn the books, or not to burn the books—will dissipate and we’ll make the right decision. Preserving the books would mean we could live together basically forever, like Nutesh and Hélène or even Delia and Baby, and I won’t lie . . . there is romance in that.
But there is no romance in living a life where we are always looking over our shoulders, where no one can be trusted and we are never safe to stay in one place for long. Where the Etemmu is never more than a few putrid breaths away from sending me to the psych ward.
I lie still watching the slight dance of the curtain against the thin windowpane, my heart racing but fuller than ever. When Henry’s breathing slows to suggest he’s asleep, I�
�m finally brave enough.
“I love you too, Henry.”
And his arm tightens around me.
25
IN THE MORNING, MARIA LEAVES US ANOTHER PLATE WITH BREAD, ORANGES, two bottles of sparkling water, as well as tourist brochures for the local area—including one for Circo della regina.
Upon seeing it on the tray while I’m kneeled in our room’s open doorway, I look both ways down the hall, at once nervous that maybe Maria the hostel-keeper is on to us—that she saw a news report or somehow knows who we are, that she knows we’re loosely affiliated with the circus people. How odd is it for two teenagers to arrive in the dead of night and pay cash for a room? Is that normal?
But then I see trays waiting outside the other rooms, and the Circo della regina pamphlet is on those too. I’m being paranoid. Maria is just doing her job to support local tourism. I hope.
I grab the tray, grateful for her generosity. Henry’s in the bathroom, and the sun is slowly transforming the sky from the predawn purple to a soft baby blue. I scoot one of the room’s rickety wooden chairs over by the window so I can watch the street. This second-story room is perfect—if I get my face right against the glass, I can just see the venue where Circo della regina is held.
I bite into one of Maria’s sweet rolls and read the circus brochure, thankfully written in English. I want to know how many people these performances draw so we can time our own performance just right.
“Circo della regina takes place in the underground of Naples, Napoli Sotterranea, rich in 2,500 years of history dating back to the ancient Greeks. This unique underground realm has been used as aqueducts, reservoirs, and cisterns to provide water to the city for nearly twenty-three centuries. It also holds the Catacombs of San Gennaro, 280 miles of tunnels, the Hypogeum Gardens where vegetable plants thrive without sunlight, and even an old Greco-Roman theatre.
“Nero, heir and successor to the Roman emperor Claudius, was also a poet and actor. When he performed in Napoli, he would do so at the Neapolis Theatre. This underground space, carefully renovated with a generous grant from the Ministry of Cultural Heritage and Activities (MiBAC), now serves as the perfect backdrop for our shows.
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