Constant Tides

by Peter Crawley

  Enzo looks at the silver ring on the little finger of his left hand. “Yes, I have my signet ring, though I’m not sure I can get it off.”

  “Then try.”

  His mouth is too dry to spit, so he takes a sip of wine, wets his finger and pulls. After a good deal of turning and twisting, the ring does at last slip off. “I’ve got it.”

  “Then I’ll lower a rope and when you have tied the ring, the bottle of wine, the bread and salami to it, we will decide whether your payment is sufficient. If it is, then my friends and I will shift all these beams and get you out of your prison. How much wine and food do you have?”

  Enzo opens his mouth to reply and then thinks better of what he had been going to say. “Just the one bottle and the one salami. That and the bread, it is all I have. I hope you are a man of your word.”

  “My word?” he scoffs. “My word is all I have and, perhaps more importantly, it is all you have. Besides, your ring may be worthless and I already have a pocket full of jewels. Here, here is the rope.”

  The rope turns out to be not much more than a rough, slender cord, which descends in stages through the triangle of light.

  Enzo feeds the ring through it, presses the cork back into the neck of the bottle and ties it securely. “Ready, pull up. Be steady. It is the bottle.”

  The ring and the Malvasia ascend.

  There is a brief pause. No doubt the ring is being inspected and the quality of the wine tested.

  “Good! The ring is acceptable and the wine is good,” the man decides. “Now the salami and the bread.”

  The rope returns and the items are similarly tied and despatched upwards.

  Again, there is a pause in communication.

  “It’s good, eh?” Enzo prompts.

  The pause extends.

  Without warning, a fog of dust falls from the triangle of light and he can hear footsteps crunching on the rubble above him.

  “Hey, you… you come back here,” he shouts.

  There is, though, no response and judging by the grunting and heavy breathing, the man is busying himself.

  “Hey, you. Are you still there? What are you doing?” Enzo shouts.

  “I’m collecting another ring. A small gold ring,” he replies, still struggling.

  “Who are you taking it from?”

  “Someone else who no longer needs it.”

  Enzo’s thoughts cartwheel in desperation. “You are robbing the dead? You bastard!” he shouts as loudly and with as much anger as he can generate.

  “Shout as loud as you like, young Ruggeri. The dead will not listen. Thank you for the salami and the wine.”

  “You said all you had was your word. Call yourself a man? You are not even an excuse for a man. You are nothing.”

  Enzo strains to listen, eventually diluting his venom with the consolation that at the very least he did not lose all of his meagre provisions.

  There is more scuffling of feet from above and another cloud of dust descends. Shouting. He can hear shouting, loud and urgent, and imperative.

  “Hey, what’s going on up there? I’m down here. Hey!” he yells.

  Chapter 15

  “What did that man say?” Lilla asks, as they pick their way up the Corso Cavour.

  “He said, Messina is no more.”

  “No more?”

  “Yes, that’s what he said, no more.” Mrs Robertson hesitates. “He is wrong though. Messina has been destroyed many times and your ancestors have always rebuilt the city. They will do the same again, I’m certain of it.”

  They turn right into a street nearly as broad as the Corso Cavour yet almost equally impassable. And when they look up towards the monastery, they can see that beyond it the Chiesa Sant’ Agostino is completely destroyed.

  “Come one, Lilla. Let’s keep going. I don’t want us to get caught in another of those aftershocks; there’s no telling how much more these ruins can stand.”

  The going is interminably slow and each time Lilla slips and grazes herself her older companion wonders aloud whether the young man is worth the trouble they are being driven to.

  “Yes, Enzo is everything to me. Especially now that I am alone, Mrs Robertson. You’ll see. I promise you; you’ll see.”

  Half a backbreaking hour later, as they help each other over the top of yet another mound of debris, a man is scrambling down the slope across the way. His jacket and trousers are torn, his black hair a mess of curls and his face dark and stubbled. Under his left arm he carries a bulging cloth sack; under his right, a dark–grey metal object.

  When he reaches the bottom, his eyes dart this way and that as though he is looking for an escape. He looks up and spots them.

  He stumbles, clutching the sack close. “You… you women, have you got any money?”

  Both Mrs Robertson and Lilla are stunned by both his rudeness and his question.

  “Money?” Mrs Robertson is indignant. “Money?” she repeats, this second time furious to the point of apoplexy. She squares her shoulders and breathes in deeply, the abundance of her bosom rising like a fortified wall. “We have our lives, sir. At this moment in time, that is all we can ask for.”

  The man, though, isn’t interested in her platitude. He raises his right arm: the metal object is a revolver.

  Lilla is amazed. Amazed and fascinated. It is the first handgun she has ever seen, and it has a squarish barrel as long as her hand and a folding trigger, which hangs down like a curved sewing needle. Yes, she has seen the soldiers from the barracks carrying rifles… But a handgun?

  “Now, you listen to me, you pompous old windbag,” he growls, “you’ll pray for mercy like all the others when I’ve put a bullet in your belly. Hand over what you’ve got, before I run out of patience.”

  Lilla is transfixed: the revolver possesses a cold grey sinister hue, like that of the leaden sky.

  Mrs Robertson stares impassively at the robber for a few seconds before the iron in her back melts and she lowers her head. However, it isn’t so much surrender she has on her mind, it is sympathy: “And why, you poor fellow,” she says, softly, “do you imagine we would have money? What possible use would it be out here in this apocalypse? Now, leave us alone and get on with your looting; we have nothing for you.”

  In spite of the cold and drizzle, the man is sweating profusely. He glances nervously over his shoulder, his forehead furrowed over wild eyes. “Show me your hands?” he screams. “Go on, hold them out for me so that I can see them.”

  Lilla finds she cannot react to his demands; she simply stands in wonder and watches him.

  He points the revolver directly at her, jolting her out of her stupor.

  She reaches out both hands, her bare fingers fluttering in fear.

  He turns his attention to Mrs Robertson. “Now you, old woman.”

  She, too, holds out her hands, her fingers bare except for a plain gold band which adorns the third finger of her left hand.

  “Take it off,” he orders, thrusting the gun at her.

  “As you can see,” she says, “this is my wedding ring and I promised my husband on his deathbed that I would wear it for the rest of my life. So, if you are going to shoot me, do so. Besides, you won’t get it off my finger even when I am dead; I’ve worn it for so long now that even I can’t take it off.”

  He scoffs. “Don’t you worry, I’ll cut it off just like I cut the ring off the finger of that girl back there. Now, take it off.”

  “Which girl? Back where?” Lilla screams, oblivious to the fact that he might shoot her simply for making a noise.

  Slowly, the man switches his attention from Mrs Robertson and leers at Lilla. “From that pretty little thing in the white dress lying on top of what’s left of the Ruggeri house.”

  “Oh, Lucrezia,” Lilla screams. “You devil, you are not a man. You are not even an ex
cuse for a–”

  “Ah, you know young Master Ruggeri, do you?” He steps towards her and looks her up and down. “Pretty girl, aren’t you. Friend of the boy’s, eh?”

  A brief smile flicks across her face. “You’ve seen Enzo?”

  “No, not exactly seen.” He rubs his lips with the back of his hand, the butt of the revolver protruding from his fist. “No,” he repeats, his lecherous expression betraying his lewd imaginings, “not exactly.” And all too dreadfully soon, it occurs to him that he might be able to realise his desires. “No,” he continues, drooling like a starved dog in sight of a bone, “you mustn’t worry about young Enzo… He’s gone. He’s finished. He’s never coming back. You’re better off with me. Your old Tulliu knows how to treat a girl right. I’ll look after you.”

  “Gone?” Lilla stammers. “You mean, Enzo…”

  “Oh, yes. He’s done for. Just like the rest.” He glances over at Mrs Robertson and hisses, “Now you, old woman. Just you have that ring off by the time me and the young lady get finished or like I said, you’ll be losing your finger along with your ring. Understand?”

  “God will never forgive you, Tulliu.” Mrs Robertson says. “And I won’t forgive myself for allowing you to.” She checks her footing and steps towards him.

  He turns, holds the revolver out at arm’s length and aims it at her face.

  Lilla tries to intervene and raises her arms, pleading, “No. No, you can’t. I–”

  A shot is fired. The world explodes.

  Chapter 16

  Spitting the cork from the second bottle into his lap, Enzo takes a long, slow sip, rolling the wine around in his mouth, savouring the sweetness in the life of the liquor and again acknowledging his good fortune at being imprisoned within reach of such a ready supply.

  He closes his eyes, rests his head back and allows his mind to wander.

  Not long after he began to walk with Lilla on a regular basis, she invited him home to meet her father.

  A man of medium height, broad of shoulder and sturdy of hip, Lilla’s father welcomes him politely, if cautiously, into their small house down by the waterfront. And, after a handshake which squeezes the blood from his fingers, the fisherman looks Enzo deep in his eyes and asks him… if he would like to go hunting?

  It is, in itself, a perfectly natural and simple question coming, as it does, from a man who hunts. And yet, Enzo immediately recognises the complexities of the invitation.

  First, Nino Lunapiena wants to know whether Enzo understands the subtle divide that separates those who hunt swordfish from those who merely fish. Not, of course, that any hunter would ever be so patronising as to look down on a man who uses a net or a line.

  Second, he wants to know whether Enzo is bold enough to want to risk his neck for the pleasure of his daughter’s company; for hunting swordfish is no child’s game, it is both dangerous and tough work.

  Third, and perhaps most importantly, coming as Enzo does from the city, and with a father who is reputed not only to be wealthy, but also one who enjoys a certain standing in society, Nino Lunapiena wants to know whether his daughter’s suitor might believe himself above such manual labour. The question is asked silently, does he?

  “When can we go?” he replies, without hesitation.

  Nino Lunapiena smiles, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “This Sunday. Be here soon after dawn. No later.”

  On his way home, Enzo floats across the Torrente San Francesco di Paola in a haze of euphoria. Now, all he has to do is impress on the fulua and the luntro and his second most intimidating obstacle will be overcome.

  That Sunday…

  Yes, that Sunday.

  He arrives down at the littoral a few minutes before dawn, a slice of pani cunzatu to prepare him for the day. It seems appropriate, the pani. Some call it the bread of misery because if you are unfortunate and poor, you eat it plain. If you are more fortunate and not so poor, then you rub the bread with sardine or anchovy or fennel or sultanas to give it flavour. And if you are extremely fortunate and sufficiently wealthy, you have the lot. In deference and because he doesn’t want to be judged, Enzo decides he will survive the day on just the one sardine.

  The fulua is sturdy of hip, tall of mast and built to withstand most if not all of whatever poor weather the Gods decide to conjure. As he chews on the bread, Enzo strolls about, studying its dimensions: the length – twelve paces stem to stern, the beam – as wide as two horses are long, and the slender mast, with its steps pegged either side, several times the height of a tall man. The fulua, they tow behind smaller luntri out into the Strait and anchor it. The luntro, the smaller, faster skiff, is the boat from which the funcitta launches his lance.

  A short man appears at his shoulder. “Enzo?” he asks, gazing out across the water, the rugged outline of the Calabrian hills sharpening with every second.

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Pipo, Pipo Sorbello.” He wears a flat cap, a shirt that was once both white and embellished with a collar, and a pair of black baggy trousers. “Pleased to meet you.”

  They do not shake hands; they simply stand and stare and bathe in the pearlescent beauty of first light.

  Soon enough, other men appear and though they briefly look their new crewman up and down, they seem relatively relaxed with his presence.

  Enzo observes the language of their expressions. A tall man of middle age, whose slow eyes suggest he is either bored or taciturn or both; the kind of man who will deal with every eventuality, if and when that eventuality eventually arrives. Another, a little shorter and younger, with black shaggy hair, restless eyes and eager lips; he rubs his chin in anticipation of the rewards he believes the day will gift him. The third is a thin–framed man, older, probably a good few years older than the others, though his age is difficult to estimate because his head is bald and brown as flayed goat hide; he is the man who makes the lobster traps, he is the one who makes ropes, he is the one whose mother is the sea and whose father is long lost to the horizon.

  When Nino arrives, he mumbles a greeting and they stroll down to the water’s edge. There, they place blocks of well–worn wood beneath the prow and drag and push the luntro down the rudimentary slipway into the sea.

  To begin with, the three latecomers and Pipo row the boat out to the fulua. Three other boats join them and they tow the fulua to its anchorage out in the cool waters of the Strait.

  “The fishermen of Chianalea, the village below the Castello Ruffo in Scylla; they have it easy,” Nino explains. “The hills along the Calabrian coast to the north of the Strait stand very close to the water, so they post a lookout on the high ground and when he sees the swordfish, he waves a flag and directs the luntro towards it. We don’t have the benefit of the high ground here, so we have to spend more time looking for the fish. On the other hand, we hunt the narrower waters here at the neck of the Strait and when the swordfish run, they are more confined and more plentiful.”

  With a stone he is honing the metal tip of a slender wooden lance, fully twice his height, which he then couples to a trident with three hinged barbs, the bottom ends of which curve outward.

  “Here in the Strait,” Nino continues, “we have the tides to deal with. Every six hours the sea from the north does battle with the waters from the south; whereas out in the open sea, in the Tyrrhenian, the waters are generally calmer and so easier for rowing.”

  “This battle of the tides,” Enzo is keen to show that he is not a complete novice, “they call it Charybdis; it is the whirlpool that tormented the galley of the Greek Ulyxes on his journey home from the Trojan War. And the monster of many heads which devoured his sailors, it was named Scylla after the village of the rock at Castello Ruffo. I read it in the book by Homero.”

  “Yes,” the funcitta replies, “I have heard this too. Me, I don’t read and what use has a man for books if he cannot read?”

  Enzo
colours, embarrassed not only by his stupidity in assuming that a man of Nino Lunapiena’s stature could read, but also by a sudden and tender desire to want to teach him.

  By the time they are out in open water, the sun has risen and the air thickens like a broth on a stove. Nino suggests his oarsmen rest and they slump down on their oars, their heads forward, catnapping.

  Nino is examining the rolling hitches where he has fastened the thin rope along the length of the long lance. If he doesn’t like the look of one, he undoes the knot and rolls and re–ties it methodically, diligently checking each one by pulling and twisting the rope to ensure the line cannot slip.

  “Yes, yes. We have one!” the lookout in the fulua shouts, pointing away towards the sun.

  “Good eyes,” Nino says to Enzo. “Now, you must row.”

  Enzo clambers aft and stands to his oar: the others have placed him at the stern so it will be easier to follow their stroke. The oar is long and wooden, and not sculpted like the oars he has seen in picture books of men sitting as they race on a calm river; a race watched by other men sporting trim straw hats and women dressed in lace and finery. No, Enzo’s oar is rough in texture and heavy, and he has to stand and set his feet and bend his back in order to push and pull in time with the man in front.

  The lookout, from his vantage point on top of the mast of the fulua, maintains a constant gabble of instruction, “To the left. To the right. Hurry. Faster. Slow. To the left. More. He’s coming around behind. Wait. Now. Go. Hurry…”

  Pipo climbs the small mast of the luntro and balances precariously, hoping to see the fish.

  All the while the four row, Nino stands in the prow, his feet set like a wrestler, the lance held high and angled, his right hand at the back end above his head, and his left, with a few loose coils of line hanging below his fist, halfway along so that the tip points slightly down towards the water.

  With Nino’s encouragement and the promise of a catch, the men chatter as they urge each other’s stroke: “Gio, you row like an old woman.” And, “Pipo, my mother rows faster than you.”