Constant Tides

by Peter Crawley

  Yet Nino’s stare never leaves the water. Say what they like, the oarsmen will never distract him; for he knows he will have one chance, with one lance and if he misses by so much as a finger’s width, the swordfish will be gone down deep, and they may have to return to the Borgo empty–handed.

  The men push and pull and roll their wrists, the boat surging forward.

  Pipo swivels on his rest. He has seen the fish. “Now. She is behind us.”

  Enzo glances down. A silvery streak flashes alongside.

  “She comes,” yells Pipo. “Now. Now. You will see her.”

  Nino tenses, his hips jerk and twitch, his feet feeling for the boat beneath him. He raises his lance and with a force that will all but take him over the prow, he thrusts the lance down into the water, his right hand propelling it on its way.

  For a split second, the lance sticks upright out of the water, then it very suddenly disappears below, taking the line with it.

  The funcitta turns, and frees the line, ensuring it does not foul against the side of the boat as it runs out. That he says nothing tells the men he has struck clean and firm.

  The men cheer and ship their oars, and Pipo shins down the mast. The tall one moves with surprising haste and agility; he lifts the basket of coiled rope to his chest, allowing the line to pay out, permitting the fish to run free and deep.

  “Now, we must both be patient and swift,” Nino says to Enzo. “If the fish is female, her mate will not leave her. Swordfish are like us, they only take one mate and if he comes, with the Madonna’s blessing, we will take him too.”

  The line plays out at terrific pace and soon enough the first basket is empty.

  This swordfish is strong and fast, and is diving deep: the second basket of line is required and the tall one lifts it up clear.

  “A good fish?” Pipo asks.

  “Yes,” Nino replies.

  Soon enough, and just as the second basket is close to empty, the line falls slack.

  They wait, the tall one holding the line between two hands, feeling for the fish, every quiver reassuring him that the swordfish is still attached.

  They wait, glancing amongst each other, smiling, nodding, happy.

  The line tightens, then slackens, the fish turning and twisting in its flight.

  “Bring the fish in,” Nino says. “Enzo, you help with the line.”

  The boat rocks unsteadily as he steps forward, the others holding onto him as he makes his way past them.

  Now aided by the tall one, he begins hand over hand to pull the line on board. Pipo sits behind them, coiling it neatly back into the basket lest one of them tangle their feet and fall.

  The line is wet, thin and rough on their hands: the task of pulling it back in long and arduous.

  “How much line have we paid out?” Enzo asks, as his hands sting against the line.

  “You are tired already?” the tall one asks.

  “No, I am interested to know, that is all.”

  “Nearly two baskets,” Nino says. “One hundred metres, a little less perhaps.”

  Enzo hauls and hauls, hand over hand, his back groaning in objection. He grows confused; for at first, he was aware of the help the tall one was lending him and now, as his body tires, he feels as though he is hauling all on his own, especially when the fish rebels against the tension of the rope and tries to drag him overboard. He glances behind him.

  All of the crew are watching him; no one is helping. They collapse in a fit of laughing which, ordinarily, might draw Enzo’s anger. However, on this occasion he is not unhappy to be the butt of their humour; for if they thought they would rile him, they probably wouldn’t play him so and he takes their ribbing as a sign that they are happy to enjoy his company.

  “You bastards,” he says and sets himself back to his hauling.

  “Oh, now he calls us bastards,” one says, in a tone which suggests he is properly offended.

  Enzo hesitates in his hauling. In defining their status as the children of unmarried parents, perhaps he has overstepped the mark; after all, he is a guest on their luntro, and considering his vulnerable position, standing as he is at the very edge of the gunwale and holding on tight to the line, one smart kick in his backside and he will be joining the fish in the waters of the Strait.

  He turns, a little nervously.

  To a man, and including Nino, they guffaw and slap their chests in appreciation.

  Soon enough, though, they settle down and get back to helping him and they haul the long silver–grey fish up to the side. First, its long, serrated bill pierces the surface, like a rapier through a dark mirror. Next its dorsal fin carves a wedge, threatening like that of a shark. And finally, its crescent–shaped tail swishes, spraying the men with cool, salty water.

  They murmur their appreciation.

  The swordfish stills and Pipo leans over the side and ties a slip–knot over its tail.

  Suddenly, the fish understands that now is its last chance to object before she is lifted clear of her natural habitat. If the men manage to land her, her life is over, for there will be no more opportunities to escape. She thrashes and wriggles and rolls and tries to dive away back down to the safety of the deep; she squirms and flails, but all to no avail.

  The tall one kneels down and grabs the swordfish by its tail, careful not to let his hands slip in case he cuts himself, and together the men drag their prize up over the side and into the boat.

  Later, they catch the mate, a smaller fish than the female, but no less welcome. Faithfully, he had circled the luntro until all Nino had to do was wait patiently for the right moment to throw his lance. There was no great anxiety, no great stress to the second catch; the swordfish had quite simply surrendered in order to be with his mate.

  “I have heard it said that the male will leap into the boat to be with his partner.” Pipo’s eyes had spoken of sadness, as though he felt guilty that he should have to benefit from another’s blind loyalty. “But you must believe what you are comfortable believing; I have only heard this.”

  The others smile at their young helper. He has brought them luck! And on their row back to the Borgo, each of the crew takes his turn to question Enzo. “So, what did you think of hunting the swordfish? Did you find the work too rough?” And, “A day passed harvesting from the sea is better than a day passed counting numbers, no?”

  They are right. The sea is free and it sets one’s spirit free.

  Now, Enzo takes another sip of his father’s Malvasia and rests his head back. “Ah,” he sighs, “that was a good day.”

  Chapter 17

  The sound of the shot echoes through Lilla’s head, as though all the cannons of the world have fired at exactly the same second. Terrified that when she opens her eyes, she might find Mrs Robertson’s bloodied corpse lying before her, Lilla keeps them shut tight, her face screwed up and her hands flat against her ears. She can feel the fat drops of rain smacking her skull through her hair; they, too, echo like the gunshot.

  Strong hands pull at her arms.

  She shakes her shoulders, brushing them away. If that man has killed Mrs Robertson, she won’t be surrendering to him without a fight; for if he thinks he is going to take her virginity, when she has preserved it so conscientiously for Enzo for when they are in America, then he had better–

  The strong hands are back at her arms again.

  “Lilla!”

  She squeezes her hands back over her ears. Yet that was not the voice of the robber, Tulliu; that was a woman’s voice. Lilla opens her eyes.

  Mrs Robertson stands before her, intact and exactly in the state she had been before the gunshot. “It’s all right, Lilla. I’m still here.”

  “But I heard the… I saw the… How can that be?”

  Lilla follows the line of the older woman’s sight down to the rubble strewn around her feet.


  Tulliu lies dead. Completely dead. A hole, the size of a ripe blood orange, blown out of his chest. And a blood orange would be most suitable, Lilla decides as she grows used to the colour, for his upper torso is covered in fresh blood, his fresh blood.

  She looks up. Men are standing at the foot of the mound of rubble across the way; one of them carries a long rifle. And whereas Tulliu was swarthy, unshaven and poorly dressed, this man is incredibly tall and broad and blond, and though his clothes are dirty, his blue uniform, and those of the others about him, lends him an ordered, secure aspect. He is smiling at Lilla; a curious reaction for one who has just taken another’s life.

  The men pick their way over to the two women and stand, appraising the lifeless form at their feet: judging by the way they keep glancing at the one with the rifle, they are discussing the merits of his marksmanship.

  Lilla moves to her companion’s side; the older woman is trembling, so Lilla slips her arm around her waist. “It’s all right, Mrs Robertson. You’re all right. No harm done. Except to Tulliu, of course.”

  “Yes, dear. You’re quite right. I was just afraid he was–”

  “Well, he didn’t. He probably would have, but he didn’t then and he won’t now. So, what language are these men speaking? That tall one, the one who keeps smiling at me, the one with the gun; he’s so big he’s like three men all rolled into one.”

  Mrs Robertson wipes at the corners of her eyes, breathes deep and very quickly regains her composure. “Excuse me?” she asks, drawing the group’s attention from their examination of the corpse. “Excuse me, but who are you? Where are you from?”

  They look up and stand back, making way for a shorter man, an officer judging by the yellow starred epaulettes at his shoulders.

  He stands to attention, bows politely and clicks his heels. “Russkiy, I am Russian. Leytenant Korsakov of the Battleship Makarov at your service. We can speak Italian, Russian, English or Latin. Which would you prefer, madame?”

  “Italian will be fine, thank you, Lieutenant,” Mrs Robertson warms to him. “We are most grateful for your help. And if I may say, in keeping with your manners your timing is impeccable. Another minute and this man would…”

  Lieutenant Korsakov straightens and bows once more. “Madame, I must politely and respectfully interrupt to suggest that even taking into account the inclement weather and the danger from the aftershocks, this is no place for women.”

  “Yes, we know. Really we do.”

  The Russian lieutenant’s complexion is pale and his full Russe moustache dwarfs his small nose. “Then permit me to ask why you should be here? The city is in danger of imminent collapse. We have already lost one of our working party.”

  “I am saddened to hear that, Lieutenant Korsakov.”

  “Yes. As are we. A brave yet foolish man, he ignored my orders and entered a building to free a woman trapped by fallen timber. There came a sudden aftershock, the rest of the building came down and by the time we reached him, he was beyond all help. May God rest his soul.” Korsakov bends his head in respect and his working party follow suit.

  After a brief silence, he continues. “As you have witnessed, madame, the streets are littered with felons such as this one; some have even taken to wearing the uniforms of the Carabinieri.” He glances down. “He was trying to rob you?”

  “And worse,” Mrs Robertson confirms.

  “Then we were right to shoot him.” The lieutenant squares his narrow shoulders, turns and nods at the man carrying the rifle, before crouching to look over the corpse. “There are units of the Italian army on their way here from Naples, but at present we are the only functioning law in what is left of the city.”

  He picks up Tulliu’s revolver, which he hands back to one of his men, and then he notices a folding knife sticking out from a pocket. As he removes it, he sees the sack lying by the corpse. Lieutenant Korsakov takes it and stands up.

  “Ah, the ill–gotten gains of a dishonest profession,” he says opening the sack to inspect its contents. Then, he drops it, his pale face very suddenly turning several shades paler.

  “What is in the bag, Lieutenant?” Lilla asks.

  Korsakov doesn’t, though, hear her; he has his hand over his mouth and his eyes are wide with shock.

  Lilla and Mrs Robertson both turn their attention to the ground, where the sack has fallen open.

  The small collection of rings would be unremarkable were it not for the fact that some of them were still attached to fingers.

  “Come, Lilla,” Mrs Robertson commands. “Come now, look away.”

  Lilla cannot though, because one particular ring on one particular finger has caught her eye. “No, it can’t be,” she murmurs. She kneels down on the wet bricks and without reaching to touch it, she examines the ringed finger more closely.

  “Come away, now,” her companion demands. “That is quite the most unpleasant…”

  “Young lady,” says the Lieutenant, having recovered his composure.

  “It’s all right,” Lilla replies, dreamily. “A fisherman’s daughter is accustomed to dead fish. This is no worse.” However, as she recognises the gold band her eyes water and tears flow.

  “Oh, Lucrezia,” she whispers, “even in death there is no peace for a child as beautiful as you.”

  Keeping his distance, the lieutenant asks, “You know this… this ring?”

  “Yes. Yes, I do.” Lilla wipes her tears away. “Yes, this belongs to Lucrezia Ruggeri, my Enzo’s sister. Her body lies… No, her body lay on the debris before the Ruggeri family house in the Via dei Templari; it is the next street on the left.” Without taking her eyes off the ringed finger, Lilla points. “Lucrezia was wearing white bedclothes. She was dead, really, perfectly dead; she wouldn’t have felt anything…”

  Lilla falls quiet: there is another ring that has caught her attention.

  To distract her from her morbid curiosity, Mrs Robertson coughs theatrically and addresses the Russian in a stentorian tone, “It is why we are here. This young lady has lost her entire family to the earthquake and we are trying to locate her fiancée, who she hasn’t seen since the minutes before. We think he is somewhere in the family house, perhaps trapped, although this criminal seemed to think he is dead.” She turns her attention to the kneeling Lilla. “Gone, finished, done for. Wasn’t that what he said?”

  Lilla looks up, her eyes filled with yet more tears. “You can be unkind when you believe the situation calls for it, can’t you Mrs Robertson? Is that what you meant when you said the British were stiff? Are you being stiff now, because you think Enzo may be dead and you think trying to find him is too dangerous?” Her tone is accusing, disparaging, and perhaps even a little mocking. “Well, I will not rest until I have seen proof that Enzo is dead. Do you understand?” Lilla’s temper begins to boil. “Do you hear me, Mrs Robertson?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course, my dear. Come now. It’s all a bit upsetting.” The older woman glances at the Russian.

  He nods his head, walks over to Lilla and, putting his hand under her arm, encourages her to stand up.

  “But what about these rings, these fingers?” she asks, grasping the sac. “They may belong to the dead, but even the dead have families. We must find who they belong to.”

  “And we will,” Lieutenant Korsakov assures her. “We will. I will hand them over to the mayor’s office.”

  Lilla, though, is not to be parted from the sack. “No, you won’t. You can’t.” She looks over at her companion, her frustration simmering. “Didn’t you tell me the mayor was dead and that there was no one in control?”

  “Yes, I did–”

  “Then we must take them with us,” she shouts angrily. “We must hand them over to the proper authorities. There are people,” she screams, “people who loved these rings and these fingers: they are all that is left of wives, of children, of loved ones. We must t
ake all of them with us. We must find out.”

  Steadily, and with as much tenderness as his rainswept uniform will permit, the Russian officer lifts Lilla very slowly upright. However, he does not notice that she still has the sack grasped firmly between her white–knuckled fingers and the remaining contents all fall from the open neck of the sack and tumble to the ground.

  Mrs Robertson, the lieutenant and his men all gasp, both in horror and in wonder.

  Lilla’s head, heavy with the weight of her sorrow, is bent to her chest in defeat and through the veil of her tears, she stares at the chaos of delicate fingers, of sparkling jewels, of hunks of white bread and black salami all spread out at her feet. At first, she can only appreciate the cold reflection of diamonds, the yellow sheen of pearls, the pigeon blood of rubies and the apple green of jade; and then, as she wipes her face, her eyes focus.

  Before, when she had seen Lucrezia’s finger hacked from its rightful place on her hand, her communion ring sullied by her own blood, Lilla’s heart had been infected with a misery so poisonous that she wondered whether she would ever be able to forgive the world its repugnance. Now though, as she looks down, she finds her heart infected with a similar poison once more, yet this time the poison is concentrated a thousand times so that it produces an agony so visceral and painful that she doubts she will ever be able to bear its legacy; for there at her feet, surrounded by gems of unthinkable beauty, lies Enzo’s signet ring.

  Chapter 18

  Enzo had come away from his hunting with her father a changed young man; for that day he’d realised he would never be truly free if he remained shackled by the expectations of his own.

  “My father,” he mutters to the beam that has settled like a table across his legs. On its conveniently flat surface, he has set out what’s left of the salami and the bread and the now half–empty bottle of Malvasia. “My father, I wonder where he is now? Probably with his mistress in that hovel over the Portalegni.”

  Enzo is finding his thoughts a little ungovernable. They seem to dash about his mind like unruly children, which is perhaps no surprise considering he is exhausted by both an absence of water and a poverty of options.