Constant Tides

by Peter Crawley

  “Is a man not a man unless he has both a wife and a mistress? Is it true, that one is more attractive to other women if one is known to keep a mistress?”

  He shakes his head, perplexed, bemused and now enveloped in the shower of dust from his hair. “Oh, why do you put up with him, mama?”

  That last night, they had been to the theatre:

  Sunday 27th December and Carmelo Ruggeri must and will have his family about him. The great and the good of Messina are turning out at the Teatro di Vittorio Emanuele and best manners, and therefore best attire, are the order of the evening. Enzo’s mother, Saverina, has been provided with funds for a new modern, slim–waisted dress, one which does not hang so low it collects dust from the floor; his two younger sisters have been prettified with white lace brought in from Taormina; and he and his younger brother, Vittorio, have been decked out in matching blue marinière shirts and white bell–bottomed trousers. Enzo had objected to this appalling matching uniform, but only because had he been too easily persuaded, his father might have suspected something was up.

  And even though the Hungarian soprano, Paola Karalech, stands no chance of replacing Lilla in the pantheon of his affections, the evening is not without its consolations: the tenor Angelo Gamba cuts a dashing figure, his singing touches the very seat of Enzo’s soul, as it does that of every man present, and the notion that Gamba’s Radames would rather die imprisoned in a vault than live free without his Princess Aida appeals to Enzo; for, as he realises during the rousing chorus, what use is life without love.

  At precisely the moment Ramfis, the high priest, sentences Radames to be interred alive, Enzo turns to find his mother gazing adoringly and yet perhaps a little sadly at him. Hers is a look of such intense love that Enzo is uncertain as to how he should react, so he looks away, quickly turning his attention back to the stage.

  Outside the theatre, the evening is chilled but dry; perfect for a ten–minute stroll up the Corso Cavour. Yet with his new–found status, Carmelo decides a buggy is more appropriate and he hails one of the many waiting in line in the Garibaldi.

  Arriving at their house in the Via dei Templari, Carmelo asks the driver to wait and informs Saverina that he has affairs to attend to and will therefore be home a little later.

  “All right, children,” their mother reassures, as they watch the buggy drive off, “let’s not freeze out here when there’s a perfectly warm stove inside.”

  Enzo is the last up the steps. He hangs back, taking in the gloom of the gaslit street, an unsavoury concoction of conflicting emotions pooling in his stomach; for he hates his father not simply for cheating on his mother, but also for providing his son with another reason to hate him. However, and if he is honest with himself, Enzo knows that it isn’t so much his father’s lack of devotion to his mother that gives him cause; it is the tight rein he keeps on his son that has fostered within him a need to break free. Maybe, after this evening, he will no longer have to put up with his tyrant of a father. Maybe, after this evening, he will never see his father again.

  “Enzo, please hurry up and close the door,” his mother calls.

  Enzo looks up and down the street, committing every block, every cornice and balustrade to memory.

  When Lucrezia and Angelica are in bed, and Vittorio has tired of his bleating about why his elder brother is permitted to stay up later, Saverina suggests she and Enzo sit together and talk.

  “Yes, mama?”

  Saverina has kind, reliable eyes, and their language is often subtle and gentle. It is how she is now, albeit that her smile is reserved, suggesting that rather than her having to ask, her son may like to tell whatever it is that preys on his mind.

  “Yes, mama,” he agrees, searching for the right place to begin. “You know, mother, that I would rather do anything than hurt you and that I will always hold you close to my heart, wherever I am. But you must also recognise that I cannot stay here and live chained to a future that is to be imposed upon me by my father.” He pauses.

  “Ah,” his mother says, “I see it is not only Angelo Gamba who rehearses. Do go on, Enzo.”

  He colours, though he is by no means finished with his script. “Mama, you know all too well that we are alike and I have seen the way you look at us when we fight. You understand that our arguments are without foundation and that we use them only as an excuse to exercise our tempers. We fight not because of the differences between us; we fight because of our similarities. We are cut from the same cloth, carved from the same wood, fashioned from the same stone.” Enzo is aware of mixing his metaphors, but he is more painfully aware that he has to add some clothes to the skeleton of his news; simply to lay it bare will risk shocking his mother beyond repair. “We will never be happy in each other’s company.”

  “But, the business?” she asks. “Who will keep the business going if your father falls ill or when he no longer has the strength?”

  “Vittorio. You know how good he is with figures and besides, he wants to. We’ve all seen the way he clings to the pages of your good books. He is desperate to be admired, desperate to please; it is what drives him.” Enzo knows his mother knows this only too well: Lucrezia and Angelica are rarely subtle in trading knowing looks and sniggering every time the younger brother sucks up to his parents.

  “But, Enzo, your brother is not tough like you. He might grow a head for business, but he will never grow the back required to keep the men in check. They would eat him for breakfast, bless the dear boy.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t worry too much about Vittorio, mama. He would give Machiavelli a run for his money.” Of course, he is lying; everyone knows Vittorio couldn’t fight his way into or out of a paper bag. Enzo leans forward and takes his mother’s hands. “But we both know the real reason for my leaving, don’t we?”

  Saverina’s eyes water at the mention of his imminent departure. “Lilla.”

  “Yes, mama, Lilla. And we both know that my father will never permit us to be together. He forgets his past and thinks only of his future. He–”

  “And you, Enzo? Are you the same? Are you only thinking of your future?” His mother withdraws her hands and sits up straighter in the hope that the slight alteration in her posture will lend some authority to her words.

  “No, mama, I am thinking of our future. Both Lilla’s future and mine. This is not simply about me; it is about Lilla and the love we share.”

  Saverina slumps, a concession of sorts. “But you are both so young; how can you talk of love? And you have only known her for a few months; how can you be so confident? How can you know that she will become a good wife?”

  “How can Lilla know whether I will become the man of her dreams, mama? Did you know when you were married?”

  Saverina’s eyes turn to the floor.

  And Enzo is about to make the point that his mother had never been offered the opportunity to decide who she married; she had never had the chance Lilla has. However, he will not dare to suggest she is unhappy with her situation. He will not dare because he has too much respect for his mother and, perhaps more importantly, because his daring might cause her to examine the boundaries of her own happiness, an examination which might lead to a less than favourable conclusion.

  “But Enzo,” his mother beseeches, her palms pressed together, her fingertips pointing upwards as if she is praying to both him and a higher power: “Why does it have to be her? Why does it have to be a fisherman’s daughter from the Borgo del Ringo? Why not the Bartolotta girl? She is sweet and… she will make a man a good wife.”

  “That Bartolotta girl? You mean the girl who just happens to be the daughter of the Salvatore Bartolotta who insists on telling everyone he is next in line for chief of the customs house? Whatever next? Why don’t you suggest I wait and see if Princess Yolanda is available; she may only be seven, but who knows, perhaps King Vittorio will think me fit for a son–in–law.”

 
“There is no call to speak ill of our king,” Saverina snaps.

  Enzo reins back the stallion of his indignation. “No, mama, you are right and I apologise, particularly to Princess Yolanda. As long as she lives, may she never be as ugly as that Bartolotta girl.”

  “Your cynicism does not become you, Enzo.”

  “No, mama, you are right again, and again I apologise.”

  The mutual sadness of their understanding that the path of their conversation can only lead to one end is too much for either to bear, especially in each other’s company.

  “Mama,” he reaches out for her hands once more, “what matters most is that I love Lilla and that she loves me. What matters to my father is he believes that my love for Lilla will somehow devalue his newfound standing; that in some way he sees Lilla’s people as lesser people. They are not; they are fishermen and fishermen are the very life–blood of our community. They are a proud and noble people; they have more honour than any of the fifty people my father scraped and bowed to at the opera this evening.”

  “Enzo!” The fire of challenge flames in Saverina’s eyes. “Do not force me to choose between my respect for your father and my love for you. Youthful impertinence is acceptable, but only when unspoken and you of all people know how hard your father has worked to put the bread on our table and this roof over our heads. You know the risks he has taken; the prejudices he has had to overcome.”

  “Yes, mama, I know. And when I am down at the harbour helping load and unload cargo, many of the men remind me: it is a badge I have to wear. “Look, there goes Ruggeri’s boy. He chose the right parents, didn’t he?” “The heir to the Port of Messina,” that’s what they whisper. That’s another reason why I have to leave: I cannot bear to be thought of as someone’s son, as one who inherits. Don’t you see, I have to make my own way, and America will provide me, provide us, with that chance.”

  In looking up at the ceiling, Saverina dismisses such a fanciful idea. “Did not your zio Pangrazio go to America? Did he not come back with Tuberculosis and die for lack of breath?”

  “Mama? Zio Pangrazio left for America because he got the Garufi girl pregnant and he only came back because she married old man Mazza. He died because he never had the breath for work.” Enzo could have said his uncle Pangrazio only possessed sufficient breath for idle gossip, but both he and his mother know her brother had drunk himself into an early grave.

  “Mama,” he begins again, this time more gently than before, “if I stay here with Lilla and my father does not give us his blessing, this can only lead to confrontation with Lilla’s father and Nino Lunapiena is a king among fishermen. You know too well how such a confrontation will end .”

  Saverina nods in agreement, a reluctant agreement which implies that whilst she does not accept his vision of the future, it is unarguably accurate.

  Enzo holds up his left hand, the back of it towards his mother. “Do you remember what you told me when you gave me this ring?”

  She nods and then, surprisingly, looks away.

  “You told me that the day we moved into this house you had found it tied to the back of a side–table. How long it had been there, no one could know; but you told me the ring must have meant a great deal to someone, otherwise why would they have hidden it? Do you remember what else you told me, mama?”

  She glances at her son and then away again.

  “You told me that every gift carries with it a wish, and that your wish was for me to follow my heart. You also told me that as long as I wear this ring, I carry your wish with me wherever I go. With me! Wherever I go! Through good times and bad, through happy and sad. That was what you said, mama: through good times and bad, through happy and sad.”

  Now, trapped in the cellar, Enzo understands why his mother could not look at him: it was because she was the one who told him he must follow his heart and if she hadn’t, then perhaps he might not have fallen so heavily for the young girl from the Borgo. And he remembers, too, Lilla’s love for the ring; for whenever they met, she would lift his hand to her face and rub it slowly against her cheek; she used to tell him she liked the cool of the metal against the heat of her skin.

  Enzo holds up his hands and in the dim light, he can just make out the clean strip of his little finger where the ring used to sit.

  “Oh, mama, where are you now? Oh, Lilla, where are you?”

  Chapter 19

  “Lilla, pay attention,” Mrs Robertson chides. “Do it like I showed you.”

  “Sorry. I was just thinking about…”

  “Yes, I’m sure you were. And you would have every reason to, my girl. Trouble is, what’s done is done and we have too many of the living to look after; there’s nothing to be gained by dwelling on what might have been.” The square–shouldered woman sets down her bloodied swab and taking the bandage from Lilla, she rolls it in a series of continuous revolutions round the leg of the young boy. “Like this, see? Twirl it, don’t pack it; then split it and tie it off. We don’t have enough dressings as it is, so don’t waste them. Only the Good Lord knows what we would have done without the medical equipment these naval people have given out.”

  “Yes, I’m sorry, Mrs Robertson.”

  “Don’t be sorry, my girl; be sensible, that’s all I ask.”

  “It’s just…”

  “Of course. I understand. It’s Enzo and your family you’re thinking of. Well, there’s plenty of others who deserve our thoughts and prayers; as many as a hundred thousand, maybe more, or so the doctor believes. He’s heard that the wave swept away the university at Torre Faro. They say even as far south as Riposto there are people trapped in the ruins of the cathedral and across the Strait, Reggio Calabria has been wiped off the face of the earth. Much of Scylla and Palmi, too. We must be thankful; that’s all we can be.”

  Lilla looks up at her guardian in disbelief. “Thankful? How can you be so… so positive at a time like this? People have lost everything they ever had. I have lost everything. Everything, Mrs Robertson. There is nothing here for me now. There is nothing left. I have no one.” Tears well in her eyes.

  “You have me, Lilla.” She wraps her arms around her young companion, and hugs her and kisses the matted hair on top of her head. “You have me. I promise you; you’ll never be alone again. Not as long as there is a breath left in me, my girl. That, I promise you.”

  Along with other volunteers, survivors and the few doctors left alive, they are working in a warehouse near the railway station. The high–ceilinged building has been converted into an aid station and if it doesn’t quite hold the chill wind at bay, it does at least provide shelter from the incessant rain. Motherless children mill about at the entrance, watching, waiting, wondering.

  “Now, remember how I showed you,” Mrs Robertson murmurs. “Twirl the bandage so it wraps around the limb. Not too tight, mind, but make sure it’s tied off securely.”

  As she wipes the tears from Lilla’s cheeks, there is an ear–splitting blast, quickly followed by a succession of several further blasts.

  The ground shakes, people scream and dust cascades from the ceiling. Mothers gather up their children and rush, stumbling towards the doors; doctors lean over to protect their patients.

  Lilla grabs her guardian around her waist and hangs on. “Is it an aftershock? Is this the end?”

  They wait. They pray. And like the motherless children, they wonder. In spite of the dust, everyone studies the ceiling for the slightest indication that it might fall.

  Much to their surprise, though, the warehouse does not collapse about their ears and gradually the echoes of thunder dissipate to leave in its place an eerie, stunned silence.

  Little by little, like a returning tide, conversation returns amid the horrors of amputating shattered limbs, excising infected flesh and cleaning open wounds.

  Mrs Robertson giggles, nervously. “No, it’s not the end, Lilla. It’s a b
eginning. I do believe King Vittorio has arrived.”

  “The king?”

  “Yes, the king. Though how many of the city’s already unstable buildings will have fallen prey to that grand salute is anybody’s guess. They say the king has cut short his shooting in the Abruzzi mountains.” She tilts her head and arches a questioning eyebrow. “Now, isn’t that just grand of the little man, eh?”

  Mrs Robertson surveys her own handiwork and pats her patient on his head. “Right, off you go young man. And try to find somewhere to lie down for a while. Even if you have to share, get that leg of yours up off the ground.”

  She turns back to Lilla and breathes deeply. “As I was saying before we were so rudely interrupted: you must tie them off properly, otherwise they’ll come undone and soon enough the dressings will drop off; that way we’ll get the little beggars bothering us again when our time would be better spent looking after new patients. Come now, let’s get back to work: if we take care of the minutes, the hours will surely take care of themselves.”

  And the next few hours do exactly as she has predicted. If the one–time nurse and her young helper speak to each other at all it is only to instruct and query, as a procession of children are funnelled through the crowd towards the makeshift bed on which Mrs Robertson deals with an assortment of minor injuries that require cleaning and dressing. Every now and then, the shroud of their concentration is punctured by the howl of pain or the wail of misery or grief: in the face of overwhelming numbers, the doctors are making do with the little chloroform and ether they have available.

  Sometime later, though it is because of the lack of sun impossible to tell whether it is still morning, there is a commotion outside. The hubbub of conversation in the aid station dribbles into a curiously reverential silence.

  A woman enters. She is, unlike the doctors who wear blood–stained whites and the patients who wear soiled rags, dressed in a lace–fringed black dress with a black fur stole covering her shoulders. Yet it isn’t her glamorous attire that sets her apart from the people standing back to permit her entrance to the aid station; rather it is the glittering tiara perched on top of the perfect nest of her dark hair that leaves no one in any doubt.