“Your keepsake is heavy, like my heart,” she whispers. “It is all I have left of you, Enzo. It is all I have to show for our love and I will carry it with me always.”
The ring is fashioned in silver, plain to the point of austere in appearance and not much larger than her thumbnail. The shank is worn smooth and rounded, and engraved in the flat, shield–shaped head is a single cross–formée, a Christian cross similar to the Maltese Cross, in as much as the cross is narrow at the centre with the arms flared out towards the perimeter.
The hurricane lamps hanging from the roof of the tent lend her only a dim light, so when Lilla holds the face up, only the indent of the engraving and the scratches on the surface catch her eye. The ring is evidently no decorative jewel, no ornament or trinket; rather it is a statement of belonging, a mark of nobility or heritage and quite possibly a seal with which to autograph a wax–bound letter.
One hot summer’s afternoon as she and Enzo had sat shaded and cooled beneath the boughs of the vast fig tree in the Mazzini, he’d told her the story of how his mother came by the ring and why she had given it to him.
“To follow your heart through happy and sad,” she mumbles. “Through happy and sad.”
“Are you talking to yourself, young lady?”
“Yes, Prudence, I am. There is no one else to talk to, is there?”
“No, I suppose not. But, as we say, talking to yourself is the first sign of madness.”
“Would it surprise you if I was going mad?” Lilla scoffs. “Isn’t the madness of this place catching, like a disease?”
“Oh dear, what’s got you all riled up then?
“Nothing. You surprised me, that’s all? Where have you been, Prudence? How long have I been asleep?”
“I’ve been down to the aid station at the Mazzini. If you recall Dottore Roselli wanted me to scrounge some of that Anti–Tetanus serum.”
“And did you?”
The older woman looks her young charge very directly in her eyes, appraising her, examining her in much the same way as Lilla had not a few minutes ago examined the signet ring. “No, as a matter of fact I didn’t; they’ve run out same as here. As far as how long you’ve been asleep goes: I suppose I’ve been gone three hours, the streets are still not easy. How is your leg?”
“Sore. It hurts when I move it and the girl over there,” she nods towards the next cot, “keeps moaning. It’s impossible to sleep.”
“My, we are in a state, aren’t we? Well, young lady, you’d better take that pot of yours off the stove before it boils over; it won’t do you any good to get all het up about life. And for your information,” Prudence leans closer, whispering, “that girl is a sight further under the weather than you are. Your leg might stop you from walking for a bit, but the only way that young girl is ever going to join in at passeggio is if some kind soul pushes her in a wheelchair.”
Prudence fusses over Lilla’s leg for a while, inspecting the bandages which extend from her knee all the way down and around her foot. When she is satisfied the wounds are no longer bleeding, she stands back and pats Lilla affectionately on her shoulder. “Come on now, buck up. You might have what we call the morbs, but they won’t do you any good.”
“What are the morbs?”
“Morbs? Well, you get the morbs when you can’t see your way through, when you get all melancholy. Morbid, I suppose. Now then, I have some news and you have a visitor, which would you like first?”
Lying as she is on the cot, Lilla’s eyes water. “Do you have a piece of cloth or something, Prudence?”
Prudence pulls a handkerchief from her cuff.
And whether it is the pain in her leg, the misery of her bereavement or simply the accumulation of her tiredness that breaches the dam, Lilla dissolves into a flood of tears. “I’m sorry, Prudence, I didn’t mean to complain, it’s just that… I won’t complain again, not ever again, I promise. I know I’m lucky and I know I should be grateful, it’s just that…”
“I know.” Prudence soothes, bending towards her, taking Lilla in her arms and hugging her gently. “It’s all been something of a trial, hasn’t it? It’ll soon be over. Why don’t I give you the good news, eh, then you can see your visitor?”
Lilla sniffs and wipes away her tears. “Can there really be any good news? I hope so; it seems as though the last few days have brought us nothing but bad news. Please, Prudence, tell me what we can hope for?”
“Well, my love, the good news is that I’ve met up with Mr Gordon and you’ll be pleased to hear he is alive and well, and that he has offered to arrange us passage to Naples. I’ve also had word from the Duca di Lantra that the British Ambassador has given me leave to take you to England. All being well, we are to depart on the first available boat tomorrow morning and when we get to Naples, if your leg is mending as it should and you are fit enough to travel on, we’ll take a passenger ship for England. There, that’s the best bit of good news we’ve had in a while, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Prudence. That is good news. I can’t wait to be gone from this sorry place. Now I’ve made up my mind to leave with you, it’s as though Messina has become some terrible place I never want to see again. Does that make sense? It doesn’t to me, I used to love the city.”
“It’s perfectly natural, dear. I remember experiencing the identical sentiment when I left England to go to Rome. Suddenly, I couldn’t think of one good reason why I wanted to be in England a minute longer. Strange thing, one’s mind; it plays tricks. But don’t you worry about the city: every time nature knocks it down, nature sees that it is rebuilt again. Life, as I’ve learned, is one continuous circle of seasons. You know, for every winter there will come a spring and then summer.”
The sunlight of a smile returns to Lilla’s eyes. “Oh, you always manage to find some good even in the worst of situations. I hope one day I’ll do the same.”
“You will, my angel. As sure as God makes little apples, you will.”
Lilla giggles, nervously. “You know, Prudence, I’ve never met anyone who puts words in such a grand way. Is that how everyone speaks in England?”
“No,” she winks, “only me. Others speaks a version of the same, though not so correctly.”
“Can I see my visitor now? And please, Prudence, don’t be too far away.”
“I won’t. Don’t worry, I’ll be on hand. Now, lie back while I go and get him.”
However, Lilla doesn’t lie back. She rests up on her elbows and looks over at the child in the cot adjacent to hers.
The girl, probably five or six years younger, is dark–haired and her complexion dark like Lilla’s.
Perhaps she is from the Borgo del Ringo; Lilla doesn’t recognise her though.
Her nose is snotty from her snivelling and crying, and she stares at the ceiling as if imploring it to fall and envelope her. From her chest down, she is swathed in blood–soaked bandages and pieces of ripped clothing. Her chest rises and falls in rhythm and occasionally, her arms twitch with involuntary movements. She senses that she is being watched and though she inclines her head towards Lilla, it is painfully obvious from the way she has to look hard by the corners of her eyes, that she cannot move her head freely.
“It’s all right,” Lilla says, trying her best to inject her tone with some authority. “It’ll be all right, you’ll see.”
“Lilla?”
It is Pipo.
She lies back and turns her face towards him. “That girl; she’s frightened.”
“It is not a crime to be afraid,” he begins, “even to be afraid of dying. We are all afraid at some time or other and we are all afraid of different things.” A mournful soul, his eyes betray his greater sadness.
“How did you find me, zio Pipo?”
He looks down at the ground immediately in front of his feet: it is his signature. “I have been looking for you and when I came, I saw Mr
s Robertson.” He reaches out and lays his hands on her arm. His palms are hard and rough, as one would expect from a man whose days are spent hauling line and dragging nets, and yet they are gentle and soothing, like those of a father coddling his new–born.
“Zio Pipo…” Lilla begins, but then loses her way. Or maybe it is the words that get lost somewhere in her head, even if, given her emotional fragility, she knew what they were going to be.
She makes to speak, but Pipo raises his hand, palm outwards, towards her. “I know,” he says, “I know. The English woman wants you to go away with her; she has told me and asked for my blessing.” He quiets for a few seconds that seem to last for hours. The fisherman is thinking, a methodical process that she has known take days if not weeks. “I have given her my blessing and, because your father cannot be here, I have given her his, too. But Lilla, you must tell me if this is what you want.”
“Yes, it is. I think so, yes.”
Lowering his hand, Pipo inclines his head to present her with his ear, raises his eyebrow and juts out his chin in expectation, waiting for her to speak.
“Are you saying my father would want me to go? Are you telling me he would want me to take what I am offered? After all, apart from you and Concettina, I have no reason to stay.”
“We must all hope for a better future, Lilla, and this woman offers you that hope. Do you remember what your father used to say?”
“About hope? Yes, zio Pipo: he used to say that without hope a person drowns.”
“And this boy, Enzo Ruggeri, he offered you a similar hope.”
“You knew?” she says, as much an exclamation of surprise as a question.
“Yes, we knew, both your father and me. We discussed most things. Being out on the water for such long periods leads to such conversations: it presents one with time to think, to consider, and I think he wanted to know what I thought as much as he wanted to know his own mind.”
Lilla smiles, remembering. “He was up when I left and he caught me as I was leaving. We talked. He wanted me to go.”
“Not so,” Pipo disagrees. “He knew in his heart that he could not keep you with him for all time and he knew it would be wrong to prevent you from going.”
“Unlike Enzo’s parents,” she snaps, “who locked him in the cellar, sealing him in his grave.”
To draw her from her maudlin, Pipo says, “I did not know you had talked to your father that morning.”
“Yes, zio Pipo, we talked.” She looks up at him, her eyes wide, questioning and then softening as she realises that he needs to know just as much as she needs to remember. “He told me I would break my mother’s heart if I left.”
“And how did you reply?”
“I told him I would break mine if I didn’t. I told him I must go.” Lilla stares into her memory, reliving both the darkness and the light of it. “And he said, “Yes, my little angel, so go you must.” That was the last thing he said to me.”
Pipo smiles, a sad, reluctant, resigned smile, yet a smile not without its hope or promise. “Then go you must, Lilla, and you must go safe in the knowledge that should you ever return, Messina will be here, we will be here.”
Chapter 26
“Good morning, Lilla. How did you sleep?”
She rubs her eyes and yawns. “Not very well. Sorry, I didn’t mean to… What I meant was, I slept all right.” She stares at the empty cot across the way. “Where has the girl gone?”
“They’ve taken her to the sick bay in one of the Italian Battleships that came in this morning: the Marco Polo or the Napoli, I’m not sure which one. It’s probably where you would be going if it wasn’t for the fact that you’re coming with me.” Prudence studies Lilla’s face. She frowns. “Your leg? Painful is it?”
“No, it’s fine. Really.”
Her answer does not fool the English woman. “Now you listen to me, young lady, it’s all very well you wanting to tough it out and not complain, but I can see the pain in your eyes. So, when I ask you if your leg hurts, please do me the kindness of replying honestly. I’ll ask one more time? Is your leg painful? Come on, pipe up.”
Lilla looks down at her bandaged leg as though it is an unwanted bequest she has only recently inherited. “I’m afraid I was dreaming and must have banged it. It’s like a thousand bee stings all in one place and I don’t know what my foot is doing, I can’t feel my toes. But after seeing that girl,” she nods towards the empty cot, “I don’t know if it’s right for me to complain, and that’s part of the problem, because I don’t know what hurts the most my leg or thinking about leaving, and especially leaving Enzo all alone in the cold cellar and thinking someone who didn’t even know him might just bury him without knowing he’s there, I, I…” Her monologue increases in pace and pitch; a runaway tram destined to crash when it runs out of rail, “I don’t know if it’s right for me to leave him like this, Enzo and my parents, shouldn’t I be there to see them into their graves, surely they cannot have expected to leave for the next world without someone being there to say goodbye, I–”
“Steady on girl. Slow down for a minute.” Prudence raises her hand to Lilla’s forehead. “You’re running a temperature,” she ponders for a moment, “which probably means your leg is infected. I’ll go and ask for our good Dottore, see if he’s still here. Lie back for a while, there’s a good girl, and I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
Lilla does as she is told and she tries to be patient, like all the other patients; a model patient so that she might please Prudence in the same way she used to want to please her mother: she would have done anything and everything her mother ever asked and now she will never again have the chance to please her mother, because she–
“So, what is up with our little angel of the full moon today?” The doctor asks, resting his hand on her forehead in the same manner Prudence had only a minute or so before. “A fever, eh? Well, let’s have a look at your leg.” His kindly eyes seem to have recovered something of their inner warmth and wisdom; they seem restored.
Carefully, as though the bandage is holding together some fragile pottery, the doctor begins to peel it back.
Lilla winces.
“Oh, you should see how things have changed out there Lilla,” Prudence says. “It’s as though half the world has turned out to lend assistance. Why, it’s busier than Piccadilly on a Friday afternoon. You should see the Strait: all the coming and going. General Mazza has arrived to take charge; he’s declared martial law and says that by the end of the day he’ll have four thousand soldiers in the city.”
As Dottore Roselli teases the bandages away from Lilla’s calf, he too winces.
Prudence lays her arm on Lilla’s shoulder and tries to maintain eye contact with her. “HMS Minerva’s gone over to Reggio. HMS Exmouth has arrived with thirty thousand blankets and HMS Duncan, that’s another battleship, has put in: rumour has it she’s carrying 50 tons of corned beef and half as much flour and coffee. And the best part of it? The Red Cross have arrived to take over the aid station here in the Piazza Cairoli, and the Princess of Teano and the Princess d’ Antuni del Drago have chartered a ship in La Spezia, and with them they will bring more doctors and nurses.”
“Who is the Princess of Teano?” Lilla asks.
“Well, the Princess was born in England and not only is she a princess, she is also a Duchess, of Sermoneta.” Prudence smiles in her recollection. “She is a very beautiful woman, always the height of fashion, quite the toast of society in Rome; believe you me, any social engagement without her presence would simply not be worth attending.”
Lilla winces and raises her head, trying to see what the doctor is up to.
Prudence swiftly moves into her line of sight to distract her. “A great shame, though. Her son, Onorato, was born with considerable infirmities, poor fellow. And the Princess d’Antuni del Drago? Well, the good lady claims to have lost her child to a ghost. A strange co
ve she may be, but she is a formidable woman and I’m sure her presence will be much appreciated.”
They both hear the Dottore exhale as he removes the last of the bandage. “There is one part of the leg that has turned septic and there is one small area of necrotised flesh. I will have to excise this, clean it and dress it…” And with a practiced sweep of his hand, he removes his round glasses from his angular nose and fixes his patient with a steely glare. “This may be a little uncomfortable, Lilla. I’m afraid I don’t have any suitable anaesthetic with which to dull your pain.”
“I have a phial of chloral hydrate,” Prudence offers. “I brought it with me from the house at Isola Bella.”
Chewing one arm of his glasses, the doctor considers. “Alright, but just a few drops in a glass of water. I don’t want our little angel of the full moon unconscious; only her reaction will alert me to when I am in danger of removing any flesh that is healthy.”
Prudence steps back and begins to rummage in her purse. “Is there anything we can do to stop the infection recurring?”
Dottore Roselli ignores her question as he searches Lilla’s face for the slightest symptom of septic shock. “How do you feel, Lilla?”
She wilts beneath his examination before summoning what is left of her depleted reserves: “I’m fine. Really, I’m fine. I’m just a little tired.”
“Not too confused.”
“No, I understand what you’re saying.”
He lifts her hand and feels at her wrist, checking her pulse. “Do you feel dizzy? Can you sit up, if I ask?”
“Yes.”
She makes to, but before she can do so, with his free hand the doctor eases her back down.
When he is satisfied her pulse is not racing, he says, “Good. Good girl. I will be as gentle as I can be in this ridiculous light.” He pauses, turning to address Prudence. “And afterwards, the best you can do for Lilla is to take her away from this city. Get her out of here. In this crude apology for a hospital, infection breathes the same air as the patients. Now, I will go and sterilize the necessary surgical instruments and come back as soon as they are ready. Be strong for a while longer, Lilla.”
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