Constant Tides

by Peter Crawley

  “He is a captive audience.”

  “That is unkind of you, mama. I believe he would want to listen to me just as well as if we were out at passeggio. And the curious thing is, I enjoy listening to him too. He talks about his sister in the same way I hear myself talking about young Maria. In spite of the fact that he is lying in my bed all bloodied and bandaged, when I talk with him, I forget all about this terrible war.”

  The German soldiers walk idly, lingering only to strain their backs as they peer into the rowboats raised high on wooden blocks, or crouching down as they inspect the bowels of an upturned hull to satisfy themselves no one is lurking within.

  Francesca fidgets. “You want to save this Englishman; that is only natural and I understand that. But are you trying to save this Englishman to make up for not being able to save Carlo? You must console yourself, Mira, some things in life are not ours to decide.”

  “You think this Englishman has replaced Carlo in my affections?” Mira’s tone, though, suggests she is not offended by her mother’s very personal observation. “I think you should ask papà this question. He seems to want to save this Englishman more than me. Papà just sits silently and watches him. He appears to communicate with Nicholas without saying anything, as though through his energy he is willing him to recover. And I shouldn’t have to remind you, mama, it was papà who decided to keep Nicholas here in the first place. He could have sent him away to the hills or to the hospital in Messina where he would probably have been safer; but no, he wanted to keep him here, where he can watch over him. And now, with all these,” she nods in the direction of the approaching patrol, “it is too late to send him away.”

  The German soldiers notice them and they turn away, pretending to look out over the Strait and discuss the splendour of the view.

  “Mira, cover your legs,” Francesca whispers.

  She does so, pulling down her black skirt so that not even her ankles show. However, Mira then sits upright, squares her shoulders and makes no effort to veil the fullness of her breasts.

  Her show of defiance is not lost on the soldiers, and a couple pause to stare unashamedly before being pulled away by their comrades. The men slope off, removing their helmets and wiping the sweat from their brows as they boast about what might have been.

  “And the Tenente?” Francesca asks.

  “What about the Tenente?” Mira replies, pulling her skirt back up above her knees, allowing the warmth of the breeze to play at her bare calves.

  “Nothing, I just thought I detected a certain attraction. He is very charming and he possesses a certain refinement that one does not often see; his uniform fits him as well as any and his manners are, well, perfect.”

  “Aldo,” Mira permits her mouth to toy with his name. “Yes, mama, he is both charming and refined, and perhaps too much of both. He thinks I am the same; at least he wants to think I can be the same. No, mama, Tenente de la Grascia would like me to be a person I cannot be and when he realises I am not, he will only try to make me into that person. And besides, I am too plainspoken and he is too fond of his food; the two do not go together.”

  “Try to be kind to him,” Francesca says, as though Mira stands over the lieutenant with a sharpened axe.

  “I will, mama. And I think that is all he asks for: a little kindness amongst all this cruelty.”

  They sit in contemplative silence and with the gleaming sun near its zenith, they cast their dreams upon the restless waters and bask in the tail end of the Sciroccu.

  Before long, their silence is broken by a low droning noise from the south.

  They shade their eyes.

  “An aeroplane,” Mira says.

  Labouring up the Strait, not more than a tall mast’s height above the water, comes a dull grey–green aircraft, trailing a thick line of black smoke from one of its three engines. Pitching up one moment, then hanging in the air for a few seconds before nosing down again, it is clearly struggling against the forces of gravity, the low droning noise of its effort interrupted every now and again by a crackling and popping.

  Francesca and Mira watch as the aeroplane is drawn lower and lower, and as it passes them, they catch sight of a man standing in the rear door, looking down nervously at the blue waters.

  The aeroplane groans and moans, like a cow knowing it is being dragged to slaughter. It lurches and stalls, and slips and slides, making its way clumsily up into and out of the neck of the Strait, before dipping to surrender the last of its lift.

  The aeroplane, now one wing up and the other down, veers in a perfect arc away from them towards the unforgiving lump of rock, below which nestles the village of Scylla.

  Deciding to take his chance to live rather than die in the collision that must now happen, the man hurls himself from the door, drops like a stone and makes a small white splash as he lands. A second later, one wingtip touches the surface and the aeroplane spins round, cartwheeling violently end over end before folding in half and breaking up as it crashes into the water.

  Though a kilometre or so distant and the noise of the impact strangely muted, the shock of it causes both women to gasp.

  Debris litters the water. Smoke plumes from the wreckage. Men, though only a few, bob about, their arms flailing as they try to stay afloat.

  Within a very short time, the sea claims them: the only testament to their existence, to the lives they have left behind, evident in the smoke that palls as it would from a funeral pyre.

  “Cruelty!” Mira whispers. “Such cruelty.”

  Chapter 14

  Enzo joins them as they file between the tall columns, and when they take their customary seat, he leans first one way and then the other, as though he is searching for someone.

  Francesca frowns and chides him for his fidgeting.

  At the last moment, and as seems to be his custom since he has become a regular at Mira’s church, Tenente de la Grascia enters.

  From her pew, she loses her thoughts in the painting of Father Francesco welcoming his flock to the newly built Parrocchia San Nicolò di Bari. His gold robes and prescription glasses, a pair of which one of his altar boys also wears, appear strikingly out of place with the primeval simplicity of the bay behind him. But then, she notices the steamship making its way through the Strait in the background and the pall of smoke rising from its funnel, and she prays for the men who must have died when the aeroplane broke upon that same primeval simplicity.

  A growing tide of whispers breathes through the congregation.

  Mira looks up. The figurines of Jesus, the statue of the Madonna, the cherubs, they are murmuring, they are whispering. Words are being passed back and forth and along the pews. Looks are exchanged and glows of excitement spread like wildfire.

  Something is going on. Something important. Something momentous.

  A senior altar boy interrupts Father Antonio. He cups his ear and stands back in surprise, then hurries through the rest of communion as though he is late for supper.

  The congregation file out promptly and swiftly, to be greeted on the steps by cheers of joy and jubilation.

  “Fascism is dead!” one shouts.

  “The war is over!” shouts another.

  “Our boys are coming home!”

  A woman screams and faints into the arms of an old man. Coppolas and other flat caps are thrown high in the air. Families embrace. Mothers cry and grandfathers lift up their grandchildren and hug and kiss them.

  Mira looks questioningly at her father.

  “Yes,” he says, his expression radiant as that of a first–time father, “Mussolini has been dismissed by King Victor.”

  Leaving her mother and father to their celebrations, Mira seeks out de la Grascia, who is besieged by people eager for more detailed news.

  The Tenente extricates himself from the crowd and walks away beyond the apron of the church.

  �
�Is it true?” Mira asks, when she finally catches up. “Is the war really over?”

  His expression, though, does not match the general euphoria. “No, the war is not over, not yet. This may be the start, but it is only the start. However, I do believe the end is now absolutely inevitable and at last the question is no longer how many months, but how many weeks?”

  “But what is the situation? Are we about to be liberated by the British and Americans?”

  De la Grascia removes his cap and mops his brow with a handkerchief. “The Americans have taken Palermo and Enna, and the British and Canadians occupy the southern slopes of Mount Etna. It is only a matter of time before the Germans realise they are losing the island.”

  “And what about our troops, will they continue to fight?”

  “King Victor Emmanuel has appointed that sycophant Badoglio premier. Like Il Duce, Badoglio is a Fascist, so for the moment we will continue to resist even though our troops no longer have a stomach for the fight. The greater danger does not come from the British or Americans, though; it comes from the Germans. They will hate us for deserting them and before they leave, they will be sure to let us know it.”

  The promise in his tone frightens her and Mira reaches out and takes his arm. “And you, Aldo? Will you be safe? What can I do? Is there anything I can do to help you? To help you be safe?”

  His previously grave expression wilts and he smiles and studies her face, perhaps wanting to gauge the depth of her concern. “No, my angel, there is nothing you can do. For now, there is nothing any of us can do except wait and see.” Pausing to enjoy the tenderness with which she views him, de la Grascia moves closer to Mira and kisses her softly on her cheek. Then his grim countenance returns and his limbs stiffen beneath her touch.

  “You recall last Sunday that I told you many of our troops are deserting?”

  “Yes, Aldo, I remember. What of them?”

  “Well, one of my men has gone missing. That in itself is not so much of a problem; I expect more of them to do the same before the end. The problem is that this man let slip to Comune Simone that he knows people in this village and that he expected them to hide him.”

  “That isn’t good, is it, Aldo? What does Comune Simone expect you to do: you cannot keep all the men at the Battery?”

  “What he cannot resist telling me is that it is my duty to conduct a house–to–house search of the village.” He watches for her reaction.

  Mira, though, is prepared for the test and adopts a face as straight as any she has assumed when playing cards with her father. “I see,” is all she says.

  A smile flickers in his face. “Now, normally I would accede to this demand: but, given Il Duce’s dismissal and the fact that many of us expect the King to sue for peace in the coming weeks, I will ignore his persistence. This I can manage for a time, but only for a time. How long, I am not sure. If he squeals to the Germans, who as you have no doubt noticed are now here in abundance, they may insist on a search. And if that happens, I will no longer be the master of my destiny or, for that matter, that of anyone who might be hiding a deserter.” He frowns to drive home the gravity of his point. “Again, Mira, as I cautioned you last week: if any of your neighbours need to attend to their laundry, now is the time for them to do so. Am I making myself clear?”

  “Yes, Aldo, perfectly.”

  “Good,” he states, in a manner she believes would not be too dissimilar from how he would congratulate a private on having all his buttons correctly fastened. “Now, I would like to see you tomorrow, if you can spare me the time.”

  Mira smiles to let him know she would like to, as opposed to the reason she is about to provide. “The café is closed: what else do I have to do?”

  “Good,” he repeats. “I will call for you at six.”

  “Aldo?”

  “Yes, Signora Alberti, what can a humble Tenente do for his angel?”

  “I need some sulfa pills; not the ointment that you very kindly supplied. Would it be possible for you to bring some of the pills? You remember the boy who received those burns? Well, he has an infection and the doctor says that if he is to save the boy, he needs a supply of sulfa pills.”

  Whereas before she had asked, his eyes were bright and lively, now they dim and his hesitation suggests he wishes she had not done so. He stares at her for longer than she would like and eventually the Tenente reaches a conclusion that quite clearly conflicts him.

  “I will try. I cannot promise, but I will try. Tomorrow then.” De la Grascia bows, kisses the back of her hand rather than her cheek as he had a minute or so before, and marches away towards the Fiat, where Comune Simone watches from the driver’s seat.

  Mira, too, walks away, aware that though she may have held her nerve, there is no doubt he has seen through her.

  Chapter 15

  “Mira?”

  Silence.

  “Mira?”

  A rustling of cloth.

  “Yes, Nicholas, I am here. Please, not so loud, you will wake papà. What is the matter?”

  “You were talking in your sleep,” he says.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I did not mean to wake you.”

  “You didn’t; I was awake. I was listening to your breathing and you started talking.”

  Mira gets up and sits on the side of the bed. She lights a candle and holding it up, she looks him over: his forehead glistens and his bedclothes are soaked with his sweat. “I must change your sheets. How do you feel?”

  “Cold.”

  “Come, sit up. I will give you mine; they are dry.”

  With her help, he obliges. “What about you? Won’t you be cold?”

  “No, Nicholas, the night is hot and it is certainly hot enough in here: it is this infection you have; it is raising your temperature and that is why you feel cold.” Mira draws the wet sheet down. “Now, as before, lift your hips.” She slides it out from beneath him and throws it in the corner. Mira wipes him down and as she folds her dry sheet in place, she asks, “And what was I saying… in my sleep?”

  “You were calling out a name.”

  “And what name was that, Nicholas? Was I calling for Il Duce, the Pope, for the King or for Maria perhaps?”

  “No. Carlo or perhaps Cola was what you kept saying. Over and over, you were calling for someone.”

  “Now, lift up once more. Yes. Good. Now sit up again. That’s right. Now, lie back.” She floats a second sheet into the air above him and allows it to settle gently against his skin.

  “Nicholas,” she says, dreamily.

  “Yes.”

  “No. I meant that your name is Nicholas. In Italian this can be read as Nicola, the short form of which is Cola. Do you know our legend of Colapesce?”

  “No. Please, tell me.”

  Returning to the edge of the bed, Mira sits again, though she is careful not to sit so close that her body heat adds to his. “Yes, I will. But afterwards you must promise me to sleep, eh?”

  “You sound like my mother,” he chuckles.

  “Well, perhaps for the moment I am. Now be quiet.” She pauses, thinking. “Nicola was the handsome son of a fisherman, a young boy who it was said could swim like a fish. He would dive deep into the waters of the Strait and on his return, he would so delight people with his stories of all the wonders he had seen that he became famous throughout the land. Soon enough, his tales drew the attention of the one–eyed King Frederic, who was… let us say, a little doubting of young Cola’s abilities. So, the king decided to test Cola and threw his cup down into the waters of the Strait and bid the boy fetch it back, which he did very quickly. The king then threw his crown into the water and bid Cola fetch it back too, which again he did very quickly. For the final test, the king threw his gold ring into the deepest water and bid Cola recover it. But from this final test, the boy never returned. It is said young Cola dived so deep that he disco
vered our island was supported on three columns and that because one of the columns was damaged, our island was sinking. The legend says that Cola considered taking the ring and returning to the surface, but realised he couldn’t leave Sicily to sink, so he replaced the column with his own form and even today he still stands beneath our island supporting it on his shoulders.”

  “Colapesce? Still down there?”

  “Yes, our Nicola of the fish.”

  Nicholas giggles, just as he had when his mother had told him stories at bedtime. “Mira, do you think I am Cola returned from the deep?”

  “No. No, I don’t. Besides, Cola was beautiful and right now you are far from beautiful.”

  He winces. “Sorry to disappoint.”

  “No need to apologise, Nicholas; the way you look right now is certainly no fault of yours and I am not looking for another Cola in my life.”

  “Perhaps it was Carlo you said and not Cola. Who is Carlo?”

  “You mean, who was he? Well, Carlo Alberti was my husband.”

  “Oh, yes. Signora Alberti, I remember now. You told me about him. You just didn’t tell me his name.”

  Mira sighs and remains silent for a while.

  “Sorry, I’m being nosey again,” he says.

  “Oh, don’t worry, Nicholas. I realise it must be difficult for you to lie in this bed for so long with nothing to do. With good luck, you won’t have to be here much longer.”

  “How so? How do you know?”

  Mira relates all Tenente de la Grascia’s news of Mussolini’s dismissal and the allied advance, and she can feel through the bed the tension rising in his limbs as he listens.

  “He is your friend, this lieutenant? He brings good news. For me at least.”