“Saved your life? How?”
“Because by December, the Duca d’Aosta Division was all but wiped out and very few of those I had commanded returned from Russia. Now, the division no longer exists; it has been disbanded. So, I lived and my demotion ensured I would at least never have to face such a situation again. Perhaps I am a coward, just like the man who was shot. Who knows? Only me, eh?”
“Oh Aldo,” Mira slides across the seat and rests her head on his shoulder, “I am so sorry. So very sorry for asking you without thinking that my asking might bring a terrible memory to life, and so very sorry because that is exactly what I have done.”
When they park up at the top of the alley which leads down to the house, the combination of her guilt at making him recall unpleasant events and his guilt at having survived, have elicited a sombre mood and not one suited to romantic parting. Nevertheless, Aldo puts his arm around her and with his other hand he encourages her face towards his. “Mira,” he says, lightening and softening his tone, “one has no way of knowing what the immediate future holds, which is why it is important for me to make you aware of my feelings for you. So please, just listen to what I have to say.”
She shrinks away from his embrace, chuckling. “Aldo, you are so very formal, I–”
He puts his fingers to her lips. “Ssh, Mira, just listen, please.” Tenente Aldo de la Grascia assembles the ranks of his sentiment. “Mira, I have never met anyone quite like you: you are not only beautiful, but you are also clever and passionate and tender and headstrong and… and when I think of you I understand that you possess all the very wonderful attributes a man could ask for in a woman. The fact that you have been married only increases my love for you, for you have already loved and lost and so you know what love means: you know the value of love and you know how very transient and cursory love can be if one does not hold onto it with every fibre of one’s being. Mira you stir in me emotions I have never felt before and for all of this, I love you and would very much like you to be by my side for however much time it is that we have left.”
Though it is dark in the car and she cannot read the earnest intention in his expression, the weight of his affection is palpable; it is like a smothering blanket which threatens to suffocate her. “Aldo, I–”
“Please, Mira, please let me kiss you. Let me show you how much I love you. Let me–”
She shrinks even further away from him, so much so that she presses up against the door. “No, Aldo. No, I can’t. Please, don’t think me mean or that I don’t appreciate the way you feel and all you have done for me, and please, please believe me when I say I like being with you and that I have enjoyed our evening. If things were different, who knows, perhaps I would grow to love you. Now though, right at this moment, I find my own emotions confusing enough without you adding to them. Can we not just be friends? Can we not simply enjoy each other’s company while we have the chance? Is that too much to ask in these dreadful times?”
In the same way that before she could feel the weight of his affection without seeing him, now she perceives him withdrawing from her. Aldo detaches and diminishes: his ardour, his fervour fading like a tide that laps at the shore only to find it tastes sour.
“No, Mira,” he whispers, taking his time, “though it is not how I would like you to feel, this is not too much to ask. How can it be in the face of all this madness? But tell me, please, be honest with me, is it because there is someone else in your life? Is there another man who is more deserving of your affection than me, because if there is, he must love you very deeply? And if there is, please tell me and I will respect both you and this man, and leave you in peace. Sad though this would make me, it would at least provide me with reason and that would be of some small comfort to me.”
Mira replaces her hand on his arm, which she strokes, tenderly. “No, Aldo, there is no other man in my life. I am sorry to disappoint you; there is no one, no one at all.”
Chapter 18
“Your father,” Nicholas murmurs, from up on the bed, “when he said that if it had not been for his stubborn streak, you would never have been born, what did he mean by that?”
First light is creeping into the room; not with sufficient strength to cast a shadow, but with enough promise for her to know that a bright sun will soon follow.
“You could hear us, eh, Nicholas,” she replies, from down on the floor.
“Actually, at the time, I was thinking that it was impossible not to hear you. I guess I was paying more attention to your argument about what you thought best for me. It was only afterwards when you had come to your conclusion, that what he said stuck with me. Oh, and by the way, if you want to turf me out and leave me to the Germans, I won’t hold it against you. I realise that my being here puts all of you at enormous risk. Last Sunday, when you were out at church, I very nearly got up and walked out.”
“Why didn’t you?” she asks, loading her tone with a barrel of humour.
“I didn’t because when I lifted my legs off the bed, I didn’t think I could trust them to get me as far as the door and I couldn’t bear the thought of you coming back to find me like a beached whale on the floor of your bedroom. A bit selfish of me, maybe, but I thought I’d probably cause you more trouble than I might save.”
“A whale, eh? More like an emaciated donkey, if you ask me. It’s time for you to drink and take some more pills.” Mira gets up and it is not until she is standing that she is aware of her nakedness. To have slept clothed in such temperature would have led her to perspire much as her patient perspires and because of his inability to see, there would be little point in enduring the heat only to preserve an unnecessary modesty. Nevertheless, she slips on a dress and taking the tin from the side–table and removing two pills, she places them in his hand. When he has put them in his mouth, she raises the glass and holds the tube to his mouth.
“Thank you,” he mumbles as he swallows. “When this is all over, Mira, you must let me thank this friend of yours. He must be a regular fellow.”
“He is. He is too much of a regular fellow. He is a gentleman and, in some ways, far too much of a gentleman.” She pauses, reflecting, passing judgement, regretting a little. “He makes it too easy for me.”
“Makes what too easy?”
Mira hesitates, then, “You asked me about my father’s stubborn streak, Nicholas. Would you like me to tell you?”
“Please. Why do you think he is so stubborn?”
“You mean, so stubborn in wanting to save you or more so. Well, many years before I was born there came a great tragedy to Messina; a great earthquake that devastated the city and trapped my father in the cellar of his parent’s house. He lay for many days in the ruins but, fortunately for him, in one of the aftershocks the beam pinning his legs moved and he was able to free himself. Because of the time he had been pinned beneath the beam, his legs would not work and, as a result, he had to drag himself for a long way over broken ground to seek help. It is why his hands are so scarred and why he walks awkwardly. You know, sometimes in the winter he finds it painful to get out of his bed and how he manages to go fishing, mama and I will never understand. He never complains though. Never. Not once have I heard him utter a word that suggests he is anything other than grateful for the good fortune he received in being spared.”
“I believe,” he says, “that many died. My mother kept newspaper cuttings of the period. I never understood her fascination with the earthquake and whenever I asked her why, she always changed the conversation. I have read some of the cuttings, it must have been terrible.”
“It was, yes. So many died, thousands or perhaps tens of thousands, nobody really knows. Many people were never given the same chance as my father. So, when he says that if it was not for his stubborn streak I would not have been born, he is really saying that I should not question his judgement, because without his spirit, his belief and his will, he would not have lived to gran
t me the gift of life.”
“And his parents died, in the earthquake?”
“Yes, and his brother and two sisters. All of them. His father was a wealthy man, or if not wealthy then well–to–do; they lived in a grand house in the Via dei Templari. It is not there now and, if it was, the air raids would probably have destroyed what was left of it just as they have destroyed much of Messina that was rebuilt after the earthquake. He may be a fisherman, my father, and most people think fishermen are simple because they take pleasure in simple things, but he is an educated man; it was my father who taught me to read and write, and not many daughters of fishermen are provided with such luxuries. And rather than allow my mother to teach me to sew pretty patterns on lace, he encouraged me to think and believe in myself, something I am sure he often regrets.”
“Why? How could thinking for yourself be bad?”
“Because that is what lies at the heart of our arguments. In teaching me to think for myself, he showed me that it is better to question than simply to do what we are told. That, in the eyes of many, makes him look weak and makes me appear ungovernable. That goes against not just the Sicilian way, but the way of the world.”
“The world is changing, Mira.”
“You think so?”
“Yes, in many ways and I am sure it is only a matter of time before all women will be educated. Mira, if your father was from a wealthy family, why did he become a fisherman?”
“What else was there for him to do? The earthquake not only killed his family, it took away from him everything he had, everything he knew. In the time it takes to recite the mysteries of the rosary, the way of life for people in the city was altered beyond their recognition and to provide, many took to whatever work they could find. My father became a fisherman and besides, whenever I have asked him if he wishes his life was otherwise, he always says, “Why wish it was otherwise, when it is how it is. Be thankful.””
The light in the small room is sharper now. The imperfections of its crude yet substantial construction grinning through from behind the layers of white–washed plaster, reminding her of all that her father has worked so hard over so many years to build up.
“Your father is a strange man, Mira.”
“What makes you say that, Nicholas? Strange, in what way?”
He lifts his arm and reaches up to find hers, then, gripping her forearm with an intensity born of his heightened temperature, he replies, his voice challenged, his pronunciation laboured as though an invisible force attempts to subdue him. “I don’t mean to offend and I didn’t mean he is strange in a poor way. What I meant was, he seems to want to sit beside my bed much of the time; he seems to want to talk. To me, a stranger.”
“It is difficult if not dangerous for him to fish right now. He cannot venture far out into the Strait and so his catch is limited to the little fishes.”
“No, it’s not that. He asks me about my life, my upbringing and my parents, particularly about my mother. He keeps asking me why I speak Italian with such a Sicilian accent, why I understand words that he says only a Messinese would know.”
“And what do you tell him?”
He thinks for a moment, clearly trying to find an answer that will satisfy her in the same way that he so evidently cannot find one with which to satisfy her father. Eventually, his effort and his patience are exhausted. “I don’t know, Mira. I didn’t know my Italian was so like yours until he explained the differences to me.”
“It is true, Nicholas, you speak like we do. You must admit that is unusual.”
“And my signet ring. He insists on examining it. It holds a kind of fascination for him and every time he sits with me, he asks to hold my hand so he can look at it. Why is that?”
Mira picks up a piece of cloth, dips it in the water of the jug beside the bed and wipes the sweat from his brow. “Perhaps it is time for you to cease talking. Perhaps you should rest and save your questions for when you have more strength.”
“Sure, you’re probably right, Mira. I’m sorry, I guess this fever makes my mind wander.”
“Quiet, Nicholas. Listen.”
“What can you hear?”
“Quiet,” she insists. “There are men, shouting.”
Mira stands, opens the door and steps into the front room.
Her father appears, hastily tucking his shirt into his trousers. “You can hear it, too, eh?”
“Yes, papà. What is going on?”
Together, they go outside and stand to look up and down the water’s edge.
“It is coming from the village,” he says. “Soldiers. Italian and German. Stay here, I will go and see.” He walks away around the side of the house and it isn’t long before he comes back. “They are searching the houses. They are looking for someone. Deserters, I think.”
Sure enough, a patrol spills out from between the houses just a few doors down. Mira spots Aldo in the company of a German officer and several soldiers. They are knocking on the doors and walking inside in a manner that suggests they are not waiting to be invited.
Mira and her father watch and wait as they come back out and move to the next house, coming ever closer.
“What will we do, papà?”
“I don’t know, Mira. What can we do?” Enzo briefly chews his knuckle. Then he turns to her, “It is too late to move Nicholas. Without his sight, he will never be able to run fast enough to get away from them and they probably have the area surrounded. Go inside. Think of something. I don’t know what, but use your imagination. I will try to stop them.”
“Papà?”
“Yes, Mira,
“Be careful of the one with eyes close together. His blood would pale obsidian.”
Mira turns back into the house, past her mother, who stands fiddling with her apron, a look of abject fear written large in her expression. “Mama, put some water on to boil, find the last of the coffee. And for our sake, try not to look as though you’ve just stepped out of the confessional. Look anything, but don’t look guilty.”
In her room, her patient is agitated, he turns his head from side to side, straining to listen. “What’s going on, Mira?”
“Exactly what we feared; they are conducting a search.”
“Then help me up. I must get out of your house. If they find me here, they will shoot all of you.”
“No, Nicholas. You will never make it to the end of the path. Stay still, I am thinking.”
He tries to lever himself upright, but only makes it as far as his elbows. “Now look, Mira, I must get out. I must, you have no right to–”
“Lie back down,” she orders. “Lie still. I know this will not be easy, but try to relax, I am going to get into bed with you.” Mira shrugs off her dress and, pulling aside the sheet, lies down beside him. Trying her best in the narrow bed not to lean too heavily against his still broken skin, she drapes herself around him.
He winces.
“I’m sorry,” she replies.
“Don’t be,” he whispers, grinning through his blindness, “that’s a pain I’m quite happy to put up with.”
“Be quiet, you fool. And remember, if anyone asks your name, it is Carlo. Remember. If you can only hold onto one thought, it is that your name is Carlo and you are my husband.”
They hear voices at the front door.
“Ah, Tenente de la Grascia, what brings you to our house so early on a Wednesday morning? You would like to go fishing, perhaps?”
“No, Signor Ruggeri, I wish I had the time; however, we have a report that one of my men, a deserter, is being sheltered by a family and so we are searching all the houses in the village. Please stand aside.”
“Now, Tenente. It may have slipped your memory, but have you not already enjoyed our hospitality. You are welcome to return, of course, but at a more social hour. My wife is not yet dressed to receive visitors and my daughter is n
ot yet awake. Would it not be better for you to come back in, say, an hour or two?”
Francesca appears in the doorway to Mira’s room and the contortions of her face reveal that the spectacle which greets her is quite possibly the last she had expected to see.
“Mama, get out,” Mira hisses. “Go in the front room this instant.”
Her mother closes the door.
The discussion outside the front door continues.
“Ah,” they hear Enzo say, “if my nose is not mistaken, I believe my wife may have prepared coffee. Would you and this German officer like to share in a cup? I am sad to say it is not real coffee. After all, how could a poor fisherman like me afford a cup of real coffee? And even if I could afford it, where would I be able to buy it, eh?”
“No, no coffee, thank you. Please though, stand aside while we search the premises.”
“Come now, Tenente, why would I be inclined to provide shelter to a man who absolves himself from his obligations? A soldier is a soldier and I am a fisherman. The duty of a fisherman is to go fishing. What would the hungry say if I did not provide them with fish simply because I thought the waters a little intimidating? Surely, one would say the same of a soldier who refused to pick up his gun simply because it makes a loud noise, if you see what I mean.”
Reminded of what Aldo had told her the evening before about his refusal to shoot a soldier who deserted his post, Mira winces.
“Quite possibly, yes. Now, please? If you don’t mind?”
A German voice and, judging by the tone, an order. A rifle is slowly cocked.
Constant Tides Page 29