Constant Tides

by Peter Crawley

  “No, Mira, the thought had not crossed my mind at that time.”

  “So, why are you not surprised now?”

  His expression softens. “Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps it is that you appeal to my vanity. For us men, it is our weakest point, our Achilles heel.”

  “In what way? How? When did I do that?”

  “When you allowed me to find you in bed with the Englishman. That was when my vanity spoke to me. “Aldo de la Grascia,” it said, “you are not such a poor judge of character that you would allow yourself to love a woman who would behave in such a manner.” You see, I knew you allowed yourself to be found ‘in flagrante delicto’ for the sole purpose of protecting this Englishman and the lives of your parents, and I know you feel enough for me not to have done that simply to upset me.” He hunches his shoulders and splays his arm, a gesture of adjuration. “Mira, only the woman I have set my heart on would have the courage to do this, and a woman of such courage would not think twice about killing a man like Comune Simone, especially if she thought that by doing so she was protecting those closest to her, including me.”

  “But I had little choice,” she pleads.

  “Mira. My Mira,” he says, his voice filled with tenderness. “Then if you need my blessing, why don’t you explain to me how it happened that you were not intent upon killing him? You had more than sufficient motivation.”

  “I did not go with the intention of killing him: you must believe me. I thought that I might be able to persuade him not to give Nicholas away to the Germans. I thought I might… Oh, does it matter why?”

  Briefly, Aldo closes his eyes in pain. “Yes, Mira, it matters to me.”

  Mira breathes deep. “I went to the entrance to the battery just after midnight. I wanted to talk to Comune Simone; to convince him of the error of his fascist ways; to drag him out from beneath the same clouds the Duce cast over my husband.” She looks at Aldo, pleading with her eyes. “Unfortunately, you were right: he was a diehard… what was it? Ah, yes, a Sansepolcrista. He knew only one way and that was to obey his prophet; he told me I should do the same. He said that I should heed the words of the Duce and that if I did not, he would teach me a lesson I would never forget. He grabbed me. He tried to force me to do something a woman does not do unless she loves a man. What a fool he was to mess with a fisherman’s daughter, eh?” Mira scoffs, then falls silent for a moment, remembering.

  “I knew then that he needed to die and if not me, then who? So, I led him on and then stabbed him through his heart.” Mira looks at Aldo, saddened that she has had to describe her act to him.

  “And you did not mutilate him?”

  “No, this morning I asked my mother if she had heard me leave the house last Sunday night. She said both she and my father heard me, and that soon after I left, my father left to follow me. He must have seen what happened, what I did, and then waited. After that, he must have cut out the comune’s tongue. He must have done it in the hope that no one, not even you, would believe I could have done such a terrible thing.”

  Aldo grimaces. “Oh, Mira. I knew it. I didn’t want to believe it, but I knew it from the look on your face when your father… Oh, Mira.”

  “Do you see, Aldo? My father is innocent and now I have only made the whole situation worse. Please, Aldo, please think of what you can do to free him?”

  Two old men approach them. The taller of the two looks tired and his fine features haggard and drawn, as though he has been dried out by the summer’s heat. A shorter, older man clings to his arm. He wears black trousers and a black jacket, a white shirt buttoned but without collar and a grey waistcoat with a watch chain.

  Mira shuts her eyes for a second and steels herself. “Tenente de la Grascia,” she says, almost casually, as if she and Aldo have been discussing nothing more trivial than the weather, “I don’t believe you have met Dottore Roselli. And this is Pipo Sorbello, my father’s old friend.”

  Aldo straightens his back and bows. “Gentlemen, Signor Ruggeri has talked of you both.”

  Glancing very briefly at the Tenente, Pipo removes his cap and taking Mira’s hand, he kisses it slowly, fondly, before raising his bald head and appraising her with rheumy eyes. “Mira, how is…”

  “Pipo, I’m sure Dottore Roselli can give you a more accurate appraisal of his health. However, and taking into account the extent of his injuries when first he arrived, he is as well as can be expected.”

  Pipo affords the Tenente a second glance, this one longer and designed to let Mira know he is suspicious of the man in uniform.

  She smiles, albeit politely. “It’s all right, Pipo, Aldo knows our guest; my father has explained everything to the Tenente. Despite what people may think or whisper behind his back, Aldo is one of us. You can talk freely.”

  “Good, then I will try,” he replies. “I gather it is uncertain whether or not this young man will regain his sight.”

  Dottore Roselli bridles his lips: the matter is obviously of some conjecture.

  “I also gather this young man is the son of Lilla Lunapiena. Can it be true?”

  Mira puts her hand on the old man’s shoulder and bends to answer his question. “My father says it is him. His mother’s name is Lilla and the young man wears the signet ring of the Templars that once belonged to my father. He also knows of the lady, Mrs Robertson, who took Lilla to England after the earthquake.”

  Pipo smiles, “So, her son has returned. Nino would have been so pleased to hear this news: he so loved his daughter. Now, before Dottore Roselli tells me I will exhaust myself if I keep talking; if you will permit me, I have a few questions. Mira, would it be in order if I came to see this young man?”

  “Of course, Pipo,” Mira replies, “I’m sure he would be both pleased and interested to meet his mother’s godfather. But as I’m sure you have witnessed, the Americans are bombing the beaches and the Germans are busy loading and unloading the barges. They don’t take kindly to people who get in their way and our house is far from safe. Perhaps it would be best if you came late afternoon.”

  “Good, I would like that.” Then the pleasure falls from his expression and his face hardens to resemble the surface of the Strait when storm clouds lock out the light. He turns to Aldo, “Tenente de la Grascia, what news do you have for us? Now that Enzo is no longer here to relay what you have been telling him, perhaps you would inform us.”

  “Naturally, Signor Sorbello, with pleasure. As far as I know, Generale Guzzoni has accused General Hube of lying to him. He says the Germans are already evacuating the island and as you can see,” a convoy of German armoured vehicles roars by towards the beach, silencing him for a minute, “his accusations are well–founded. We therefore expect Generale Guzzoni to order the evacuation of all Italian forces to Calabria by the end of tomorrow. Catania, Troina and Adrano are now in enemy hands and it will not be long before the Americans find a way around the defensive line on the north coast. Once General Guzzoni departs for Calabria, what is left of the Livorno and Assieta divisions will follow.”

  Pipo sniffs. “You mean that once he has run across the Strait to save his own skin, he no longer gives a shit what happens here. What about you? What will happen to you?”

  De la Grascia winces. “That, Signor Sorbello, is for my superiors to decide.”

  “Mm,” the old man mumbles. “Superiors, eh? Superior fools, no less. Tenente, I have been told that you are a well–educated and principled man. If that is the case, how do you explain your part in bringing death and ruination into our midst? You may know that thirty–five years ago, our lives were turned upside down by the capricious forces of nature; a happening no man could either have foreseen or denied. But now, because of one man, a devil whose right hand you and many others became, we are faced with the same upheaval. Please, for the benefit of a simple and easily confused old fisherman, how do you have the temerity to wear this uniform?”

 
; Dottore Roselli and Mira look on as Pipo stares and waits.

  Aldo chews his lip in thought, then raises his left hand as if partially surrendering. “Signor Sorbello, I have asked myself the same question many times.”

  “That is not an answer,” Pipo replies, his thunder summoned. “If I may be so rude as to point out, that is an abrogation of your responsibility, an excuse for your shortcomings. That is the answer of a man who has stood by while others commit crimes.” He pauses, eyeing the lieutenant. “Mira tells me that you are also an intelligent man: if that is the case, surely you must have some grasp of what is right and what is wrong?”

  “Oh yes, Signor Sorbello,” the sharp blade of a scaling knife scratches at his skin, “I do have a considerable grasp of what is right and what is wrong.” He frowns at Mira.

  Pipo, though, is not finished. “Then I must appeal to your understanding and ask you what are you going to do about fetching Enzo back from the city? That is assuming there will be enough city left for him to be fetched from once the Americans have done their best to destroy it.”

  “As soon as I can, Signor Sorbello, I will see to it.” He straightens, bows and adds, “Now though, for the moment, you must both trust me and excuse me.”

  “A tactical retreat, eh, Tenente?” Pipo grumbles. “Very well. Thank you, for your time. I hope the Madonna sees fit to keep you safe.”

  “Signor Sorbello. Dottore Roselli.” Aldo tips his cap and turns to Mira. “You see, my angel, in one way or another we are all guilty: war makes us so.”

  Chapter 26

  The relative calm of Sunday night is broken by the clanking of tracks and the screeching of wheels as vehicles arrive and queue for embarkation. Beams of ghostly light roam the waters, like all–seeing eyes in search of prey, and occasional bursts of tracer soar up through the dark.

  Afraid for her husband, Francesca has taken to her bed and no amount of gentle sympathy or tempered cajoling will persuade her from it.

  Monday, though, sees an eddy of activity as more and more troops, tanks, guns and vehicles are loaded onto barges and despatched across the Strait.

  In the afternoon, Pipo is brought by his grandson, Beppe, to visit. The boy is fascinated by Nicholas and watches him with intense adoration, as though he is indeed Colapesce risen from the depths.

  “So, Nicholas,” Pipo asks, “tell me, how is your mother?”

  “The last time I saw her, she was well, thank you.”

  Studying him, the older man says “You look like her, the same roundness to your features, although I can imagine you have lost weight in your face these last few weeks. If I close my eyes, I can see her as though it was yesterday. She was the most beautiful child and I should imagine she retains much of her youthful charm: one knew, as one knows with certain people, that they will always be how they were when they were young. Please, indulge an old man: where did Lilla grow up? Where did she go to school? That woman, Mrs Robertson, she was strong; she must have seen right by your mother.”

  “She did. She sent my mother to a convent school, which was probably the most difficult period for her. Many of the other girls tried to take advantage of my mother and behaved unkindly towards her. As you remember, she spoke no English and she knew no real sophistication. However, and again as you remember her, she was nothing if not tenacious. She learned to speak English quickly and, after the convent, Mrs Robertson sent her to a secretarial school.”

  “Where did they live? Was it in the country or the city?”

  “They lived near London, near the river.”

  “And your father? What is he like?”

  Nicholas takes a moment to conjure the image of his father onto the screen in his mind. “By all accounts, my father was a good man.”

  “Was?” Pipo interrupts.

  “Yes, was. He was a Royal Marines officer and, sadly, he died at Gallipoli in the first Great War, a month before I was born.”

  “Where did Lilla meet him?”

  “In London. My mother took employment at the Lloyd’s Register of Shipping; Mrs Robertson had a friend who worked there.” He thinks for a while. “A Mr Gordon, I believe that was his name.”

  “Ah, yes, I know this name,” Pipo says, his face lighting up as the doors to his memory are suddenly reopened. “This was the man who arranged your mother’s passage back to England. Mira,” he says, wresting his gaze from Nicholas, “your father and I met this man: a nice man, a very English gentleman, he spoke Italian and was something to do with the ships.”

  “Yes, that’s him,” Nicholas confirms. “Though I never met him, my mother often spoke of him. She said that without their chance meeting in the hours before the earthquake, she might never have gone to England. Mr Gordon also introduced my mother to my father, although it turned out that my mother had already met my father once before, here in Messina. He had helped her and Mrs Robertson look for Enzo in the ruins of the city. Small world, isn’t it?”

  “Your father was a wealthy man?”

  “Pipo?” Mira interrupts. “To ask this kind of question…” She shakes her head and even young Beppe frowns.

  The older man hunches his shoulders and raises an eyebrow.

  Even though Nicholas cannot see the gesture, he recognises the silence. “Compared to some. He left us sufficient money for me to go to a good school and from there I went to university, to read languages. Listening to you talk, Pipo, I’m glad I did; there’s more than a little Latin in your language. Of course, my mother speaks to me in her language whenever she doesn’t want others to understand what we are talking about, but I mean no disrespect when I say that you hardly speak the kind of Tuscan Italian they teach in school.”

  “Does Lilla speak much of her family?” Pipo asks.

  “To be honest, not so much. I think it brings too much sadness to her to be reminded of how they all passed away so suddenly. And I think that had a good deal to do with why she decided to leave Messina: that and believing Enzo, too, was dead.”

  “And now you are here with his daughter,” the old man muses.

  “Yes, Signor Sorbello: ‘God moves in a mysterious way, his wonders to perform; he plants his footsteps in the sea and rides upon the storm.’”

  “What is that, a poem?” Mira asks.

  “A hymn we used to sing in the school chapel. It seems rather appropriate, doesn’t it, what with me ending up here by the Strait, with my mother’s first love and you, Mira.”

  Pipo grins at his use of the word love. “So, you followed in your father’s footsteps, into the navy?”

  “Sort of, I suppose. After university, I went to work in London and while I was there, I joined the Naval Reserve, a volunteer force; most of us are civilian yachtsmen.”

  “Volunteers, eh?” Pipo says. “We have volunteers, too. Most of the time they are volunteered at the point of a bayonet.”

  “Well, we are what they call hostilities only, which means that at the end of the war we don’t have to stay on in the navy. Not that I’m going to be much use without my sight.”

  Pipo sniffs. “Dottore Roselli is not certain you have lost your sight.”

  “Thank you, Signor Sorbello. I appreciate your and the good doctor’s confidence.”

  “Did you not like the big ships? Mira tells me your boat was small, like a Motoscafo.”

  “I prefer the small boats, though many in the regular navy think we only play at being sailors. They wouldn’t think that if they’d seen the way we sent that submarine to the bottom.”

  “Mira tells me you saved a sottocapo’s life and in return he saved you.”

  If young Beppe’s look has until this moment laid bare his adoration for this brave young officer, this knight of the seas with his templar ring; now his expression escalates to one of veneration. War may be terrible; but without war, what would one do for heroes?

  A knock at the do
or startles them.

  “Maria?” Mira suggests.

  “No,” Pipo replies, frowning. “Beppe will walk me home.”

  Mira rises and pulls back the door. “Aldo, what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at the Battery?”

  “Yes, but may I come in for a minute?”

  “Of course.” She stands back to allow him into the room.

  “Ah, Signor Sorbello, Nicholas.” He musters a smile for Beppe. “Have I come at a bad time?”

  “No,” Mira replies, “please, sit down. I was about to say how unfair it was that Sottocapo Falanga should have died after he had saved Nicholas.”

  Aldo removes his cap, wipes his brow and sits.

  “Yes, Tenente,” Nicholas continues, “it all seems so unfair. You see, I’ve always believed one good turn deserves another and I don’t think the sottocapo got the chance he deserved.”

  They sit in silent reverence for a while, each one alone with their thoughts of a man of immense dignity, a man who sacrificed himself in order not to betray those who sheltered him.

  To break the silence, Mira offers Aldo a glass of her father’s Amaro.

  “No, if you don’t mind. I cannot stop and my visit is only to give you some news. Some grave news, I’m afraid.”

  “If it is bad,” Pipo offers, “then best deliver it quickly. What have you got to tell us, Tenente?”

  “It is this: as expected, Generale Guzzoni has relocated–”

  “Fled, you mean,” Pipo interrupts.

  Aldo widens his eyes in disapproval, shifts in his seat and begins again. “As I was saying, Generale Guzzoni has relocated to Calabria, leaving Admirals Barone and Parenti to oversee the evacuation of the Livorno and Assieta divisions.”

  Pipo sits more upright. “More fools in charge of fools. Yes, I am sorry for interrupting, Tenente, please go on.”