“Thank you, I did,” she lies.
The rain has moved on north to the coast of Amalfi, leaving in its wake cooler, clearer air.
The door to Antonio’s house, opens and father and son emerge. They are respectfully quiet in closing it behind them. Why wouldn’t they be? Just because their day is beginning, they see no need to wake their neighbours.
Caterina watches them, traces of guilt lingering in her expression.
When, at last, the evening before, her shoulders had ceased to heave with her sobbing and she had all too gracelessly blown her nose and dried her eyes, she had of course apologised.
“You have no need to apologise to me,” Antonio had said, so softly, so comfortingly, so touchingly that she had burst once more into a flood of tears. He had waited patiently for her to regain her composure, before taking her in his arms and gently but firmly resting her head on his shoulder. “You have only yourself to apologise to.”
“To blame, you mean.”
“No.” And he had squeezed her tenderly. “There is no one to blame. Not you, not God and certainly not those who have been taken. Our life is ours to live, not ours to regret.”
When she had calmed, Antonio had insisted on walking her home. The rain had stopped and even though she was no more than ten minutes from Angelica’s house, he would not hear of her walking alone at night. “You could stay,” he’d added, casually, as if it was an afterthought rather than an invitation he’d been working towards.
“Oh, Antonio,” she’d replied, mustering a weak and rather watery smile. “Please believe me when I say I so wanted to; I was so ready to. Really, I was. But I feel so perfectly bloody useless, which is ridiculous, because I’ve been feeling so much better about myself, about everything and about you.” She’d blown her nose again and he’d waited patiently, again; and Caterina had realised that his patience was as much a fundamental part of his nature as was his son, the boat and the Strait. “I mean that, Antonio: I was feeling so much better. But the thought that spending the night with you might end in disaster – not because of you, because of me – frightens the hell out of me.”
“Yes,” he’d said. “Me, also.”
She’d sat back from him and gazed at him in astonishment. “Really? Seriously? But you’re so… so confident all the time. You always know what to do; how can anything frighten you?”
He’d breathed deep and sighed. “Oh, one is forever frightened of the unknown. It doesn’t matter if one is a child or an adult.”
And he had walked her back through the narrow lanes and alleys, past the cats goading each other from the security of their steps, and she had clung to his muscular arm. At the door, she had offered her lips for him to kiss, but he hadn’t; he’d simply kissed her forehead, then turned and walked back down the cobbled lane.
Now, both Antonio and Enzo notice her and the son makes an aside to which the father nods in reply.
The crew busy themselves with the dinghy, which they then drag across the wooden blocks down to the water’s edge.
Caterina stands up.
“Are you sure you want to come?” Antonio asks her. “Today will be hot. You may not think so now, but later…” he shakes his hand as if drying it.
“Are you sure you want me to?” And she waits for his eyes to answer her question.
“Good,” he confirms. “Today we will catch fish.”
The crew seem pleased to have her company and Ninolino and Karl make a particular fuss of her, wiping down her chair with a clean cloth and positioning it at the base of the tower before inviting her to sit.
Pasquale climbs up onto the roof of the cabin, crosses himself and begins the dizzying climb, hand over hand, foot over foot, smoothly and steadily up to the platform. When he has unlatched the access hatch, he disappears and Giuseppe follows him up.
Caterina cranes her head and watches them, in awe of their courage.
“A long way, eh?” Enzo says as he ties to the line the plastic bags filled with hats, sunglasses, food and water, and runs them up.
“Have you been up there?” she asks.
“Yes, of course. One has to.”
The engines rumble, the lines are cast off and the Salvazione motors from behind the safety of the breakwater out into the Strait.
One by one the other feluche slip their moorings and head out, each one peeling off either south or north to patrol their allotted stations.
“My father thinks we will do better out in the open water beyond Scylla. Perhaps we will come back here this afternoon.”
The moisture in the air is soon evaporated by the sun climbing above the heights of Aspromonte; however, the breeze born of their progress serves to temper the heat.
By the time the sun has reached its zenith, Giuseppe has spotted, Pasquale has driven, Antonio has harpooned and Enzo, Ninolino and Karl have landed five swordfish. They are not large, but they are mature; their dorsal fins, as Enzo explains to her, being high and short, not long and slender like the sails of immature fish. And judging by the way the boys smile at her, offer her water, ask if she’s not too hot and tell her that if she is, they can rig up a sheet to provide her with shade, they are coming to view her as a good luck charm.
The five fish, covered by a breathable sheet and blankets which Enzo keeps saturated with regular douses of water, lie side by side on a pallet at the base of the tower, so they have placed her white chair out of the way on the roof of the cabin.
“You don’t gut the fish?” she asks.
He shakes his head. “No, they go to the market whole. I understand that in America, they clean the fish as soon as they have taken it out of the water, but this would be to disrespect the fish and it is not our way.”
“Is that a good catch, five fish?”
“It is, though some days we catch ten or perhaps twelve and then on others nothing. When the Sciroccu blows we catch fish, and today the wind begins to blow.”
The feluca has turned onto a heading towards Capo Peloro, the mountains of Nebrodi rising off to their right.
“We are going back?”
“Yes,” Enzo replies, his leg bent at the knee, his foot resting on the gunwale. “We will unload them and they will be in the market ready for this evening. It is not just the timing; in this heat it is better they don’t stay too long in the sun and on the boat. As you have learned, there is no shade. Do you have enough sun cream Signora Caterina? It is good you have brought a hat.”
“Thank you, Enzo, I do; though as far as my hat goes, it does the job even if I feel a little ridiculous having to tie it on. Is it all right if I sit up on the roof of the cabin?”
He shrugs. “Oh yes. My father will come up and talk with you; there is no point in him being at the far end of the passerelle when the feluca is making this speed. Here, I will help you.”
Caterina, with a helping hand, makes it up onto the roof and sits in her chair, and soon enough, Antonio has made his way aft and climbed up to relax beside her.
“A good day,” she says. But the wind catches her words and bears them away.
Antonio looks up at her, arching an eyebrow in question.
“I said, you seem to be having a good day,” she repeats, raising her voice just shy of a shout.
“Yes. We will stay in the Strait this afternoon; there will be more.”
They watch Ninolino and Karl re–coiling the ropes and washing down the deck. They glance up at the two on the roof of the cabin and exchange knowing looks before laughing, though not unkindly.
“The boys,” Antonio says, nodding his head in their direction, “they think this is some kind of date.”
She waits, before replying, “Isn’t it? I get the feeling you don’t take too many women passengers on your feluca.”
He nods his head from side to side: he cannot use his hands to show her that he is considering his resp
onse, as he is sitting back, his weight on his arms. “On occasion. We have tourists, mostly Americans, they pay well to come for a day with us and once they have understood that this is not America and that we do not have a bathroom or a medical facility on board, they usually have a good time.”
“Do they ever ask to climb the ‘ntinna?”
“A few.”
“What about health and safety?”
“I told you already,” he says, chuckling, “I tell them we have no toilet and no hospital on board, and that if they fall down into the sea, there is no point in coming back to the surface, for we will not be able to bring them back to life.”
“Antonio?”
Because she is sitting up in her chair with the sun above and to the side of her, he has to turn his head and look up at her. Closing one eye he winks with the other.
“You’re joking. Yes. Of course, I–”
“No. I don’t want to hear any more of your apologies.”
The essence of what he has just said and the way he has assembled his words, could so easily be misconstrued. However, his tone suggests it isn’t that he is fed up with her seemingly constant need to apologise; rather it is that he thinks it would be better for her, as opposed to him, if she didn’t.
“And I wasn’t going to. No, what I wanted to say was how much I enjoyed last night and I wanted to thank you for your understanding and for allowing me back on the Salvazione, that’s all, nothing more.”
He looks up again. “That’s all? Minchia!” he says. “I believe that is enough, eh?”
“Minchia,” she repeats. “I remember my father saying that once when he touched a hot mug of tea. What does it mean?”
Antonio chuckles again. “It is a statement, a frustration, an expression, a way of swearing, like cock or prick; only neither of those things and yet both of them. It is not a polite term for a woman to use.”
“Oh, okay. I’ll try not to.”
He smiles. “Good. Now, you must be careful of the heat; up here you will not notice your sunburn because you feel cool. I will get you some water.”
“Antonio?”
“Yes.”
“I have decided something.”
“Yes, and what is that?”
“I’m not going to feel guilty ever again. It’s time for me to change. I’ve realised I’m not useless and I want to thank you for–”
A noise from above distracts them and Antonio gets down off the roof.
Giuseppe has opened the trapdoor in the base of the platform and is making his way down the tower.
Caterina watches, counting his steps, learning that he never allows himself to be attached to the metal frame by less than either both of his feet and one hand or both of his hands and one foot. He is not tied to any safety rope and if he slips and falls, there is nothing to keep him from plummeting to the deck or, if he is lucky, into the sea. There are also the pairs of wire stays to negotiate, all of which are attached to the tower above halfway: six running forward down to the long passerelle, four to the gunwale either side of the cabin and another four to the stern.
By the time he sets foot on the roof of the cabin, Caterina has counted to forty–eight. Forty–eight steps!
As soon as Giuseppe sets foot on the roof, he crosses himself, glances back up and then smiles at her as if to say he knows he is a little bit crazy, but…
He gets down off the roof leaving her to stare up at the platform.
“Crazy,” she murmurs to herself. “Crazy, eh? Well, perhaps not as crazy as me.” Caterina takes off her hat and ties it to the chair. She looks up, she looks down and then in one fluid movement she stands up and places her hands on the metal tubes of the tower.
Ninolino, Karl and Enzo are swapping stories, kidding each other and laughing, and Antonio and Giuseppe are inside the cabin, talking.
She lifts her hands up and steps onto a rung. “Now remember,” she says to herself, “don’t look down, just concentrate,” and she begins to climb.
“Twenty metres,” she says. “Come on, count.” She lifts her right leg and feels for the foothold, and once she has set it square on the rung, she lifts her left hand up, gains hold and lifts her leg. Slowly, as though in a dream, she ascends, hand over hand, foot over foot.
One, two, three, on and up in as smooth a rhythm as her limbs will allow. “Four, five, six,” she whispers.
She slows. “No, don’t stop, keep moving. Keep moving.”
The wind ruffles her hair, she can feel it cool against her cheek.
“Twelve, thirteen, fourteen.” She slows again, leaning in to the tower, holding on tight. “Relax, Caterina,” she murmurs. “Just keep going.” Urging her legs and arms to resume their motion, she climbs. “Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen.”
A voice from below.
“Papà,” Enzo calls. “Come quick!”
He steps out from the shadow of the cabin.
Enzo points.
He looks up. “Caterina,” he shouts, the urgency plain for the others to hear, “Stay where you are. Don’t go any higher.”
At the sound of his voice, her muscles stiffen and her legs very suddenly feel heavy. She stops, but refuses to look down. “No, I’m okay. Leave me. I’m fine.”
“No,” he shouts. “Please, wait, I am coming.”
“Papà?” Enzo asking, no, imploring. “Two of you? The tower is not strong enough; it will not take it.”
“Tell Pasquale,” he shouts, climbing onto the roof of the cabin. “Bring the feluca into wind, slowly. Tell him to keep her steady.”
A wolf–whistle. “Hey, Pasquale.”
The capobarca peers down from his platform. “No, signora. No, please go back down. You must not.”
Caterina looks up. She can see Pasquale’s head, see his lips move, but she cannot, or perhaps will not, hear whatever it is he is saying. She looks out at the coastline: it is beautiful, a bright yellow rim of sand, a road cut into the hillside, the hills rising to mountains, the sun beating down.
“Eighteen, nineteen, twenty.”
The metal between her hands and beneath her feet trembles and the tower begins to sway ever so gently from side to side.
“Antonio, leave me. I’m fine, don’t follow me, I’m okay.” She climbs again. “Twenty–one, twenty–two–”
He is coming up after her; she can feel the disturbance in the metal.
“Don’t, please,” she pleads. “Go back.”
She feels the tower still; he has paused.
“Caterina, this is madness. Please come down before you get any higher. Please. Think of your daughter. Think of me. Think of yourself,” he pleads.
“Three, four, five, six.” Hand over hand, foot above foot. “God,” she asks, “how many more can there be?”
“You are over halfway,” he calls. “Don’t, whatever you do–”
“Look down? No, I won’t. I have no intention of looking anywhere but where I’m putting my hands; my feet will follow; they must.”
The mast sways, the wind blows and the air is warm and salty.
“Twenty–seven.” She urges herself up, one rung at a time; one reach, one grab at a time. “Twenty–eight.” She groans, she grunts, she breathes deep through her nose and exhales through her mouth. “Twenty–nine.”
Caterina is slowing, becoming aware that her limbs now feel heavy and if not heavy, then leaden. “Thirty.” Her arms ache and her fingers flutter and quiver as they feel for the next rung. She shivers. Even in the heat, she shivers.
“Thirty–one.” And slowly, inevitably, like cogs drying, in need of some life–giving lubrication, in need of oiling, in need of something, she grinds to a halt. “Thirty… two.”
“No,” Antonio shouts. “Now you must keep going, you are too high to turn back.”
“Too high,” she whispers. “Too h
igh. Well how high am I? I must be nearly at the top.” Caterina glances up. “Oh no, where was I? Now I’ve lost count.”
Pasquale has the trapdoor open; he is looking down on her. Like Charlie, somewhere above, high up in the heavens, he is looking down on her.
“Oh, Charlie! What am I doing? I let you down. I’m so sorry. The one thing you asked of me and I couldn’t do it. Forgive me, please. I am so tired of running.”
The tower wobbles.
“You are not running, Caterina. Up here, there is nowhere for you to run.” It is Antonio; he has climbed up and is now just below her. She can feel his presence.
“And Charlie is not here,” he says, tenderly and firmly, as if he is soothing a distressed child. “You are here and I am here. No, do not look down.”
“Oh, but I’m not. I don’t know what I was thinking. This isn’t me; this is someone I thought I could be; someone I wanted to be. Oh, I can’t; I’m too tired. Just leave me alone, please.” She closes her eyes, leans back and breathes deep, tasting the salt on her tongue, smelling the freedom of the air, letting it in and holding it in until her lungs threaten to burst.
“No, Caterina, don’t lean back.” Antonio climbs and swings round the tower so that his head is level with hers. “Open your eyes, Caterina. Look at me. Know that I am here.”
And she does open her eyes, and they are white with fear and frozen like ice and she does not see him. “I can’t do this, Antonio. I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. You must listen to me, Caterina. When my wife left me, I became blind to the world; I could only see the storm raging inside me. This storm, this turmoil, it threatened to overwhelm me, it took away my desire to live and without Enzo and Angelica’s love, the storm in my heart would have destroyed me.” Antonio does not shout; he does not need to; his face is but a hand’s width from hers. And yet he projects his voice from deep down in his chest, as though it is his soul speaking to her. “Look at me, Caterina. No, don’t look down. You have to go on. If you do not, you will remain forever lost to the storm in your heart.”
She stares at his blue eyes as the tears stream from hers. There is nothing she can do to stem them, for if she takes her hand off the tower, she will fall. “Does it ever stop, this storm?”
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