Children of the Salt Road

by Lydia Fazio Theys

  As Mark writes, she says, “I don’t believe in any of it, of course, but there are quite a few locals in Macri who do. They depend on their witches to heal them, solve their financial or family problems—even put the evil eye, a kind of curse, on their enemies. And people, even from outside Italy, have been known to go there, seeking help. I am jealous, Mark. It’s so delicious. You might get to meet one of these magical families. And if you do, you must promise to tell me all about it.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Catherine

  Nico, you’re my own little muse.” Catherine uses her thumb to create a series of dents in the clay she’s working.

  Nico doesn’t react. He’s been here every day for the past ten days, providing just the right touch of companionship, even if it is silent. He plays with toys, sometimes with clay, and more than once has accepted a pad and pastels to draw. He draws the same thing over and over—the stone grave marker he corrected for her when she was sketching. She isn’t sure if he wants to draw this particular thing or if it’s the only thing he’s ever drawn, but she’s not about to rock the boat.

  This morning, she arrived to find him in the studio. Sitting on her worktable was a bouquet of flowers—a motley assortment, and handpicked, judging from the frayed and broken stems. “From you, Nico?” She had to try, even though she knew he wouldn’t answer. Now, the flowers sit next to her in a vase arranged in their ragtag splendor, and more precious to Catherine than any gift has ever been.

  Evidence of her recent productivity covers the closest bench. In one corner, several small statues she plans to cast in bronze appear to be in conversation with one another. She has also made a collection of sketches and, for the first time in a long time, an acrylic on canvas, an abstract inspired by the colors and textures of the lagoon.

  Nico changes position, crossing his feet behind him and sitting on his heels. He studies a half-completed drawing that lies on the floor, then brings his face close to the paper and draws again. In this position, he looks like an industrious little frog, and Catherine grabs pad and pencil to sketch him. Nico makes a great subject since he remains still for long periods. Catherine has done at least a dozen sketches of Nico, but this one just begs to be a sculpture.

  Mark and Catherine lie close together in bed, propped up by Giulia’s large ravioli-shaped pillows, Mark’s arm draped over Catherine’s shoulders.

  “I was a little worried that driving up so late last night would be more of a shock than a surprise.”

  “It was perfect. I’m glad you got home even half a day sooner. I wish you hadn’t driven so many hours in one day, though.”

  “It was fine, but I do need my arm back.” Mark sits up farther and reaches for his coffee. “It didn’t feel right, being away, with you and I both so—”

  “I know. Let’s not do that again.” She smiles. “Although you can bring us coffee in bed again anytime you want.”

  “Somehow here, you end up doing all the domestic stuff. We should stop that.”

  “I feel different here. Like I’m playing at it, almost.” Catherine gets out of bed and pulls on her jeans. “I’ll go make the rest of breakfast.”

  “Can we do it together?”

  “You did your half. I’ll finish, but after that I’m going to head over to the studio.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll come over a little later this morning. I really want to see that work you said you might bring to Stefano.”

  “OK.” A little later is good. She can use some time to clear away the sketches of Nico. No need to get into all that today. Not yet.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Mark

  Mark had met some extraordinary people at the party, and even more at the three-day conference that followed. He’d met people from all over the globe, and few of them knew much about Sicily. The opportunities are considerable, and he wants to share it all with Catherine, the way they always used to share important things. But he’d decided to wait—to let things calm down between them first. Catherine’s taking to this place the way she has—that’s been a shock. Although maybe it shouldn’t have been. She is an artist, and they practically live in an art museum here. Giulia and Assunta have gone out of their way to make her feel at home. But maybe her infatuation has peaked. She’d talked more about her work and less about Nico last night and this morning. When he gets to the studio, he hopes he’ll find the old Catherine there, and they can talk, the way they used to.

  “Pippo! Pippo!” Giulia’s voice, coming from behind Mark, carries a note of exasperated affection. The puppy runs up to him at full speed, and Mark crouches down, causing Pippo to lick his face, threatening to devour him from sheer joy.

  Giulia catches up to the jubilant puppy. “He is always ahead of me! Your big fan Pippo here—he has missed you. Was your trip a good one?”

  “It was, thank you. Very good.” He stands, lifting Pippo. “I’m surprised to see our little friend still here, though.”

  “Oh, but right now, this minute, I am taking him to the family who adopts him. He is a bug—a pest. Still, I will be sad to see him go.”

  “I’m sure you will.”

  “Only a week or two he was supposed to be here. But now, it is so long, he is like mine. Eh, what can you do?” Mark feels an unexpected pang of sadness as Giulia takes Pippo from him, and the pup wriggles and whines. “To the car, Pippo. Say good-bye to Mark now.”

  Mark continues toward the studio. Maybe he’ll suggest a quiet little dinner in Marsala tonight. As he enters, Catherine is working in clay, looking as happy as he’s ever seen her. She hasn’t noticed him, so he watches in quiet. This serious side of Catherine, this intense creative side, always fills him with a sense of wonder. His work is so much more collaborative. She makes beauty from nothing and does it alone.

  At the sound of her voice, he thinks at first she’s talking to him and takes in a breath to say hello. But then he notices her words. “Now that I know you like puzzles, I’ll get you some more. Maybe even a bigger one we can do together sometime.” She pauses and stops working. “Now Mark will be here any minute, Nico, so don’t run away. There’s nothing to be afraid of.” And there, on the edge of the shadows, a small boy sits.

  Mark must have made a sound because they both look in his direction.

  “Come on in. Can you see? I have a surprise for you.”

  He walks to Catherine. “And what is that?” He smiles.

  “It’s Nico! Look!” And she turns her head to the boy on the floor.

  Mark looks at Nico. Nico looks straight back. Mark meets the boy’s solemn eyes, then turns to Catherine.

  “Where?”

  The joy on Catherine’s face falls away, and she searches Mark’s face for a sign, he supposes, of something she can make sense of. “But—you were looking right at him. Right there!” She turns and points to Nico’s spot on the floor. All that remains is a pile of toys.

  “Near those toys? Is he in the dark there? I can’t—” He moves his head back and forth, scanning.

  Catherine sits. “I do not understand.”

  “I guess he left suddenly again?”

  “No, Mark. You were looking right at him. I saw you looking right there. How—?” She rubs her forehead with her fingertips.

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that you and I were both looking straight at Nico.” She looks up into Mark’s face, her eyes filled with fear. “But only I saw him.”

  Mark wipes a thin film of perspiration from his upper lip. He’s not sure what’s more terrifying—his sudden decision to lie to her, or his equally sudden realization of what the fallout from this is going to be. “It had to have been a trick of the light, Cath. Something like that.”

  “No. No. That can’t explain this. It can’t.”


  Mark sits next to her. “Catherine. There has to be—”

  “Something is terribly wrong, Mark. What’s happening? What’s happening to me?”

  “How does he do that without burning himself?” At their favorite restaurant in Marsala, Mark and Catherine sit at an outdoor table. They have a clear view of the fire juggler tonight. He’s here every weekend, a gangly young man who arrives right after dusk. He always lays a small blanket on the cobblestoned street where he places a collection bowl, a cassette player, and a black rectangular case containing—well—whatever fire jugglers need, Mark supposes. He hopes a first-aid kit is in there.

  Catherine, appearing groggy and distracted, doesn’t reply, so Mark tries again. “The learning curve must be interesting.” He takes a sip of wine and waits. She picks at her food like a child in a spinach patch.

  “Is that a new necklace you’re wearing?” Mark doesn’t recognize it. Bright red, lustrous, and shaped like a tiny tree, it reminds Mark of something.

  Catherine brings her hand to it. “Giulia gave it to me today. It’s coral. Supposed to bring good luck.” She continues to push her food around on the plate.

  “Don’t like your salad?”

  She puts down the large silver fork. “It’s fine. I’m not hungry. Not after today.”

  “We do need to talk about it, Cath.”

  “It. Yes. I suppose we do. It’s all I can think about.”

  Mark takes Catherine’s hand in both of his. “Catherine, honey.” He ducks his head and looks up into her eyes. “Look at you.”

  “What can I say, Mark?”

  “I just want you to know I’m worried.”

  “Because I’m imagining things.”

  “You’ve been through a lot. I think maybe what happened back home—maybe it had a bigger effect on you than either of us realized.”

  Catherine takes her hand back and wraps her arms around her shoulders. “I wish I’d brought a sweater.”

  “This whole Nico thing, this attachment you feel to a place you’ve never even been before, the way you’re dressing now when you’re not in your work jeans—”

  “Not that again, Mark. It’s all local. Giulia helps me pick things out.”

  “That’s interesting, but I kind of miss the more sophisticated side of you.” An image flashes into his mind of the people at Richard and Simone’s party. “It feels like part of an effort to lose yourself here. The whole thing does.”

  “The whole thing? It’s a thing?” Catherine watches the juggler until he stops for a break. “Maybe it is. Right now, I can’t even tell.”

  Mark recognizes this as his moment. “Listen, you need to get away from here. For a breather. A short one. Come with me next week to Riposto. We’ll spend a few days relaxing. Having fun. You’ll love it there. We need to do something because I’m getting concerned about you.”

  “I’m more than a little concerned about myself right now too.” Picking up her fork, Catherine pokes at her food again. “Maybe you’re right. But are you sure this is a good time for me to go with you?”

  “Couldn’t be better. I have a few local places to visit this week, and then I can go.”

  “I do need to visit Stefano in Florence. If I can arrange that for after Riposto, do you want to continue on? Come with me?”

  “Sure. Who doesn’t want to go to Florence?” Mark taps Catherine’s fork, which is still in her hand. “Now would you eat something, please?” He smiles. “Everything is going to be fine. You’ll see.”

  The anguish behind Catherine’s weak smile shames Mark. “I hope you’re right.”

  “I am. Trust me.” He’s gotten what he wanted. Why does he feel so empty?

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Catherine

  With her visit to Stefano arranged, Catherine now works on more material to bring along. She’s looking right at Nico, playing here in the studio, as clearly as she looks at anyone else. Yesterday’s events feel like one more bad dream. There must have been a misunderstanding. Mark might not have been looking where she thought he was. And then Nico had left, and that confused both of them. There’s no other reasonable explanation. When Mark comes in today, he’ll meet Nico, and they’ll laugh together about the whole thing over dinner tonight.

  “I’m getting ready to leave!” Mark’s voice carries from outside the studio.

  “Well, come on in and say good-bye, then.” As she hops down from her stool, she glances to Nico, who shows no sign of having heard Mark.

  Mark approaches Catherine. “I’ll be back by dinnertime, OK? I have to run.”

  “Mark, wait! Look.” She points to Nico on the floor. Nico does not look up.

  “Cath—You don’t—Are you saying he’s here?” Mark moves his head from side to side as if trying to see around an obstacle.

  Catherine shrinks into herself as if a weight pushes her down, and she grasps the back of her stool. Wanting to scream, all she can do is whisper. “You don’t see him?”

  “I wish I did.” Mark’s face conveys bewildered concern. He pushes a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Look. I’m late. But I’m worried about leaving you. Let me go call and cancel my meeting.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “But you . . .”

  “Please just go. I’m fine.” She sits on her stool, arranging her tools on the table. A hazy film—a dried slurry of spilled water and clay—camouflages the dark wood surface. Snaking edges lend the film a look of a gossamer cloth carelessly tossed. The same film cloaks the rosewood handle of the tools, turning them ghostly gray, and from the proper angle, they blend into the table. By moving her head, she can make the tools nearly disappear.

  “Promise me you’ll call Giulia if you don’t feel right?”

  “I’m OK. I’ll see you at dinner.”

  “If you’re sure—”

  “I’m sure. I’ll be fine.”

  Catherine watches Mark leave the barn, listens to his car door slam and his tires crunch as the car fades down the driveway. Her hands are too shaky to work the clay now, but that’s no longer her first order of business. Nico sits unmoved and unchanged, playing as if nothing has happened. He did not run away from Mark, did not even react to Mark’s arrival. What does any of this mean?

  Picking up a sketch pad, Catherine doodles in what she hopes is a casual manner. “Nico, did you see Mark come in?”

  He looks at her. She thinks she detects a smile—an unpleasant smile, in his eyes only—but she’s not sure.

  “I think maybe you did. I wish I understood what was going on.”

  Catherine flips the page. “I’m going to come sit on the floor with you, OK? Because I can see you better, and I want to draw that cute face. Yes?” She sits down cross-legged, facing Nico, about six feet in front of him. He scrambles to change position so that he sits cross-legged as well. Catherine smiles, and Nico meets her gaze as she holds out a pad and pencil to him. “Let’s draw.”

  As Catherine sketches, her shaking subsides. Whatever is going on, there is an explanation. “Nico, you never told me—do you have a mother and father?”

  He keeps sketching.

  “Brothers and sisters?”

  No reaction.

  She draws awhile, then pauses. “Where do you go to school? Or preschool?” He doesn’t even look up. “I bet you live in a nice place. Is it close to here?” He nods—one clipped downward dip of his chin. Something! But was that yes to it being nice or close by? Or was it a yes at all? Catherine tries to learn more, but Nico grows wary, and she wants him to stay.

  “I have an idea. Why don’t you draw a picture for me? Of yourself. Of—how about of where you were last night? And I’ll draw one for you—of me where I was last night. OK?” He me
ets her gaze with no change in expression and starts to draw. Catherine does the same. She sketches the restaurant table in Marsala, the casual strollers in the streets, and the fire juggler in the act of crouching to catch a flaming torch.

  It’s more and more clear that there are only two possibilities: either Mark cannot see Nico and she can, or she has lost her mind. Perhaps you can’t tell when you lose contact with reality, but surely, other things would be out of whack as well. And it can’t be Mark—levelheaded, practical Mark. So what’s left? Can Nico be a ghost? She doesn’t even believe in that kind of thing. There must be something she’s not thinking of.

  “Catherine? Catherine?” It’s Giulia.

  Catherine gets up from the floor and brushes the dirt from the seat of her jeans. “I’ll be right back, Nico. Wait, OK?”

  Giulia comes in carrying a tray with a teapot and a plate covered in a cloth napkin.

  “Giulia! Here, let me get that. Did you carry it all the way here?”

  “Of course! I grew up working the land. I have muscles.”

  Catherine inspects the tray as she carries it over to a bench. “Tea? I love it, but I didn’t think you did. Just a few days ago you said coffee was for healthy people and tea for the sick.” She laughs.

  “Well, Mark says to me today that perhaps you are not so well, and so I come to look in on you.”

  “Oh.” She feels betrayed.

  “This is a special herb tea I made for us. To help you feel better.”

  “I see. Well, that’s very nice of you. Now—” But an intuition comes over Catherine, and before she looks, she knows deep in her bones that Nico is gone. At his spot, she picks up his pad. He has made a drawing, childish but clear, of a boy. The boy has hair like Nico’s and wears a striped shirt with shorts. He lies flat on his back, eyes closed. He could be sleeping or—her stomach lurches and she shivers—he could be dead.