Children of the Salt Road

by Lydia Fazio Theys

  “Yes?” Giulia has come over to Catherine, who closes the pad.

  “It’s nothing. Let’s have our tea. What’s under the cloth?”

  “Cookies. Like we made together. Bones of the Dead.”

  Catherine sits in one of Giulia’s comfortable lounge chairs facing the lagoon. All she can think about is Nico’s picture; she never managed to get back to work after Giulia left. She’d love to follow Nico, to see where he goes, but she has no idea how. She can’t very well grab him or put him on a leash and insist he take her along. She can’t even get very close to him most of the time. Any move to force the issue could break his trust in her. He might never come back.

  She’s come here to read about Mozia, and the book she bought in Marsala lies closed in her lap now, her finger marking her place. It’s hardly an academic text, but it’s filling in some blanks, including a disquieting theory about the children’s cemetery. Evidence suggests—and this brings back dim memories from freshman art history—it was no ordinary cemetery. She must have walked right by the most damning sign without recognizing it—the adjacent tophet. Found in many Phoenician settlements, tophets were places the faithful offered sacrifices to the King of the Gods, Ba’al-Hammon. The most horrible part is that they would sacrifice not only animals but—unspeakably—their own small children, often the firstborn. To think that she sat among the remains of those tormented children, victims “consigned to the fire” to ensure a good harvest or favorable weather—it was beyond hideous. What she’d foolishly thought she’d “discovered”—a private, windswept refuge—was in fact a bleak, desolate unholy ground, the time-scattered ashes and tiny bone fragments of betrayed children underfoot, trampled like so much dirt.

  It sickens her to think it, but this could be Nico’s story, the reason he was familiar with the stele she was drawing. As much as she dances around the bigger questions it raises, the idea that Nico is a ghost has been insistent, forcing its way into her thoughts for a while now. She’s resisted it, as anyone would. Ideas you can’t explain, even to yourself—that you can’t envision trying to explain to anyone else without the worst kind of embarrassment—these ideas beg for dismissal. But now, she can’t think of a better reason for a “spirit” to be restless than this. And Nico’s own drawing—that mournful, chilling drawing—it would make sense. Nico as a ghost would explain so many things. And Nico as this particular ghost would explain his deep distrust of people and his urge to run. What it wouldn’t explain is why he has chosen Catherine.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Seth

  January 29, 1993

  Dear Notebook,

  You’re the only one who listens to me anymore. At least I think you listen. I failed totally with Catherine. I made matters worse. I tried to explain myself by writing letters. I got really nice paper. Beautiful paper I thought she would really like. And she would see that I was serious and that these were serious letters, not some love notes from some kid. I think she read them. She answered the first 2 but with really short answers so I don’t know if she read them all the way through even. I feel like such an idiot I can’t even go to her class anymore. The one person who paid any attention to me at all and that I felt a connection to and now she probably wishes she had never heard my name. Not taking that class messes up when I can graduate but I don’t care anymore. She even suggested I go to a shrink. Suggested AGAIN, because she said that before when I did all those fire paintings. I guess she could tell something was wrong. See, that’s why I need to talk to her. She knows me. But I guess I have to give that up and try to get my act together.

  I think I may have to go back to Dr W. All this not sleeping is making me feel weird. A few times lately I saw some guy I don’t know just looking at me on campus. And yesterday he was walking down the street right outside this apartment when I got home. Why would anyone want to follow me? It’s nuts. I’m nuts. All I want is to live my life with no meds and no “assignments” about visualizing things and biofeedback and writing about my thoughts for HIM to read. I feel frozen. I guess I have to try to work up the courage to call him up and go back.

  Next month it will be a year since the fire. Exactly one month from today. That blows my mind. There’s no way I can get through that without some help. So, yeah, that’s my job now. I have to work up the courage and try to call him. Soon. Even if going back is one more miserable failure.

  PS If you’re keeping track, Notebook, another plane crash in the Congo killed 12 people 2 days ago. And one in Paris killed 4. Plus a ferry sank in Turkey and 52 people got killed. It’s everywhere you look.

  Total since I started keeping track

  Plane crashes: 934

  Natural disasters: 5078

  Other disasters: 52

  TWENTY-SIX

  Mark

  In the Palermo office, Mark takes his mail from Paola, thanks her, and heads off to the empty conference room that serves as his workspace when he visits. As he sorts through notes from potential clients, contract drafts from lawyers, and other work-related materials, he finds a fat envelope from Simone containing a packet of photocopied pages. Clipped to the outside is a note on stationery embossed with her initials: “Following up on our conversation with some reading I think you’ll enjoy. It was lovely seeing you the other night. Don’t be a stranger. And next time, please do bring Catherine.”

  Half an hour later, Mark is pretty well steeped in the history of Macri and its deep connection to magic. He’ll have to remember to ask Giulia about it one day. It could definitely earn him some points with Simone, and that would probably knock on to Robert and his connections. Can’t hurt.

  Much of the information she sent revolves around benign or even positive things—healing the sick, helping to arrange a happy marriage, and bringing blessings upon a family with a new baby. But there is some pretty disturbing stuff in here as well: dolls with pins in them, evil spells, shape-shifting, dream visits. And it runs the range from protracted petty spats to serious harm inflicted on another—destroying family harmony, ruining crops, sickening and killing people. There are even reports of killing and eating infants. Stranger still, women who can transform themselves into birds or wolves and travel around at night, seeking out their enemies and paralyzing them in their beds. None of it seems as if it could possibly be going on around the Macri he’s seen.

  However, Mark recognizes from his reading the charm he has seen some people—men, women, and children—wear around their necks. A hand with only the pointer and pinkie fingers extended and aimed downward, the corna is thought to have magic powers, as are certain herbs, branches, and even coral. It’s all very colorful, all right. A bunch of nonsense but colorful as hell.

  Mark returns after dark, the yellow glow from the cottage the only thing lighting his way to the door. He studies Catherine through the windows. What a relief not to find her asleep on the couch or looking sad and puzzled, the way she’d been when he left today. In fact, she looks happy, working in the kitchen, surrounded by food.

  “I knocked off work early and made dinner for us.”

  “I see.” Mark takes in the chaos in the kitchen.

  “I know—me cook, right? Go ahead and laugh. But I thought it would be nice for a change.” She smiles. “So how did it go today?”

  “Good.” He gives Catherine a quick hello kiss. Things are looking up. With Catherine feeling this much better already, a short break from here should have her back to her old self in no time.

  “What can I do?”

  “Nothing yet. I am—and it’s a miracle—approaching self-sufficient in the kitchen, thanks to Giulia and Assunta. You know, I rarely eat out anymore when you’re not here.” Catherine shakes the water from a large bunch of fresh basil. “Tonight we’re having three of their favorite recipes, which, let’s see . . .” She consults some food-stained notes on
the counter. “Reduce heat, cook four or five minutes more . . . OK! Which should be ready any minute.”

  Mark reaches for the lid of a heavy pottery dish, but Catherine grabs his hand. “Wait! That’s just out of the oven.” She hands him an oven mitt in a purple-and-green grapevine design.

  He lifts the lid. “And this is?”

  “Involtini di melanzane.”

  “Which old Mark would have thought had to do with electrified melons or something, but more worldly Euro-Mark knows means rolled-up eggplant with the magic of deliciousness.”

  “I hope you’re right about the deliciousness. And this is frocia ai carciofi in the pan.”

  “Mmmm. That little miracle of artichokes and eggs.”

  “I made a green salad, and for dessert we have cookies that Giulia brought by this afternoon.”

  “That was nice of her.”

  “I know you asked her, Mark. It’s OK.” Her voice is light. She looks around the kitchen counter. “Notice anything different on the walls?”

  Mark looks and notices three ornate frames. “What are those?” He walks over to examine them.

  “Pressed herbs. Giulia showed me how to make them today. They’re a traditional decoration. Three in here, three in the bedroom. My favorite is the one that’s all branched. It’s rue, which Giulia said is the herb of regret. Kind of poetic, isn’t it?”

  “A little weird, really.” And since when was Catherine into arts and crafts? Isn’t this the kind of thing she would have been merciless in skewering a few short months ago?

  “You think they’re weird? I think they’re sweet and sort of folksy. Speaking of herbs, where’s that basil? And can you open the wine?”

  Mark finds the intricate corkscrew in one of the cluttered drawers and applies it to the bottle with caution. It might be easier to open the wine with his teeth than with this Byzantine metal contraption, but he manages at last.

  Catherine hums, finishing up last details. “I figured something out today.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Well”—she pauses and looks at Mark—“first let’s get everything out on the table.”

  Mark gasps. She knows he lied. How? And why isn’t she angry?

  “You can start with bringing the wine over there.” She meant food. On the actual table. Not the confession his guilty conscience had assumed.

  Catherine has put a white embroidered cloth on the table, and now she touches a match to a pair of pale-gray candles and turns out the lights. “Pretty?”

  “Very.” He thinks he sounds calm, but it will be a few minutes before his heart settles down. “Before we begin—” Mark lifts his wineglass. “To us.”

  Catherine taps her glass on Mark’s, and they drink, Mark draining his glass in a single shot. The food is surprisingly good, although he suspects more diplomatic wording would be wise. He’s about to make a stab at it when Catherine speaks.

  “So. You ready?” She puts her fork down, folds her hands in her lap, and sits up straight, a fourth grader preparing to recite her first poem for her grandparents.

  “Shoot.”

  “I figured out what’s going on with you and Nico.”

  Mark slows his chewing, his mouth so dry he’s unsure he can swallow.

  “A lot of things I’ve always thought were nonsense—old wives’ tales, whatever—turn out to be true when you look into them. Even if they sound crazy. And well, anyway—” She takes a deep breath. “I’m pretty sure Nico is a ghost.”

  Mark looks at Catherine, waiting for her to say “Gotcha!” but he can tell from her eyes that she’s serious. She means it. It was inevitable. There was no way he could have said what he did without consequence, no matter how hard he tried to close his eyes to that fact, to hope he’d be able to finesse it. But how? What else has his stupid behavior, his inane lie, left her to conclude? That one of them is crazy? That he’s lying? That’s what hurts the most—she probably never considered the latter.

  “Are you serious, Cath? Because that’s pretty out there.” He pours more wine for both of them, spilling some in the process. He watches the purple stain bleed into the tablecloth. Catherine quickly dips a finger into the small puddle and dabs some wine behind Mark’s ear, then her own. “Assunta told me that spilling wine is bad luck—unless you do that.” Mark jumps up for a dish towel, grateful for something to do, for an opportunity to hide the guilt he’s sure is plain on his face.

  “I know it’s out there, but yes, I’m serious.” And she tells him about the cemetery, the tophet, and the ritual child sacrifice. “So you see, it would all make sense if Nico is one of those children.”

  “Sense. Well—Cath, I don’t know what to say.”

  “Look, I know you worry about me, but don’t. I’m not afraid in the least. It’s actually kind of, well—kind of wonderful.” She doesn’t seem to notice Mark’s silence. “I never believed in ghosts. I mean, in books and movies about them, it’s always a haunting.” She raises her hands into the air and waves her fingers. “All woo-woo and scary and dark. Terrifying. I thought if I ever did see a ghost, or think I saw one, I would freak out completely. But that’s not the way it is. This is—I don’t know—kind of thrilling. He picked me! And he doesn’t want to hurt me or drink my blood or any other nonsense. He’s a sad little boy who wants someone to care about him. And I do. I care.”

  Mark fears that speaking will telegraph his terrible shame. The thought of eating nauseates him. He can’t bear to look at Catherine’s glowing face and know that he and only he is responsible for her delusions.

  “Aren’t you going to say anything, Mark?”

  That puzzled look, that trusting, puzzled look on Catherine’s face—he can’t get past that, can’t think of what to say.

  “Wait. Don’t. It’s OK. I can imagine how it sounds. I know how it would sound to me, or would have before this. Just think about it for a while. Let it sink in.”

  “Fine.” Mark grabs the safety line she’s thrown and nods. “Fine. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

  “Aren’t you gone tomorrow?”

  “Oh, right. In the day. How about you meet me for dinner in Marsala and we’ll talk then?” And her open shining face, her total outright joy, nearly kills him.

  At an outdoor table of what they now think of as “their little restaurant,” Mark leans back in his seat and stretches. The thought that any minute Catherine will bring up the subject of Nico has him all but jumping out of his skin.

  “The street’s crowded tonight, isn’t it?” Mark tries for a short delay of the inevitable.

  A group of laughing young people stroll by, one member walking backward, facing the others, and singing a song whose melody is familiar. The others laugh and comment, presumably on his singing technique.

  “Isn’t that the big Whitney Houston hit? The one where she always sounds like she sat on a tack?”

  Catherine listens. “Yup. ‘I Will Always Love You.’ From that movie you hated. The Bodyguard.”

  “Right. You mean ‘Eye-eeeeeee-eye Will Always Love Yoooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooouuu.’”

  Laughing, Catherine says, “You’re such a grouch about things like that.”

  “Things like yodeling, you mean?”

  “Well, I like it.” The group is no longer in earshot, and after a pause, Catherine says, “So. Have you had a chance to think about what I told you last night?”

  “Actually, it was hard to get it out of my mind.”

  “And?”

  He sighs. “And—I don’t know—” He sounds whiny, pleading. He hears it. “Cath, look at this night. Let’s not waste it talking about that right now. Your little ghost isn’t going anywhere and—”

  “Waste? My little ghost?” Catherine looks
around at the other diners, then back to Mark. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be so loud, but that’s pretty damn offensive.”

  “Come on. You can’t really believe all that stuff. It’s a fun idea and all, and you’re a very creative person. But—”

  “So, you’re saying I invented this whole ghost idea why? To entertain myself?”

  “I didn’t say that. And I didn’t mean that. But you do have a great imagination.”

  “And inventing a ghost beats facing the fact that I have daily hallucinations. That’s what you’re saying.”

  “Where did you—? No! I didn’t say that either. But you can’t forget what you went through last semester.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning isn’t there something a little coincidental about finding another boy who needs you?”

  “This is not going well. Not at all.”

  “Let’s back up. Let me finish my original thought. I think we should postpone talking about it until after we get back from Riposto, because my honest belief is that you’re kind of delicate right now, and once you’re away from this environment, things will look different to you.”

  Catherine stares at the arm of her chair. Her voice is soft, defeated. “Delicate. That feels like a nice word for psycho.”

  “It isn’t. Please, you have to trust me about this.”

  “How? Let’s say we go away and I realize Nico is a figment of my imagination. That I never saw him. Do you think I can just say”—she leans back in her seat, hands on hips—“‘Well, that was different!’ and go on as if nothing is wrong?”