by John Harris
Patch laughed ruefully. ‘If I did a bit of soul-searching,’ he said, ‘I suppose I’d admit I did. It was what she asked for, but that’s no excuse.’
The following morning, Patch tried to insist on another carriage to the university but Cecilia wanted to walk and he found himself enjoying the warmth of the sunshine after the angry weather of Anapoli. He took her hand and they pushed through the crowded streets happily, both of them curiously light of heart.
There was a Communist demonstration near the docks, with youngsters carrying placards and banners and jeering at the American tourists who were coming off the ships and trying to find taxis out of the glare of the sun. Then a group of students from the university burst on to the procession and tried to break it up and a fight ensued. The struggle swayed across the street, more pushing and shouting than fisticuffs, and finally the police swept down and the crowds fled into the fly-blown little alleys behind the harbour like dust before a wind, upsetting the crude stalls of the street vendors and sending the shining fish and the eggs and the shabby trinkets flying.
‘God-damn all politics,’ Patch said, lashing out furiously, his good humour gone, as he dragged Cecilia out of the way of the running youths and steered her to the university.
A lecturer in the Department of Volcanology, situated in the top floor of a building that on one side looked over what had been a palace garden and on the other the city slums, led them along a wide, marbled corridor dim with shadows to a room marked with the name, ‘Professor Camaldoli’, where a small man with dark glasses and a long Neapolitan nose was reading a newspaper under the green shadow of an old-fashioned desk light. Spread in front of him were several other newspapers and all round him on the oppressive crimson wallpaper were lurid paintings of eruptions.
The little man behind the desk looked up over his glasses and smiled gaily, showing several gold teeth. He indicated a couple of Medici chairs in front of him.
‘They tell me there was a fight near the harbour a little while ago,’ he said cheerfully. ‘How do you think the elections will go?’
‘I don’t know,’ Patch replied. ‘I’m not very interested.’
Camaldoli’s friendly face fell and he hurriedly pulled forward a pad and a newly sharpened pencil.
‘My apologies,’ he said briskly. ‘I get so carried away. So much is at stake. How can we help you?’
While Cecilia told him why they had come, Camaldoli listened in silence, his elbows on the desk, his chin on his clenched fists, the picture of interest. The minute she had finished, he sat back, picked up his pencil, toyed thoughtfully with it for a second, threw it down with a gesture, and spread his hands palms down on the desk.
‘You say your name is Leonardi, signorina,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Are you – would you be related at all to a Dr Leonardi, also of Anapoli Porto?’
‘He’s my grandfather.’
Camaldoli’s cheerfulness had vanished as he opened the drawer of a steel file behind him and took out a folder. ‘These,’ he explained glumly, ‘are Dr Leonardi’s letters. The last one’s dated six months ago – last autumn. It desires that we send an expert with gravimeters to make tests on Mont Amarea. It suggests also that, failing this, we should permit him the use of our instruments. If he only knew their value!’ He raised his eyebrows at the aside. ‘It suggests he might be taken on our staff as an observer. It suggests that the island’s in danger of disintegration, following an eruption of Mont Amarea. It suggests, in fact, all manner of disasters.’
He placed the file in front of them, and turned the sheets of paper over with smooth pale fingers. ‘This is another, dated the year before that. According to this one, Anapoli’s about to be swallowed up in a vast subterranean explosion. This one, the previous spring, states that the lava is on the point of overflowing.
‘Those are the warnings,’ he explained. ‘One a year without fail. These – he turned the file over and opened it at the back – ‘these are what you might call urgent letters, not offering information but merely calling for help.’ He paused and peered at the pile of papers. ‘Nineteen twenty-two. That’s the date on the first one, though there may have been earlier ones which weren’t filed. They’ve come almost six-monthly ever since. We’ve a matter of over fifty. And we’ve not yet had a request from the authorities to go there over and above our normal routine visit. And Anapoli’s still there.’
He paused, obviously trying hard not to be too depressing in spite of the unspoken hint of what he thought of their mission. ‘Signorina,’ he said. ‘It’s unfortunate that Anapoli’s such a long way off. Perhaps because of that it’s been a little neglected. But there’s no money for small islands and dying volcanoes. We’re not a government department. There is no government department concerned with volcanoes.’
He saw Patch’s surprise.
‘Is it so fantastic as it seems,’ he asked, ‘when you consider how dangerous it is to cross the road and how few people are killed by eruptions? However, we’re hoping one day to erect observatories on the sides of every existing volcano. Small ones, of course, but the type of volcano we have here in Italy can largely be predicted without observatories. They have cycles and we can predict when the cycles are arriving with our instruments.’
‘Is one arriving now?’ Patch interrupted.
Camaldoli spread his hands and looked vaguely sheepish. ‘It’s not possible to predict exactly what a volcano will do,’ he admitted. ‘The science of volcanology is still in its infancy. But we check regularly. It’s only three months since we had someone at Anapoli making gravimetric measurements. They travelled right round Amarea.’
‘Can’t they come again?’
Carnaldoli shrugged. ‘We can’t be in two places at once. Perhaps in a few weeks…’
He saw the look on Cecilia’s face and hurried to explain. ‘No volcano in Italy becomes dangerously active so quickly you can’t afford to wait,’ he said. ‘And Amarea, in spite of the rumbles, has long since been pronounced dead.’
Twenty-two
In the days that followed, they tried everyone they could think of but the reactions were sickeningly disappointing. The officials of the Ministry of the Interior whom they contacted referred them back immediately to the university.
‘It’s no concern of ours,’ they said. ‘Not until after an eruption. Then we organise relief and help. Until then, only the universities are interested. Have you tried the Ministry of Education?’
Patch felt curiously like laughing. Somehow, the brooding viciousness of Amarea didn’t seem to fit among the statistics showing the incidence of success among twelve-year-old scholars and the tendency of university students to leave when they were married.
At the newspaper offices, everyone was too busy with the election to investigate suggestions of neglect on Anapoli among the bigger issues at stake, especially after Dr Leonardi’s repeated warnings that had never come to anything.
‘We’ll mention it, of course,’ they said. ‘But everything but the election and the international news is cut to a minimum at the moment.’
In the end, Patch even tried the British Consulate. But, ‘This is an Italian affair,’ they said. ‘It’s no concern of ours. Naturally if anything happened, we should do all in our power to help.’
Patch had to admit failure, but to Cecilia he tried to appear still confident. ‘There’s always Major Raphael,’ he said cheerfully. ‘He’s a go-ahead type. Let’s try him.’
When the clerk ushered them into his office, Raphael was admiring the view from the window. It was a pleasant view across the roofs with a strip of blue sea and the grey slopes of the mountains in the distance where the bay curved out to the headland. Just below him a large palm gave it an exotic African touch. The whole picture seemed to be splashed with gold and striped with shadow, and through the open window he could hear the gay trumpeting of motor horns and the high-pitched chatter of children’s voices in the street below.
Raphael turned away from the view reluctant
ly as the door opened.
‘Thanks, Hauser,’ he said to the clerk, and came forward to meet Patch. He pushed chairs forward for them and sat down again behind his desk, brisk and efficient.
‘Shoot,’ he said vigorously. ‘If it’s in my power to do anything, I’ll do it. You know that.’
Patch explained their mission and Raphael’s lean handsome face looked owlish from behind his spectacles.
‘Sounds rugged,’ he said when they’d finished.
He thoughtfully pushed a photograph straight on his desk and Patch saw it was a pretty girl in an officer’s uniform.
Raphael sat for a moment in silence, thinking, then he looked up again at Patch, his eyes mildly interested.
‘Why have you come to me particularly?’ he asked.
Patch hesitated before he spoke. It seemed fantastic that most of their fears were based only on the feelings of a young boy and a frightened girl and a stubborn sea-captain, none of whom had been born at the time of Amarea’s last real evidences of activity, but it seemed even more fantastic that they couldn’t persuade anyone to listen to them. He began to wish Hannay were alongside him, square and solid and immovable, to add his weight to the argument, In his self-righteous way, he was so convinced of danger, he could almost feel the stirring under Amarea through the soles of his shoes.
‘We wanted your help,’ he said. ‘The authorities on the island won’t do anything.’
Raphael’s expression became immediately guarded. ‘Why not?’ he asked.
‘Because they’re too busy with the election.’
Raphael grinned at Cecilia. ‘It’s tough, isn’t it? You can’t get served anywhere.’ He paused, swinging back to Patch. ‘But, hell, if the thing’s flinging out rocks and scoriae, they’ve got to do something.’
‘It isn’t flinging out rocks – not yet.’
Raphael’s expression altered again, and this time there was a hint of doubt in his eyes.
‘Then what is it doing?’
‘Smoking.’
‘Yeah, but what else?’
‘Rumbling.’
‘That’s nothing.’
‘All the animals and birds have left the place.’
‘It happens regularly on Etna and Vesuvius and Stromboli. Etna’s having a go now, in fact.’
‘So is Amarea. It’s smoking.’
‘Steaming,’ Raphael corrected.
‘Smoking,’ Patch insisted.
‘Have it your own way. But it’s not active enough to erupt. It’s not erupted for two hundred years. I’ve got the data somewhere. There’s been an occasional dusting of ash round the crater. Nothing more. Popocatapetl steams and that’s extinct.’
‘To me that’s a reminder that it’s active.’ Patch felt that he was almost quoting Dr Leondardi. ‘It’s active until it grows grass in the crater. And then it could still be active.’
Raphael rubbed his nose. ‘Maybe,’ he agreed. ‘But it doesn’t sound very active. What else?’
Again Patch felt that sense of hopelessness. ‘Nothing else,’ he said finally. He glanced at Cecilia but she was sitting silently, allowing him to deal with Raphael on his own.
‘Nothing?’ the American was saying.
‘No.’
‘Well, what are you worrying about?’
‘Oh, God’ – Patch lit a cigarette quickly – ‘it’s something you can’t explain. It’s something you couldn’t put down in an official report. You can just feel something’s going to happen. I’m beginning to feel it now.’
Raphael was thoughtfully rubbing his nose again. ‘Doesn’t sound much to go on,’ he said. He was silent for a while, then the buzzer on his desk went. He pressed a switch and Hauser’s voice came on the loudspeaker.
‘Lieutenant Andreas on the ‘phone, sir.’
‘OK. Put her through.’
He picked up the telephone. ‘Hi, Freddy! How do you feel this morning?’
He listened, smiling, and Patch and Cecilia could hear the high-pitched voice of a woman in the earphone.
Raphael laughed into the instrument. ‘Fine. That’s fine,’ he said. ‘Only I’m tied up just now. But it sounds a good idea.’ He glanced at Patch and Cecilia. ‘Give me a minute or two, will you? I’ll ring you back.’
He put down the instrument.
‘Just got myself engaged,’ he said, smiling. ‘She’s out here from home, too. Now, then, where is this place?’
He rose enthusiastically and crossed to a map of the Mediterranean on the wall.
‘My, Tom,’ he said ‘It’s a hell of a way out. I didn’t realise it was so far. What can I do from here?’
‘Nothing. How about coming and looking at it?’
Raphael’s smile had disappeared. ‘It would take a week to get there and back, and, man, that’s a long time. I’d have to take some leave for that. ‘And’ – he began to look dogged – ‘I’ve just got engaged, Tom.’
He suddenly seemed to realise he was not being very helpful. ‘Just a moment,’ he said. ‘I’ve got an idea. You ought to be able to see if there’s anything going on there from the air. The flying boys are always on missions over the Tyrrhenian. They could maybe lay one on over the island and take a look-see for you.’
He jiggled the telephone switch. ‘Hauser,’ he said. ‘You know Major Holly? Get hold of him, will you?’
He dropped the telephone and came round the desk again, talking, pretending enthusiasm, but Patch knew his heart wasn’t in it. He glanced at Cecilia but she was sitting silently in her chair, her face pale.
Raphael was telling them about a party he’d been to the night before when the telephone rang again. He reached out a long arm.
‘That you, Nick? Listen, I want you to do something for me–’
He explained what he wanted, then stopped as the man on the other end of the line replied.
‘What’s that? Yesterday? Yeah, do that.’
He looked up at Patch. ‘A ship reported smoke from your island,’ he said. ‘Thought it might be another ship on fire. One of the fighter boys was directed to have a look at it. Holly’s getting the report now.’
He looked down at the telephone as the distant Holly spoke again.
‘That all?’ he asked. ‘Nothing more than that? OK. Thanks. That helps a lot.’
He replaced the telephone with the expression of a man with a job well done behind him.
‘You can go back and tell them there’s nothing to worry about,’ he said. ‘That pilot said there was nothing to see.’
‘What was he looking for?’ Patch asked.
‘Oh, nothing, particularly. He just had a look and then came home and reported it wasn’t a ship.’
‘Did he examine the crater?’
‘Sure he did. The report says he could see right into it.’
‘Seeing something’s different from examining it.’
‘Well’ – Raphael began to look a little indignant – ‘he went to look at a ship not a mountain. Why should he be interested in volcanoes? He’s seen ’em all round here. He knows it’s there. He knows it has a plume of steam – or smoke, if you want it that way. It’s on his charts. Why should he lose any hair over it? He’s probably flown over it dozens of times, like he has over Stromboli and Vesuvius and Etna. It’s nothing new to him.’
‘Look, Curt,’ Patch said seriously. ‘It’s not just for me. There are other people involved. Even one or two Americans. We want some real advice.’
‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘It’s not advice. We want to start the authorities moving.’
Raphael frowned. ‘Listen, Tom,’ he said quietly, and there was stubbornness in his expression now. ‘Get this straight: I don’t want to tangle with the authorities. I’m here because I’m doing a surveying job for the fleet in Naples, that’s all. And the United States Navy’s not here to run the country. It’s just what the Commies want – for us to poke our nose in where it shouldn’t be, so they could claim interference and toss us out our base.’
‘OK, thanks.’ Patch rose. His smile was tired. ‘Thanks, Curt. Let’s go, Cecilia.’
‘I just got engaged,’ Raphael said despairingly. ‘Things are different now.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Hold it, Tom.’ Raphael was scribbling frantically on a piece of paper, desperately trying to show how helpful he could be. ‘How about seeing this old boy? Guy called Marotta. He’s a bit of an expert. He’s retired now, but I guess he’ll help you. Especially if there’s money in it. You can find him in Tazzi’s Bar in the Galleria Savoia any time before noon. Marotta, that’s his name. Marotta.’
Twenty-three
But Marotta was too old – too old and too infirm. In spite of the heat, he sat outside Tazzi’s in a heavy overcoat, his sharp birdlike face and yellow skin indicating that he had been half-starved over a long period.
He listened politely to Patch, his attention still partly on the sound of the political arguments that came from the bars and shops and hairdressers’ saloons in the high vaulted arcade where the tattered children begged for coins and the wings of the pigeons made echoes in the high glass roof, but his face never showed much interest except when they offered him another coffee and a drink.
‘Volcanoes are born pranksters,’ was all he could say. He repeated it – again and again interspersing his mumbled explanations of the workings of Vesuvius and Etna with it.
‘Volcanoes are born pranksters.’
Clearly he had no intention of moving from his comfortable seat and, looking at his withered fingers and tired eyes, Patch felt he could hardly blame him. They contented themselves in the end with getting from him the name of a professor of geology who was acting as adviser on several building operations in the district and went to see him instead. But the professor was a smart professional with what was clearly a thriving practice and he seemed hostile from the first, going to enormous lengths to describe how busy he was and how big his fees would be. He seemed to regard Cecilia and Patch as a couple of nervous neurotics.