The Sleeping Mountain

by John Harris

  ‘The bloodhound’s still there,’ he said. He laughed shortly.

  ‘Odd, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘When for the first time in my life I show some signs of responsibility, everybody who represents responsibility comes down on me like a ton of bricks and tells me I’m being irresponsible. Everybody’s come safely out of it but me.’

  He turned away and Cecilia felt tears stinging her eyes as she realised her own share in the events which were driving him away. She sat on the bed, her legs weak, and he crossed to her and blew in her ear from behind.

  ‘Tom, what are you going to do?’

  ‘Blow in your ear.’

  ‘Tom, be serious.’ He swung away again, smiling, but restless. ‘If I were serious, I’d probably cut that damned officer’s liver out.’

  ‘You can’t let them drive you out.’

  ‘Cecilia, my little love, I’m out already.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s probably a good thing. It’ll stir me up. That damn’ Primavera was beginning to look as if it had been painted by a three-year-old with a box of birthday colours.’

  He came up behind her again and kissed her gently on the cheek. His eyes were tender and as she searched his face she prayed he wouldn’t spoil the moment with something angry or sarcastic. She’d thought many times in the last few days of a time like this; lying in her bed hearing him moving upstairs, her body crying out with this incredible new longing for his hands in her hair and his lips on her throat.

  Please God, she prayed, don’t let him go without me. Let him understand.

  But he seemed not to notice her and shattered the moment with the commonplace sarcasm she’d feared.

  ‘Time you were off now,’ he said. ‘Or you’ll be a lost woman.’

  He indicated the old lady watching with interest at the window of the room across the street. ‘Besides, I’m an international spy now – allied to Bosco and in the pay of the Kremlin.’

  He gave her the wry grin she loved so much and without another word, went out, slamming the door behind him.

  Thirty-six

  There was a full moon when Patch left the dark chasm of the Via Pescatori. The colour-washed walls of the houses alongside him rose in the pale blue light to the balconies above that ended in black oblique slashes where the spikes of a big cactus in a pot threw stark shadows across the stone-work like great clawing fingers.

  The rain had stopped again and the air was fresh with the dampness of it. In the gutters, the puddles picked up the moonlight in bright glints. Below him, towards the sea and the lights of the Great Watling Street, the russet tiles of the roofs were dusted with silver, and the houses looked like cubes of black and white on a checkerboard. Through the leaning walls, he could see the harbour and the sleek shapes of the battleships out in the bay marked with the yellow lines of their portholes, and against the mole the tubby shape of the Great Watling Street.

  Hannay was waiting for him by the gangway when he arrived. He carried his old green suitcase and a bundle of small canvases, and behind him Meucci wheeled a handcart with his easel and another bundle of canvases. As he reached the ship, he noticed that the policeman who had followed him from the end of the Via Pescatori had stopped in the Piazza del Mare and was surreptitiously lighting a cigarette in a corner.

  ‘Thank you for the escort, Pasotti,’ Patch shouted. ‘You can go home now.’

  The policeman’s head came up for a moment, then he was engrossed again with his cigarette.

  Hannay greeted him without a smile.

  ‘Ready?’ he asked.

  Patch nodded.

  ‘Said good-bye to Cecilia?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Hannay glanced curiously at him. He had seen the tears in Cecilia’s eyes when Patch had gone to see Pelli, had seen the doubt and the anguish as she waited for him to return. ‘Dead keen on you, that kid, Tom,’ he said and Patch looked up at the unexpected use of his Christian name.

  ‘Yes, I know she is,’ he said.

  ‘Meeting her again?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Never? Aren’t you – er – sort of fond of her, too? I always thought you was a bit.’

  ‘Of course I am, you bloody fool!’

  ‘But–’

  ‘Let’s cut out the “Love’s Old Sweet Song”,’ Patch said quickly. ‘She’s better off without me. She’s only a kid and I’m approaching forty.’

  ‘She doesn’t seem to think it’s a drawback.’

  ‘Maybe not. But I’m a bad-tempered bastard, too, with a tongue like barbed wire. I’ve quarrelled with every established and decent society in London and New York and now I’ve done it here. Enemies stick to me like flies to a jam-pot. She deserves something better than that.’

  Hannay seemed about to say something in protest. He stared at Patch, baffled, his realistic, honest soul which had been caught up in a fragment of romantic hope, bitterly disappointed, then he shrugged and took the suitcase.

  ‘Let’s have you aboard,’ he said.

  They spoke to each other without warmth but there was an odd sort of affection between them.

  ‘You’d better have Anderson’s cabin,’ Hannay went on. ‘He’s up in town with his woman. He’ll not leave her till we’re due to sail, so you might as well. He’ll be on duty then, anyway, and I’ll leave a message for him with the watchman.’

  As a tearful Meucci passed Patch’s few belongings aboard, Hannay stared up at Amarea and the column of smoke that was moving slowly across the moon.

  ‘Is it my imagination,’ he said, ‘or is there more smoke?’

  ‘I expect it’s your imagination. You’ve got a good imagination.’

  Hannay accepted the rebuke without speaking. Patch seemed to have lost all interest in anything but getting away from Anapoli, and he followed Hannay through the ship without another word.

  Anderson’s cabin was a locker-like compartment hung with its owner’s clothes. Tucked into the sides of the spotted mirror were one or two yellowing photographs of Anderson’s girl friends whose backgrounds seemed to vary between the palm trees of the far east and the plain brick walls of a Manchester backyard, and one of the boat-hooks was girdled with the dusty pink frill of a woman’s garter.

  ‘It’s a bit small but I reckon it’ll do you for a bit,’ Hannay commented.

  He stepped towards the bunk and, yanking the ginger cat from the covers, threw it through the door.

  ‘That damned cat,’ he complained. ‘It’ll be pupping in his pocket one of these days and serve him right.’

  When Hannay had left, Patch took off his jacket and threw himself down on the hard bunk.

  A dog howled among the houses round the Piazza del Mare, and Patch, suffocating in the stifling heat of the little cabin, heaved over on the bunk, lit a cigarette, puffed once on it, and forgot it. Of all that he had left behind on Anapoli only Cecilia remained vividly in his mind at that moment and he wondered if she would ever get away from the island now.

  He began to think that perhaps he’d been a damn’ fool to leave her but for the life of him he couldn’t imagine her living out her days with him – or even wanting to. He knew he loved her – he must have done for ages – but he couldn’t see her giving up security and dignity in her own country and all that someone like Piero could offer her for the knock-down-drag-out kind of life he’d been used to, living in hired rooms, with the smell of turpentine getting into the food, and the paint spotting the furniture, the noisy, quarrelsome, crowded places like Mamma Meucci’s. She’d never seemed to fit into that scarred and faded block in the Via Pescatori and somehow now, in Anderson’s cabin with its stale souvenirs of his shabby love affairs, she seemed even more decent and desirable.

  The cigarette burned his fingers and he threw it out of the porthole. The dog howled again and Patch noticed the sighing sound from the mountain had increased, like a rising wind.

  By the time he turned out the light and lay in the dark, still unable to push Cecilia from his mind, more dogs had started howling, and now and the
n he heard a fishermans donkey bray, raucous and abrupt in the stillness, from its stables behind the Via Maddalena.

  He woke up panting. The air seemed charged with heat to the point of explosion and the place was full of the smell of smoke.

  Then he became conscious of a whistling roar that filled the air, and the sighing sound now grown as harsh and grating as escaping steam. Even as he swung his legs from the bunk the din increased and he heard the sound of footsteps on the deck. He leapt for the door, almost crashing into Hannay who had come to fetch him.

  ‘Brother,’ Hannay said, in his flat voice. ‘’Old your ’at on. The perisher’s started again. Half an hour ago, and it’s increasing fast.’

  They turned on their heels and ran for the deck. Just as they reached the bridge, they saw an immense flower of flame shoot from the top of the mountain and go roaring up into the sky in a majestic column of smoke. As they ducked back, unharmed but instinctively cowering, there was a sound like a million batteries of artillery firing a barrage, followed by another puff of flame that illuminated the ship and threw up the crooked houses of the Porto into yellow squares dotted with the blind eyes of their windows. Then the glow died in some sort of mysterious ebb and flow, like the breathing of some gigantic monster, and the houses disappeared again into the darkness.

  For a while, still crouching and unable to believe that they could be safe, they stared at Amarea, the breath caught in their throats at the magnificence and the evil of it, the words stuck to their tongues. Then a fountain of sparks exploded from the crater and fell in long slow arcs to the sides of the mountain. It was as though the town were on fire, for the glare lit up the whole island and the sea.

  There was a sudden chatter of excitement from the Lascar seamen lining the rails and a distinct human wail from dozens of throats that came from the town and was drowned immediately by the roar that accompanied a new cascade of flames and sparks.

  ‘Some of that lot’s coming down near Fumarola,’ Hannay said and they both thought immediately of Don Dominico and his big black boots and his dusty soutane and the tired eyes that had lit up so at the news that they would help him.

  The fires in the crater died away again – but only for a second, then there was another explosion and another salvo of sparks shot thousands of feet into the air among the rolling smoke. In spite of all that had happened in the past three weeks, they were still surprised and shocked by the sight.

  ‘Sudden activity on the Canzone del Mare,’ Hannay said laconically, apparently unmoved by the din as he indicated Forla’s yacht with his thumb. All its lights were blazing and as they stared they saw a small rowing boat move out from the shadows near the shore and cross a strip of brightly illuminated water that shone like burnished copper. It disappeared again into the blackness alongside the yacht and several people were helped on board. Immediately they heard the low thrum of the yacht’s engines starting up, and the Canzone del Mare began to move slowly towards the sea.

  ‘What do you bet that’s Forla?’ Hannay said. ‘Running like a mad rat off a sinking ship.’

  Patch had said nothing during the explosions from the mountain and now he turned away from the rail abruptly.

  ‘I’m going ashore,’ he said.

  Hannay swung round on him. ‘That cop’s still there at the end of the mole,’ he said. ‘You’ll never get past him.’

  ‘Just watch me.’

  ‘Where’re you going?’

  ‘Cecilia. She’s on her own.’

  ‘She’s got the old man.’

  ‘He’s more a hindrance than a help. Let go of my bloody arm.’

  Hannay swung Patch round again to face him with a surprising strength. ‘OK, Tom,’ he said gently. ‘OK, I’m going to. But give us an ear for a sec.’

  Patch disengaged his arm and stared impatiently at Hannay who held out a rubber-covered torch. ‘First of all,’ he said. ‘Get your ‘ooks on this. It might be useful. And, Tom, bring her down here. The old man as well, if you like. But bring Cecilia with you especially. Don’t take no for an answer. Don’t let her refuse. If you don’t bring her, lad,’ he said earnestly, ‘you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.’

  The noise from the mountain was increasing all the time and they found they were having to shout as what sounded like a fault in some gigantic boiler muffled their words. It was followed by another series of violent detonations like a prolonged bellowing that shook the whole of the mole.

  People began to run about in the Piazza del Mare, black figures against the glow that was reflected from the sky, as the whole crazy joke started all over again.

  Hannay gave Patch a push.

  ‘Hurry up now, lad,’ he said. ‘And, lad–’

  ‘Spit it out, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘If you see Cristoforo, send him down here. Dead smart.’ Hannay’s face seemed suddenly twisted with worry. ‘I can’t leave me ship to look for him. Not now. I might have to take her to sea in a hurry.’

  Patch nodded and as he leapt for the gangway, he heard Hannay’s voice trailing after him, shoving its hostile way through a halt in the din.

  ‘And if you see that bloody Anderson,’ he was shouting, ‘give him a kick up the arse for me.’

  Patch clattered across the swaying gangway and headed up the mole. As he reached the Customs House, the policeman, who was standing there staring at the mountain, spotted him and jumped out, throwing his cigarette away hurriedly.

  ‘Signor Patch. I’m sorry. You can’t go up there.’

  ‘Good God, Pasotti,’ Patch said scornfully. ‘With the whole world falling apart round your ears, you’re not going to worry about me.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Signor Patch.’

  The policeman reached out a hand to lay it on Patch’s arm but it halted in mid-air as the mole seemed to heave underneath their feet as the mountain rocked in its agony. They staggered together at the dim violent movement beneath them, holding on to each other for balance.

  Amarea gave another thunderous roar and there was a flash of blinding yellow that seemed to leap straight across the sky, as though the whole crater were edged with fire that lit up the underbelly of the clouds and the billowing smoke that rolled upwards into the night sky. Then, as the roar subsided into a series of indistinct explosions, the glare reddened and died away again.

  The policeman had turned and was staring back at Amarea with frightened eyes.

  ‘What about your wife and children, Pasotti?’ Patch shouted at him. ‘Anybody looking after them while you’re keeping an eye on me?’

  The policeman looked agitated, then he shook his head again. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘You can’t leave. I have my orders.’

  ‘Do your orders say you’ve got to let your family chance it just to see that I don’t get away?’

  Another outburst of rage from the mountain lit their faces. In the Piazza del Mare, groups of people from the houses around who had been staring towards the crater were now moving agitatedly, like a lot of disturbed ants. The noise for a few moments was unspeakable and the groups split up and started for the mole.

  The policeman was gazing at the sky as the racket grew worse, and while his attention was diverted, Patch gave him a shove and, bolting past him, started to run.

  ‘Signor Patch!’

  Pasotti shouted and started after him, then as Patch doubled backwards and forwards among the frightened people in the Piazza del Mare, he stopped dead, thought of his wife and children, and headed for the Via Garibaldi.

  Thirty-seven

  In the Via Maddalena, the noise of the volcano had brought the people into the street in large numbers. Lights had appeared at windows and the crowds began to gather outside the doorways of the blocks of apartments. Nobody seemed able to make up their minds what to do and stood about in the dust-filled air of the streets, shouting at each other.

  ‘We were told there was no danger,’ someone said indignantly, as though he’d been cheated.

  ‘No danger!’ A man
laughed harshly. ‘Take a look at Amarea.’

  Another great fountain of flame had burst upwards from the summit, shooting skywards in a hideous column, flame-red at its base and darkening to a deep purple that twisted and writhed in agony as it joined the rolling mass of black cloud and smoke, starred and split with lurid flashes like summer lightning. The noise was unbelievable as the stones and scoriae whistled thousands of feet into the sky, and everyone in the street became silent, listening and waiting.

  Then a woman on the fringe of the crowd that was spilling out of the Piazza Martiri began to shout ‘Castigo di Dio, the Punishment of God,’ in a harsh bestial way that tore at the ears, her frozen agonised face devoid of tears, her throat stringy with shrieking; and the crowd began to heave like a monstrous caterpillar again, making it harder for Patch to push through them on his way to the Via Pescatori, so that lie had to use his fists and the rubber-covered torch to force a way.

  The falling dust seemed to be growing worse and the windows of the houses glowed dimly as though through a fog. Coughing, gasping, weeping people were beginning to take shelter as it tore at their lungs. The lights were all on in the Church of Sant’ Agata and through the gritty glow of the open doorway Patch could see women huddling with their children. Above the hubbub came the faint high sound of singing as Don Alessandro knelt in prayer before the altar where the lights smudged the old stone of the pillars with gold.

  A policeman, looking badly in need of a shave, his jacket unbuttoned, was standing in the middle of the mob, his pistol out of its holster, trying to calm the panic. He had been literally rolled out of bed by the shaking of the floor, so he had dressed quickly and hurried on duty.

  The ground shook again and there was a crash as a piece of masonry fell from a building. The crater had glared up again and they saw bursts of vivid red projectiles dropping back from the column of smoke to the sides of the mountain. The throaty clacking noise beat at their ears, half-submerging the whistle of steam that came like the bronchitic gasping of a colossal animal in pain. Then there was a flurried rattling of descending stones and everyone began to push harder as the buildings shook with the noise. The furniture, the floors and the doors buzzed under the vibration while the little pots of geraniums that adorned the balconies jiggled together in a hideous serenade.