‘I once had a fine, warm house.’
‘Yes. In Dublin.’ It was a name Luca had learnt from the old man.
‘A beautiful city, it was. Have I told you about the Cylinder? Like nothing else on earth. A wonder. It rose to touch the stars.’
‘That place is gone now. It’s under the ice.’
‘My girl, she was pregnant.’
‘They took her away from you before the baby was born. It was cruel.’
‘I never saw her again. So long ago. Eighteen years.’ Luca had heard the story many times before, knew it to be nonsensical (for who ever heard of these people the Neanderthals, or a time when the sea was a desert?), but he did not interrupt the old man. ‘We sat on the Atlantic beach with the Neanderthals. For what, I don’t know, since we were sure the world was about to end. Most of them sat in silence, as was their way. Here and there small groups gathered and recited their tribal sagas. They paid no heed to what was happening around them, captivated as they were by the magnificent visions of their ancient ancestors. Their faces lit with joy as they recounted great victories and exceptional harvests. They wept at the memories of plague and persecution.
‘Then someone cried out and pointed out to sea. Vessels were approaching from the north. Even from a great distance I could see that the boats were of Neanderthal design. Leather sails caught the ocean wind. Flying from the mast of the lead vessel was the Neanderthal crest that signifies Europe.
‘They anchored some way out. Rowboats came to shore, and the first refugees were taken aboard. Those not chosen were angry and desperate, and it became difficult for the sailors of the following boats to control the multitudes pressing forward. Mothers proffered babies; men pushed forward their wives. Blood started to spill as warriors turned on each other. An attempt was made to storm a ship, but it was repulsed. Eventually, however, assailants did take control of a ship, and called for their families to join them. A toothless warrior wanted Helen as a prize, and spoke a challenge to me. I delivered a blow to the side of his massive Neanderthal skull, but he called to his friends and they set upon me. I was struck down by heavy zurks, and fell into the shallow salt water. They carried Helen away with them. The ship made sail.
‘I watched the vessel head north across the short stretch between Mons Abyla and Mons Calpe. By the time they were halfway across, stars were tumbling again. A fireball streaked over and crashed into the sea somewhere far out to the west. Another was visible arcing groundwards some distance to the south. It struck on land. The earth shuddered after the impact flash. Half a dozen fireballs hit in a straight line far down the African Wall in the Salt Desert, raising plumes of smoke and dust. Then one hit between the Pillars. It gouged a great gash in the barrier that held, in those days, the Atlantic at bay. The sudden ocean surge poured down the precipice, and a lake began to form below even as I watched, the lake that is now the Mediterranean Sea. I never knew if she had made it to the other side, or if her ship slipped over the falls. Anyway, that’s now I lost my wife and child.’
‘I was thinking, signor. Perhaps she survived this disaster. I am an orphan. I am eighteen. Maybe you are my father.’
The old man’s eyes brightened. He clasped Luca’s hand with surprising strength. ‘Perhaps I am, boy.’
When the old man slept again, Luca returned to the window. There was some activity at the docks. A Libyan ship was coming into port. A band of militia was there waiting to meet it, guns at the ready. Tomorrow, the local militia would leave Italy for North Africa with all their stolen riches. They would abandon the weak and the poor to the spreading ice. Luca hated them. They took everything for themselves, left the ordinary people to starve, shot at them for scavenging in empty houses for firewood. They shot at Luca simply for being what he was, a young wanderer.
The old man had been a good friend to him these past few months. He slowed Luca down, but he made the nights easier to sleep through. He told Luca about old times, when lives had been better. Luca was never sure whether the old man was telling the truth, or whether he was half-mad. But he liked to hear the stories.
It occurred to Luca that evening was approaching. ‘Signore, we should move down into the town before it gets dark.’
The old man did not respond. Luca went to him. ‘Signore?’ He shook the withered body. The old man was dead. Luca stood over him for some time. Then he leaned down and kissed the old man’s forehead. ‘Goodbye, my friend.’
He emptied out the old man’s pack and transferred what was of use to his own. He left the body where it rested in the palazzo. The cold would preserve it. Long after Luca was gone, even when he had managed finally to stow away to Libya, the old man would still be there. Still slumbering, still dreaming of his home, dreaming his dreams of an age Luca had never known.
At the Edge of the Game Page 23