Like a wasp in flight, the fishing boat shot off over the water, zigzagging across the oil-smooth surface. The man shouted and hurled the harpoon with all his might; the harpoon whistled into the sea and vanished under the surface. The harpoonist stood wobbling in the bow of the boat, moving not a muscle, like the rest of the crew. The harpoon’s line, coiled in a wide-mouthed half-keg fastened to the bottom of the boat, paid out rapidly until it jerked the keg into the sea. A shout from the boat’s lookout and the oarsmen began rowing again, pulling desperately after the keg that was skipping rapidly over the waves, marking the route of the harpooned fish. Then the keg started wobbling and jerking around as if it were possessed. In its death throes, the swordfish was twisting and turning, creating whirlpools and geysers of water, and then it started to slow down; it broke the surface, then plunged back under, emerging again, while its silvery belly glittered in the sunlight, reflecting the light like a mirror held underwater. At last, the fish plunged shuddering into the depths. At a signal from the harpooner, the boat inched forward to haul its prey gently up from below.
The carriage climbed up onto the hilltop. The air was cooler up here. From this distance, the swordfish hunts—hundreds of them at any one time, spread out over the Strait of Messina—sketched arabesques in white foam over the surface of the sea, lingering only for instants, then vanishing; the tiny fishing boats seemed like so many swallows soaring over the water which was dotted with long-pistilled flowers bobbing in place. “Ah, how I love swordfish,” Annuzza murmured, licking her wrinkled lips, certain she could already taste it. At the Craxi house meals were lavish affairs, and Amalia would make sure she was given a generous serving of swordfish.
“Mmm,” Agata echoed her. She too loved to eat. She flashed a melancholy smile, then shivered.
After the Feast of the Assumption, Giacomo had vanished and she hadn’t heard from him since. Every morning, she rose at dawn, tormented by her yearning to see him, thirsting for a sign from him, any sign. But in vain. The shutters of Giacomo’s bedroom remained resolutely fastened shut. There was not the slightest sign of life, even from the line of balconies with their jutting “goose-breast” railings, crowded with flower pots and covered with thirsty ivy plants, dangling and tossing in the wind. And each morning, Agata relived the anguish of hope and disappointment that she’d felt on that melancholy August 16, when the city, exhausted from the celebrations of the previous day, still slept, and in the streets below there was not a living soul around, not even one of the nanny-goats with swollen udders that goatherds drove from house to house every morning, milking them at each stop. She’d considered everything imaginable: perhaps his father or his cruel mother had forbidden him ever to see her again, perhaps her beloved had fallen ill or even died, perhaps he was angry at her for her refusal to kiss him, maybe he’d fallen out of love with her, or even decided to go ahead and marry that other girl. Agata wasn’t jealous by nature, and she’d come to accept the fact that her mother preferred her other daughters—in fact, she often felt pity for her sisters, forced as they were to suffer the attentions of Donna Gesuela, while Agata remained free to read and spend time on her own pursuits. But now she felt the pangs of jealousy: just the thought that Giacomo might have agreed to marry the other girl was pure torture. She’d rather see him dead than happy with that one. She went so far as to dream of her own death, but only after she’d successfully murdered the two lovers. Jealousy not only clouded her mind, it was driving her into the throes of delirium. That morning in the city, she’d peered into every carriage that they passed, searching for his face: she could have sworn that she spotted him at least twice, sitting between a pair of glowering thugs. The blood of the swordfish hunt, the harsh beauty of the hillside and the bracing scents of the countryside sharpened both her yearning and her despair. She felt a chill. Without a word, Annuzza threw a cotton quilt around her shoulders and tucked it snugly around her.
At the age of twenty-two, Amalia was a happy bride and a contented mother. She lavished the same loving care on her own children and those from her husband’s first marriage, and her husband, in his gratitude, never thought of trying to restrain his wife’s extravagance toward the Padellanis. Amalia had inherited her father’s cheerful good nature and her mother’s love of good food; the Craxis’ guests invariably enjoyed their stay. Agata and Carmela enjoyed playing with their nieces and nephews. After a quick snack and refreshments, the English governess who was in charge of their Calabrian nephew Francesco took them all out into the garden. They wandered, singing, down the shady garden paths while the youngest children skipped and jumped in time with the melodies. Once they reached the overlook, they threw themselves down to rest on the blankets arrayed beneath the pine trees, all but Agata. She looked out over the panorama and felt cut off from the world and hopelessly unhappy. The pine needles rustled in the gentle autumn breeze. The tall lighthouse loomed up over the deep blue waters. Messina stretched out at their feet, with Reggio facing it, directly across the strait. The fishermen had suspended their swordfish hunt to allow ships to pass back and forth through the strait. The vessels that shuttled back and forth between the two cities left foamy wakes on the dark blue sea, an evanescent spider web linking island and mainland. All it took was two sailing ships flying French colors plying the waters of the Strait of Messina to disturb that illusion of fine, taut threads, making it clear just how distinctly separate the two shores really were.
That afternoon, Agata welcomed her parents with a dazzling smile. She’d persuaded herself that, after ferragosto, Giacomo must have gone to his grandfather’s villa, there to discuss the best way to win over his parents and that he had succeeded in having his way—that that very morning the Lepres had come calling on her parents; which must be why at the last minute she had been told to ride out to Amalia’s house in the first carriage, instead of riding in the carriage with her parents. The more she thought about it, the more sure Agata felt that this was exactly what had happened. She expected her father to give her the good news immediately after lunch. At the table, she kept her eyes glued on her parents’ faces, in hope of detecting a look, a signal of some kind, but they were busy talking with their hosts and no one gave her so much as a glance.
She had guessed right—but only in part. That morning, Senator Lepre had, in fact, asked to meet with the field marshal. He’d climbed the stairs alone, leaving Giacomo nervously waiting in the carriage, eager to be summoned inside once the details had been thrashed out. As soon as he was ushered into the apartment, he was informed that Don Peppino was indisposed and that the Marescialla alone would receive him. Caught off-balance, Senator Lepre decided it would be a good idea to reveal to her what he intended to tell her husband: he had come to ask Agata’s hand in marriage for his grandson, having chosen to stand in for his own son, as a gesture of respect toward the field marshal, an old friend and contemporary. But then, under a relentless hail of questions from Donna Gesuela, he’d been forced to confess that his daughter-in-law remained implacably determined when it came to the matter of the dowry and that he, moved by the purity of the two young people’s feelings, had decided to take action on his own, confident that his son and daughter-in-law would come to accept the fait accompli. Moreover, he would make a sizable gift to Giacomo on his wedding day.
“And if the field marshal bestows our daughter on you, what kind of treatment can I expect my baby to receive from this mother-in-law who doesn’t want her?” asked the Marescialla, in a sugary sweet voice.
The kind old man’s answer—that he fervently hoped, indeed, he had no doubt whatsoever, that once his daughter-in-law glimpsed Agata’s qualities, she would change her mind—only landed him in the trap Donna Gesuela had laid for him. She asked him to reassure her by recounting in detail all the other occasions in which his daughter-in-law had revised her opinion of someone after acknowledging that she’d misjudged them. Senator Lepre was forced to admit that he couldn’t recall a single instance and he foolishly confided that, precis
ely because of his daughter-in-law’s prickly personality, once he’d become a widower he had chosen to give his eldest son the main, aristocratic floor of the family palazzo and had himself gone, in open violation of tradition, to live in the apartment of his bachelor sons. He even added that he rarely visited his son’s house, so disagreeable did he find his daughter-in-law.
“I’ve heard enough,” Donna Gesuela broke in. “Your family has offended the house of Padellani by turning up its nose at a daughter-in-law of such nobility!” Then she added, imitating her husband’s Neapolitan accent: “‘O megli’e Napule!’—The finest in Naples!”
She’d made up her mind: in the unlikely case that the field marshal gave the hand of Agatuzza in marriage, her blessed daughter would be an unwelcome addition to her husband’s household, subjected to who could imagine what humiliations at the hands of that mother-in-law, as the notary himself had described her! As for her, she would never consent to such a marriage. Still, the final word remained with the field marshal. From her tone of voice, it was unmistakable that a ”yes” was at best a remote possibility.
After lunch, the extended family went downstairs for a walk in the garden. Agata’s father leaned on his daughter’s arm: that morning, he’d been indisposed with an acid stomach, but glutton that he was, he’d eaten heavily and drunk liberally when Amalia presented him with the usual lavish spread. Agata didn’t dare to ask a thing, but even if she had, she’d have been disappointed: the field marshal knew nothing of Senator Lepre’s visit; his wife had decided that there was no reason to poison the perfectly nice day that her husband hoped to spend with his Calabrian grandson.
Night had fallen. Agata tossed and turned in her bed. She couldn’t sleep a wink. What had become of Giacomo? The day’s anxiety had been transformed into a serpent fastened to her breast, eating her alive, as in the image of King Palermo that was so dear to her mother. She heard a noise outside, somewhere deep underground. She lifted her head: Carmela was sleeping peacefully in the next bed, her nightcap askew across her forehead. The dogs were howling, and one in particular was emitting cries that were almost human. Agata tried to sit up, but the room jerked, knocking her back onto the pillows. In the silvery moonlight, the central chandelier was swaying: an earthquake. Doors and windows were creaking, servant bells were chiming. The first person to enter their bedroom was their mother: she ordered them to throw on some clothes and hurry out to safety in the garden, around the fountain. Then came a second shock, stronger than the first. It was followed by a third, a deep roar. They accompanied by rushed outside, young and old, men and women, masters and servants, some in nightshirts, others half dressed. The birds, abandoning nests, branches, and roofs, were soaring in vast looping circles, never daring to set down.
The villa was shaking. One tremor came hard on the heels of the last; they waited for them, speechless and shivering in the biting damp of the starry night. Suddenly, Agata’s jealousy dwindled and vanished. Swept away by the love she felt for her Giacomo, she only wanted him to be safe and happy, whoever that might be with, even if it was the other woman. She prayed to God on his behalf, with all her heart. Her prayer drained her of anxiety; it gave her strength and peace of mind. Agata stared up, as if in a state of ecstasy, at the dark sky crisscrossed by the flight of frenzied birds. The shocks become less frequent.
The earthquake was stronger in Messina. A number of houses that were already crumbling had collapsed entirely, while many others had been damaged, but not severely—nothing comparable to the terrible earthquake of 1783, the memory of which had been impressed in the minds of the people of Messina by the stories of the survivors and the buildings that were leveled. The Padellanis yielded to Amalia’s pleas: they would stay a few more days at the villa. Annuzza had been sent down into the city with a carriage to fetch clean linen and medicine for the field marshal’s catarrh: he’d caught cold during the night they’d spent outdoors, and he now had a fever. She came back with a note for Agata: Giacomo informed her that his father, having learned of their meeting in the cobbler’s shop, had threatened to send Giacomo away to Naples until he got over her. He hadn’t written her before this because he was convinced that they were being spied upon; he begged her forgiveness for the brevity and the terseness of that note—when they were able to see one another again, he’d explain the rest to her. Giacomo made no reference to the meeting between his grandfather and the Marescialla. He concluded by pledging his undying love and urging her to await his return from Naples and to remain faithful to him.
Aghast, Agata took comfort in caring for her suffering father. At the first signs of improvement, the field marshal had stubbornly insisted on returning to Messina, despite the doctor’s opinion and the wishes of his family. It wasn’t often that the field marshal dug in his heels, but when he did there was no dissuading him.
Agata went into her father’s bedroom. She perched on a stool next to the night table and poured him a glass of sweet lemonade: then she sat waiting, without a word. He began reminiscing. It was as if he were recalling his life and giving it to her as a gift. She devoured his words.
He told her about the glittering magnificence of his family and the happy years of his childhood with his beloved younger sisters, a childhood idyll that was cut rudely short: “I know that I haven’t been a good father to you, or perhaps to your sisters, but I’ve done my best,” he told her. “There’s just one thing I’m happy about: I never forced you into a convent.” He told her that one day his mother took the three littlest girls–Violante, Antonina, and Teresa–had them dressed in their finest, and left the house with them. He remembered it clearly because after his mother left, the wet nurses seemed heartbroken and he couldn’t understand why. “I never saw them again,” he said, sorrowfully, and then went on: “She left one at the convent of Santa Patrizia and the other two at the convent of San Giorgio Stilita. Just like that, she left them . . . I complained about it to my father and he told me to shut up and try to understand. King Louis XV, thirty years before that, had sent four of his daughters–the princesses Victoire, Sophie, Marie-Thérèse-Félicité, and Louise Marie–to the Royal Abbey of Fontevraud, and he left them there for ten years. Then he took them back home–or perhaps I should say, he took the ones that were still alive back home–and everything was all right. ‘He was the king and he could provide them with dowries. We are princes but we have to count our pennies, and a monastic dowry is much smaller than a matrimonial dowry. Your sisters will be very well off,’ he told me.” Then her father’s gaze sought out her almond-shaped eyes. “I’m not sure that’s how it went.” A pause. “But for you girls, I’ve managed to find good husbands, even with a tiny dowry.” He snickered wickedly: “But my daughters have their mother’s sharp, clinical eye, and men seem to like that. When I was a boy, the women of the house of Padellani were fine and expensive, but they were dull-eyed.”
Frequently he struggled to tell her the story of the Kingdom of Two Sicilies, of the fragile successes of the French revolutionary cause, of how that cause had attempted to sink roots in Naples, likewise without success. Agata did her best to take it all in, but when her father drew political links between the recent past and the present day, she struggled. He could tell. He gazed at her keenly. He took her hands in his. He relied upon her intelligence. And Agata returned his confidence with a sort of hope that took the form of inquisitive glances. One day he sent her to retrieve from a shelf hidden in his secrétaire a copy of the Historical Essay on the Neapolitan Revolution of 1799. He hefted the volume as if it were a fine wheel of tuma cheese, and waited until the maidservant had left the room; then he whispered to his daughter, without taking his eyes off the door for a second: “Read it carefully, and don’t forget what it says. Remember not to speak about it, even in the family.” Lowering his voice still more, he went on: “Cuoco was right. Now it’s forbidden even to own this book, or to own any of the others on that shelf. This too is a mistake on our government’s part.”
He was worried ab
out the state of the kingdom and the state of Europe at large. “There’s always something lurking behind the friendship and benevolence of foreigners. Nelson, the friend and protector of the kingdom, persuaded King Ferdinand to burn the fleet stationed in Naples, to keep it from falling into the hands of the French. I was there, on that 9th of January, 1799, and I saw our glorious fleet go up in flames! That’s how our English friend cut our legs off at the knee, and ever since we’ve been at the mercy of the English shipbuilders! King Ferdinand II, many years later, rebuilt our navy, but only at the cost of great sacrifices.”
Other times he talked to her about the independence movement. “There are times when I can’t understand what ‘nation’ means. You, for instance, daughter of a Neapolitan father and a Sicilian mother, what nation do you belong to, my Agatina?” He gave her a loving pinch on the cheek and snickered. “Let me tell you, and I want you to remember this, whoever you happen to marry, you belong to the house of Padellani, a house that has survived and will continue to survive all the foreign dynasties that have set up as rulers in Naples.” Then he grew serious again. He foresaw other uprisings and revolutions. “There’s not a single European state that will emerge intact. We must establish a standing army to protect us against domestic rebellions. Our army isn’t effective,” he commented dolefully, and that is why he accepted the need to pay mercenary troops, though he detested them roundly.
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