Pliny's Warning

by Nicholson, Anne Maria

  ‘The observatory’s up there.’ Olivia points to a circular orange building on the hill behind them. ‘It might be remote here but we’re plugged into the universe!’

  She pushes open the door of the cottage and Frances follows her into a small living room furnished simply with a wooden table, some hard dining chairs and a worn, floral-covered sofa. ‘Your room’s there. I’m afraid you’ve got the nun’s bed.’

  Frances takes her bags into a small room with a narrow bed and a row of photos of Stromboli exploding in an array of colour across one wall. She peers out of the window and sees the real mountain, rising straight up.

  Olivia is pouring tea when she joins her at the table. ‘It’s been way too long, Frankie.’

  Frances smiles at her friend. ‘You haven’t changed at all, still wonderfully cheerful. Has life been treating you well?’

  ‘All the better since I arrived here. It’s strange, but I feel more at home on this mound in the Mediterranean than I have anywhere.’

  ‘It wouldn’t have anything to do with Ricky, would it?’

  Olivia grins and says nothing.

  ‘I thought as much.’ Frances throws a cushion at her. ‘He’s a good man. I hope it works for you both.’

  ‘Talking of which?’ Olivia leans across the table towards her. ‘Whatever happened to your man Tori in New Zealand?’

  ‘Ah. Not a very happy ending, if it was an ending.’

  Olivia stares at her questioningly.

  ‘I thought he was the love of my life. Maybe he was. Or is…But we unravelled. My work came between us and his cultural beliefs.’

  ‘You’re kidding!’

  ‘No. It sounds weird, I know. And I’ve thought about it a lot, trying to wind back the clock to when it first became an issue. To tell you the truth, maybe we were never meant to be. Our worlds are so different.’

  ‘So it’s over?’

  Frances sips her tea and pauses for a few seconds. ‘Truly, I don’t know.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  Frances shrugs her shoulders.

  ‘Ricky said there’s someone else…’

  Frances laughs. ‘No secrets around here. He means Marcello, his good friend. And we have become close.’

  Olivia throws the cushion back at her.

  ‘Hey, stop looking at me like that!’ Frances jumps up and they throw the cushion back and forth, finally flopping together on the sofa. ‘A girl’s gotta have a bit of fun,’ she jokes.

  Olivia laughs. ‘Just like the song. I agree.’

  There’s a tap on the door and Riccardo walks in. ‘Ready to explore?’

  Olivia groans. ‘You two go on, I want to catch up on some sleep. I hate these early morning starts.’

  Riccardo’s motorbike rests outside the cottage, dusty but familiar. ‘Hello, old friend.’ Frances taps the back and climbs on. They ride a few minutes and pull up outside the observatory, where Riccardo beckons her to follow.

  Inside the building the buzz of banks of monitoring equipment fills a silence. A woman sits alone in front of the seismographs in one room. ‘The nightshift.’

  ‘Impressive!’ Frances gazes at the mass of machinery.

  ‘Stromboli is under extra scrutiny after the eruption last year. It blasted all of the equipment out of the crater without warning. And there’ve been some dramatic discoveries. Scientists have come from everywhere—the north, the south and the internationals.’

  ‘Sounds like the United Nations.’

  Riccardo grimaces. ‘Almost as much politics too, though not as sinister as Naples.’

  She follows him over to a large picture window where he points south, towards the horizon.

  ‘Sicily is that way. And Mt Etna. Sometimes you can see it.’

  Frances stares far out to sea, sun glaring in her eyes. She shakes her head. ‘I can’t, but I can see the other islands.’

  ‘Yes, you can see how the rest of the Aeolian Islands curve in a giant arc. What the research teams here have discovered is the source of a large earthquake zone. It extends beneath the islands and deep under the Tyrrhenian Sea.’

  ‘Like the Ring of Fire in the Pacific?’

  ‘Exactly. The new data shows there’s a mammoth magma lake beneath the earth’s crust under Stromboli. It’s making us change our thinking. We’re trying to find out whether the lakes of magma in this part of the world are more connected than we thought.’

  ‘So if Stromboli coughs, Vesuvius sneezes?’

  ‘That sort of thing.’

  Frances hears footsteps and turns to see a tall grey-haired man approaching them. ‘Here comes the boss,’ Riccardo whispers.

  The man’s brown eyes are friendly and welcoming and immediately he puts his hand out to Frances.

  ‘You must be Frances Nelson. I’ve been expecting you. I’m Giuseppe Nocella,’ he says, shaking her hand firmly. ‘Welcome to the Stromboli Observatory. We’ve been looking forward to you installing the new acoustic microphone system.’

  ‘Me too, there’s nothing like a new challenge,’ she smiles. ‘Who will I be working with?’

  ‘I understand there have been some problems with our friend here.’ He pats Riccardo’s shoulder. ‘But that’s Neapolitan politics and we don’t have to bother about that here. So if it suits you, I am happy for you to work together.’

  ‘That sounds just fine,’ she smiles.

  Riccardo revs his bike and they head further up the mountain, bumping along a mule track until they can go no futher. He stops where the scrubby vegetation ends, merging with dark craggy rock stretching to the summit.

  ‘There are two important things to remember if you want to survive on Stromboli. If there’s an eruption, head towards the sea. If there’s a tsunami, head up the mountain!’

  ‘You’re teasing!’

  ‘No. It’s true.’

  He scrambles up a rise and calls to her. ‘Follow me and I’ll prove it.’

  They trek over rough steep terrain until they come to a great gash on the mountain, where a huge black scar marks the volcano, a curtain of rock dropping sharply all the way down into the crashing waves.

  ‘Look over there. Sciara del Fuoco.’

  ‘The Slope of Fire? Isn’t that where the lava flows into the sea?’

  ‘Yes. There’ve been huge eruptions and lava flows here for thousands of years so this whole side of the volcano collapsed. A few years ago, the Sciara del Fuoco gave way again and the landslide under the sea was so forceful it triggered a tsunami. The waves caused massive damage on the island.’

  Frances shields her eyes and stares at the steep flank. Overhead, she hears another small explosion from the crater and shortly afterwards some small boulders thunder down the slope. The wild landscape and unpredictable volcano remind her of White Island, yet unlike that godforsaken place, people live here defying the odds and dancing with fate every day of their lives.

  ‘This is one crazy place to call home!’

  ‘Yes, as my Uncle Gaetano would say, Stromboli e magica!’

  ‘Magic? I suppose it is. But it drove your family away.’

  ‘Three generations of my family. They left after the huge eruption in 1930 and never came back. They lost their houses, their crops and they couldn’t survive. And it wasn’t just Stromboli. All the Aeolian Islands emptied and thousands went to Melbourne. I was born in a little Italy on the other side of the world.’

  ‘So you’re a reverse immigrant?’

  Riccardo chuckles. ‘That’s right. And you know, Frances, the first time I came here I was hooked. Immediately. The volcano, the island and the people—I feel like I’m in no-man’s-land in Australia and Naples. But here, in Stromboli—’

  ‘E magica!’ Frances is laughing as another eruption punctures the sky. ‘When can I see some lava flowing?’

  ‘You’ll see plenty when we climb to the summit.’

  Frances sighs. ‘Great. But I don’t feel up to that today.’

  ‘Don’t worry, plenty of time. We�
��re going to spoil you with a feast at my uncle’s house. Since my aunt died he loves company and he’s looking forward to meeting you.’

  When Frances returns to the cottage, Olivia is asleep. After a sleepless night, fatigue is catching up with her too. She unpacks her bag and lies on her bed, intending to take a quick nap.

  But hours have passed and the sun is high in the sky when she awakes. The house is silent. She takes a shower and hears the front door slam as she dries herself.

  ‘Ah, the sleeping princess is awake,’ Riccardo calls.

  ‘The royal buggy is ready to drive you to lunch,’ Olivia adds.

  Frances emerges from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, hair dripping. ‘Give me five,’ she laughs. ‘I’m starving after that boat trip so I’ll be quick.’

  The steps leading down to his uncle’s home dissect small terraced gardens on one side and the walls of the houses on the other. Rows of grapevines and plots of vegetables are neatly cultivated. The gate squeaks when Riccardo pushes it and the three of them step into a courtyard crowded with potted plants and small statues.

  On the veranda of the house, an elderly man is asleep in a cane chair, his white hair peeping out from beneath a straw hat.

  Meow! A startled tabby cat jumps off his lap.

  ‘Uncle, sorry to wake you.’

  He looks around disoriented for a second then breaks into a wide smile, revealing large uneven teeth. He stands up, tall and nimble for a man in his nineties. ‘Gaetano Cocchia,’ he says to Frances, his voice resonant. ‘Welcome to Stromboli.’

  ‘You two sit and talk,’ Riccardo says. ‘We’ll bring lunch out here in the sun.’

  Gaetano sinks back into his chair. His weathered, lined face is broken up by a wiry moustache and blue eyes that sparkle. Frances sits on a chair next to him and he reaches over and pats her knee. ‘Bellissima!’ He leans over to her conspiratorially. ‘Would you like to learn the secret of Stromboli? He is our father, Iddu, the volcano of love. He has magical powers.’

  ‘What do you mean, magical?’

  The old man is staring at her intently. ‘If I was a young man like Riccardo I would take you there now to show you. If you kiss someone at the top it is a kiss you will never forget. It is the kiss of fire!’

  ‘And can you prove it?’

  Gaetano smiles. ‘Many times. Of course, my dear wife, we kissed there. And…well, I might have persuaded a few other young ladies to accompany me up the mountain in my time.’

  ‘So it’s not just the one kiss then?’

  ‘As many as you can get!’

  The two are laughing together when Riccardo and Olivia carry platters to an outdoor table.

  ‘Up to your old mischief, uncle?’ Riccardo teases. ‘You have to watch him Frances.’

  ‘I can see. The Stromboli magic, apparently.’

  The aroma of freshly baked bread and fish sharpen their appetites.

  ‘Catch of the day. Everything here is fresh, fresh, fresh,’ Olivia says with relish.

  ‘Grilled octopus with garlic, swordfish with capers from Lipari, tomatoes with fresh oregano. Enjoy!’ Riccardo adds.

  ‘And don’t forget the wine,’ adds Gaetano. ‘You must try some of my wine.’ Riccardo winks at Frances and fills her glass from a bottle of deep yellow wine. The taste is sickly sweet.

  ‘Fantastic,’ she fibs, as she toasts the old man.

  When they finish lunch, Gaetano insists on showing Frances his garden and she follows him through the gate across to the terraced gardens. He stoops to pull out a few weeds then sits on a bench. ‘Sit. Sit with me,’ he says gently. ‘All of this,’ he says sweeping his arm in front of him, ‘all of this was lost when I was a boy. Iddu, he took it, and nearly all of my family. My uncles and aunties, my brothers and sisters—they left forever. They went to Australia.’

  ‘Why did you stay?’

  ‘My parents wouldn’t go and I didn’t want to go with the others. I was born here. This is my home, no matter what happens.’

  ‘Can you remember the big eruption?’

  ‘Like yesterday. It was on a warm September morning in, in…I forget when exactly, but a long time ago.’ Gaetano mutters under his breath then picks up the story again, his eyes blazing. ‘Suddenly, there were two huge explosions, loud roars that shook the whole island. I looked up and saw flames coming from the volcano. Lots of rocks were falling. Big ones were crashing into houses and little ones were raining down on us like hail. My grandmother grabbed me by the hand and pulled me inside her house and we hid under the beds.’

  ‘It must have been terrifying.’

  ‘I was very afraid. Everything went dark. The sun disappeared and for hours ash and rocks fell and the island was burning. We stayed there all night, too scared to move and not knowing where the rest of our family was. The next morning all was quiet. When we came outside, nearly everything was destroyed. All the crops, many houses, the fishing boats, and worst of all, six people lay dead.’

  ‘And still you stayed?’

  ‘My brother, Riccardo’s grandfather, tried for years to persuade me to join him in Melbourne, but I wouldn’t leave. No, I had to stay. There were hard times with very little to eat, then slowly the island started to recover and I could grow things again.’

  The winter sun lights a healthy row of corn near his feet. He kicks the dirt with his foot and turns to her, his eyes moist.

  ‘You can see, Frances. Iddu gives back. He gives us food. Everything is growing again. And he gave me back Riccardo.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Strong winds had battered Stromboli for days, ruling out any ascent of the volcano. The foul weather is a respite for Frances; time to fine-tune the complex system of the new generation of microphones she will plant on the wild summit, and a chance to discover the rhythms of the island.

  A blustering northeasterly buffets her as she strolls along the black beach. The fishermen are back with their catch, a measly collection of crustaceans and beady-eyed silver fish reluctantly given up by the churning sea.

  She’s watched from afar these strong men of the sea take their chances on the waves twice a day, every day. Their boats are wedged into the sand and they chatter quietly among themselves, clearing the fish from the nets and folding them for the return bout in the afternoon.

  ‘Shit, what a whopper!’ The accent is Australian.

  Frances spins around. One of the men, his long brown hair and beard obscuring any facial features, is trying to detach a giant red crab clinging to his net. She walks over and stands there watching, the creature seeming to know its struggle is to the death. The man speaks in Italian and for a moment Frances thinks she must have been mistaken.

  ‘Gidday,’ he says a minute or so later, glancing at her and continuing to fold the net. ‘Where’re ya from?’

  ‘All over—England, the States, New Zealand. I’m working at the observatory.’

  He laughs. ‘Trying to tame old Iddu?’

  As if on cue, the volcano belches out a puff of brown smoke.

  ‘If not tame, at least try to predict what he might do next,’ she says, surprising herself that she’s accepted the local belief that Stromboli is male. ‘Been fishing here long?’

  ‘Coupla years.’

  ‘You’re not from here?’

  He’s won his round with the crab and plops it into a bucket. ‘Fitzroy, Melbourne, Australian, born and bred. But this is where I want to die.’

  The volcano belches again and Frances laughs.

  ‘You must be a betting man!’

  ‘Could say that.’ He grins, his mouth barely visible beneath strands of his curling beard. ‘I miss the horses and dog races in Melbourne, but that’s about it. This is the home of my ancestors and this is where I belong.’

  ‘You must know Riccardo Cocchia?’

  ‘Yeah. We’re all related some way or other. But he’s a mountain cousin. I’m a man of the sea.’

  The wind drops and sun streaking through the dense white cloud
bathes a tiny rocky island just offshore in a brilliant light. He sees her gazing at it.

  ‘Strombolicchio, the volcano’s cap—blown off the top of Iddu and resting in the sea.’

  Frances smiles. She’s heard the legend before about the rock that was a part of the formation of the volcano hundreds of thousands of years earlier.

  ‘Ulysses is smiling on us today,’ he continues. ‘He’s my namesake. Story has it he stopped over here on his way home after the Trojan War. Don’t know why he didn’t stay.’

  The wind picks up again and Frances grips the boat to catch her balance. I have to keep going. See you again, Ulysses.’

  Frances picks her way further along the beach. Winter is already half over and she wonders what pile of earth Marcello is examining on the archaeological dig in Carthage. She checks her phone. No new messages. She smiles to herself, imagining him retrieving another ancient skeleton or cooking pot.

  A rogue wave sweeps in and washes over her boots, the cold water leaking through to her skin. She scrambles off the beach to the track where a couple of smart hotels and restaurants nestle against a hill. Trudging back to the village, she hitches a ride on a buggy with one of the chefs on a buying trip. He insists on taking her further up the hill to the observatory and she gratefully accepts.

  Her feet squelch as she walks into her office. She pulls off her boots and drenched socks and puts on a pair of running shoes. Maps of the summit are strewn across the desk and she resumes the task of plotting exactly where she will place the new microphones. Remnants of the old system lie in a pile in the corner—pieces of burnt electrical cord and broken microphones, destroyed by lightning.

  Opening the carton she’s brought from Naples, she checks everything is there: ten microphones, coils of lightning-resistant fibre optic cable, foam packaging and ten small transparent resin boxes.

  ‘Hey Frankie, got your treasure trove there?’

  ‘Oh good, glad you’re here. Can you lend me a hand?’

  ‘Sure thing.’

  Frances picks up the carton and joins Olivia in the corridor. ‘Come to the lab with me. I need some help to adjust the microphones before we take them up to the top.’