From Sand and Ash

by Amy Harmon

  Umbrella-shaped maritime pines fringed the beaches, and one afternoon Angelo found himself stomping around in the cork-oak woodlands, where aristocratic families still hunted for wild boar, losing himself in the shade and the scents and the quiet. As the shadows grew longer, and his skin grew sticky with sweat, he tromped out of the woods and headed back toward the beach, eager for a quick swim in the cool, clear waters.

  Clouds had rolled in, and the sky was no longer the guileless blue it had been earlier in the day. Still, even with rain threatening, Angelo shrugged out of his shirt, removed his shoe and his prosthetic, and hopped through the waves until he could immerse himself in the Tyrrhenian. Before too long, Eva was treading water beside him, and they kicked and splashed and floated on their backs until distant thunder rumbled and urged them back to the shore.

  Rain was coming, but the air was still warm, and they toweled themselves off and let the heat dry their hair as they watched the storm move toward them.

  “What’s that?” Eva inclined her head toward his pile of abandoned clothing and forest finds. He rarely saved anything, impatient with clutter and generally unsentimental, but he’d thought maybe his nonno would like that afternoon’s discovery.

  “I found a quiver of black-and-white porcupine quills.”

  “Hmm. Well, I saw some spotted pink flamingos in the lagoon,” Eva countered, her eyes on the water. She was smiling slightly, letting him in on the game.

  “That’s nothing. I woke a barn owl and he dove at my head,” he shot back. “And I killed a wild pig with my bare hands. I thought about bringing him back for dinner, but then I remembered pigs aren’t kosher.”

  Eva pursed her lips, clearly trying to come up with a better story.

  “Well, I found this.” She handed him a shell, still completely intact, still hinged at the back. He took it and peered inside. The interior was smooth and empty, the life inside long gone.

  “No pearl?”

  “No. Just sand.”

  “But the sand can become a pearl,” he offered, handing the shell back to her.

  “The sand doesn’t really become a pearl, silly. It doesn’t become something else. It’s just hidden. The grain of sand is still there beneath the layers of nacre—”

  “Nacre?” he interrupted. It wasn’t a word he’d heard before.

  “The mineral substance that the oyster coats the grain of sand in.”

  The mention of the oyster had its same old effect, and Eva’s eyes touched on his briefly before she glanced away. Another time it probably wouldn’t have registered. But here they were, sitting in roughly the same spot where they’d sat seven years before when the skies were clear and no storms threatened.

  “You mean mother-of-pearl? How did you know that?”

  “Babbo. He is a chemical engineer, Angelo. He knows the actual name of every substance known to man.”

  “So the little irritant becomes a beautiful pearl.” He winked at Eva and tapped her nose.

  “Are you calling me a little irritant?”

  He laughed, unable to help himself. She had always made him laugh.

  “Yes. I am. A beautiful irritant.”

  “Keep it up, and I will steal your fake leg and you will have to hop back to the house.”

  “You’re so heartless,” he said in mock horror.

  “A heartless irritant.” She swiped at him and he blocked her easily, stealing her shell in the process.

  Thunder belched through the sky once more, not nearly as polite and distant as it had been before. Eva and Angelo, still bickering good-naturedly, quickly dressed and gathered their few things. They weren’t quick enough, though, and with a solid crack, the swollen skies suddenly split above them. Rain peppered the sand, and Eva squealed. Angelo couldn’t run very well, and Eva wasn’t inclined to let him get drenched alone, so they looked around for immediate shelter.

  Hand in hand they struggled across the sand toward the trees and the little fisherman’s shack that sat back from the shore. The lock was broken and the shack abandoned, though an old net and a rusty fishing pole still remained among the dust and the cobwebs.

  Clothes clung to limbs, black hair to burnished cheeks, and they tumbled, laughing, into the shack, the damp walls and the earthy darkness making the space feel more like a medieval dungeon used for torture than a respite from the storm.

  Eva picked up the pole in one hand and tossed Angelo the net, and within moments they were quarreling once more as they fenced, saying things like “En garde,” and “Feel my wrath,” and “Take that, fool!”

  Eva made the mistake of lunging too deep and Angelo easily swiped her “sword” away.

  “Surrender, knave!” he said with a sneering twist of his lips. His black curls were clinging to his forehead and his blue eyes danced with Eva as she sashayed around him, pretending she was a skilled swordsman. She was laughing and relaxed, the old Eva, and his heart softened as he looked into her grinning face.

  She sensed the shift in his attention and she feinted, as if to kneel, only to step forward and grab at his arm, pivoting as if to throw him over her shoulder in a move that was more ancient wrestling than fencing. He dropped his net and pulled her against him aggressively, her back to his chest, his forearm resting firmly beneath her breasts, one large hand wrapped around her rib cage.

  He had meant for it to be part of the game. Clearly, he hadn’t thought. His body hugged hers from his chest to his thighs, her hair brushed his face, her female scent tickled his nose, and his mouth was poised at the silky whorl of her ear, ready to demand her surrender.

  They stood frozen for several long seconds, locked in the strange embrace, eyes closed, mouths slightly open, trying to breathe without movement, without sound, and growing lightheaded in the attempt. Eva’s hands had risen to Angelo’s arm when he pulled her to him, and she stood motionless against him, her hands gripping the hard length that held her hostage. She didn’t dare say his name, didn’t dare utter a sound. Surely, it would break the spell. Then she felt his lips move ever-so-softly against the lobe of her ear, skim the uppermost edge of her jaw, then travel back again. Eva resisted the sweet shudder that slid down her spine, but Angelo felt the tremor and his lips left her skin. But he didn’t pull away or loosen his arm.

  Eva slowly turned her head, feeling his breath mark a path across her cheek as she raised her face and lifted her chin. Then it was her breath tickling his cheek and warming his lips. Again they paused, muscles tensed, straining to feel everything, to miss nothing, and still not cross any lines. Their eyes stayed closed as they neared that line, stood toe-to-toe, and then stepped over it, into each other.

  Mouths touched. Pressed. Retreated. Brushed, retreated. Pressed, sought, then slid away. And still their eyes remained closed. Denying everything.

  Eva turned as Angelo shifted, and the dance began again, the angle different, more direct, less accidental. Accidental. Innocent. Sweet. The words slipped through Angelo’s foggy mind, and he nodded slightly. Yes. That was it. Innocent.

  With his mouth pressed against Eva’s, that slight nod lifted Eva’s full top lip, separating it from the lower one, and Angelo explored the space between them with an unintentional touch of his tongue. Unintentional. Innocent. Sweet. So incredibly sweet. Just like that kiss so long ago.

  But the sweetness pulled him under like Camillo’s wine. Then he was drinking deeply, pulling every last drop from Eva’s mouth, unable to stop. It was like nothing he’d ever tasted before, and she cradled his face, letting him sip away, slip away, lost in the flavor, the texture, the heady heat of her mouth on his.

  Then they opened their eyes.

  Dark and heavy met blue and blazing, and Angelo ached to close his eyes again, even as he lifted his mouth and dropped his hands from her body.

  “Eva,” he whispered, and his torment made her tremble.

  “Again,” she pleaded, and her eyes begged. “Again, Angelo.”

  “Madonna,” he breathed. “Madonna,” he pleaded
. But the lovely Madonna, mother of his precious Jesus, couldn’t hold a candle to the madonna before him.

  They moved as one, bodies coming back together, the renewed contact so welcome and wondrous that their sighs slid around them like a hushed hallelujah chorus. Then there was only pleasure and pressure, mouths and momentum, as one kiss grew and multiplied and became something new, something neither of them had known before.

  Outside the storm abated, welcoming a rainbow of soft pastels reflected in silvery puddles that neither of them saw. Outside, Fabia called for them, telling them to come in for supper. But neither of them heard. Outside, the air chilled with the evening, but neither of them felt the cold. Outside, Camillo Rosselli worried, puffing on his pipe, wondering what the future would hold for the two young people who had always loved the other but didn’t belong together. And as their fires were banked, they both smelled the smoke.

  They left the fisherman’s shack with their virginities intact, but they didn’t go inside to safety and sanity. Instead, they drifted up into the fragrant, rain-damp evergreen forest that stood sentry on one side of the vacation home, unwilling to part, unable to stop touching, to stop kissing, to walk away from each other and into the place where separation would surely invite guilt and regret, at least for Angelo.

  When they finally parted and Eva tiptoed up to her room, drunk on love and dizzy with desire, smiling against the palm she pressed to her lips to keep from giggling, Angelo sat on the veranda and tried not to think at all. He too kept his hand pressed to his mouth, but it was not to keep from laughing. He could smell Eva on his fingers.

  His body tightened all over again and his breaths grew painful. He was in exquisite agony. He had never known such pleasure, and not just in her body and her skin. Not just in her mouth and her sweetness. Not just in the way she touched him and made him tremble. It was more than that. It wasn’t just pleasure, it was joy.

  He’d been warned about the dangers of the flesh. Seminarians were counseled extensively, cautioned endlessly, and threatened with their very souls when it came to bridling passions and denying every carnal impulse. But no one had told him he would be filled with this immeasurable joy. He felt close to tears, and it wasn’t simply because he’d just fallen into the snare every seminarian secretly dreads and simultaneously dreams about. It was love that made each touch feel like redemption and each kiss feel like rebirth. Not lust. Not pleasure. It was love that created joy.

  He’d known for a long time that he loved Eva, but he had never admitted to himself that he loved her the way a man loves a woman. He had never allowed himself to ruminate on the idea. He’d locked it away the moment he’d decided to marry the church and forsake all others.

  “Angelo?”

  Angelo dropped his fingers from his mouth as if he’d been caught with his hand in a cash register. Camillo stepped out onto the veranda and looked around, obviously expecting Eva to be out there too. When he saw that she wasn’t, he eased himself into a chair to the right of Angelo and filled his pipe as if he had all the time in the world. It wasn’t late, though Angelo and Eva had missed dinner. Everyone else was still awake inside the house, and low murmurs and tinkling laughter filtered out into the loamy air. Angelo hoped no one had noticed the length of time he and Eva had spent alone.

  Camillo puffed and purred, smoke billowing from his mouth in fragrant clouds. Angelo had always loved the smell of his pipe, and he closed his eyes briefly, letting the scent mingle with the salt and the sea, the evergreens and the rain, before he exhaled and then breathed in deeply once more, savoring the aroma.

  “You might be our only hope, Angelo,” Camillo said after a time. Angelo had grown drowsy in the comfortable darkness, the inevitable adrenaline crash leaving him weak and loose-limbed.

  “What do you mean, Camillo?” Camillo had never allowed Angelo to call him anything else.

  “You know, you could marry Eva and take her to America. You are an American citizen. And if she were your wife, you could get her out of Italy. Out of Europe. You could make sure she is safe from what is coming.”

  Angelo was so stunned he could only sit, staring off into the darkness like it held a forest full of jesters, waiting to laugh at Camillo’s incredible suggestion. He sat still for so long, with his face so blank, that Camillo leaned forward and peered into his eyes.

  “She would never leave you,” Angelo said finally, offering the only response that came to his mind.

  “Ha!” Camillo barked softly, and puffed again, slumping back in his chair. “I knew it.”

  “You knew what, Babbo?” Angelo said, slipping and calling him by Eva’s pet name.

  “I knew you wouldn’t pretend with me,” he said. “You love Eva. And she loves you. You are a priest and she is a Jew.”

  “And you are a poet,” Angelo said mildly, though his heart was galloping.

  Camillo laughed softly. “That I am. A great poet and philosopher. That is why I smoke this pipe. It gives me the look I desire.”

  “I am not a priest yet,” Angelo murmured. It was a silly thing to say. He had spent nine years in the seminary. Nine years. And now, he was in the final months of his training. His ordination had been scheduled.

  “That’s like a man who is betrothed saying he is not yet married.”

  It was exactly like that, and Angelo had no response. He was too honest and too shell-shocked by the whole evening to play games. Camillo was right. He couldn’t pretend. And reality was starting to penetrate the fog he’d been in.

  Angelo wasn’t a stupid man. He wasn’t blind. He wasn’t deaf. He wasn’t dumb. But he’d been a fool. He’d thought he could love Eva and not be in love with her. He’d thought he could be close to her and not be too close. He’d thought he could have Eva and have God too.

  And he couldn’t.

  He was not the exception. He was the rule. He was not Saint George, slaying dragons for his God. He was simply Angelo Bianco, being slain by the wiliest serpent of all—Satan, flaming red, with seven heads and ten horns—which John spoke of in his Book of Revelation.

  “I still want to be a priest, Camillo,” he whispered, and his chest ached at the admission, as if he were betraying Eva. He was betraying Eva. Just like he’d betrayed the church and betrayed himself. The last few hours had been the sweetest of his life, but they had not been his finest.

  “I know,” Camillo said. “I know you do. That is why you are sitting out here alone instead of somewhere with Eva. That is why you’ve spent all these years treating her like a sister and letting me treat you like a son.”

  “You are my family,” Angelo said, emotion rising in his chest.

  “Yes. But you can still save her.” Camillo met his gaze with a frank expectation that confused Angelo all the more.

  “But . . . I thought you meant . . .”

  “Marriage? No. It’s illegal, first of all. Catholics can’t marry Jews, even though we’ve been marrying each other for decades in Italy. Even though Santino’s Catholic uncle married my Jewish aunt thirty years ago,” he scoffed, disgusted. But he waved his hand in the air, dismissing his derision as well as the mention of the convoluted family connection that had brought Santino and Camillo together in the first place. He continued. “And second, you’re right. Eva wouldn’t leave. It is a distinctly Jewish trait. We would rather die together than be separated from our loved ones.” He puffed his pipe, letting the silence cleanse his mental palate. “Ah, who knows? Maybe that isn’t a Jewish trait. Maybe that is a human trait.” He waved his hand again. “Regardless, I know she will not leave me to save herself.”

  “I don’t understand, Camillo. What do you want me to do?” Angelo hoped Camillo could tell him exactly, give him instructions, make the path ahead straight and narrow.

  “You are our only hope because you will be in a position to help many people, Angelo. The church is already helping refugees. Did you know that?”

  Angelo shook his head. The question was, how did Camillo know?

 
; “I have been looking for ways to help my father-in-law. I have been working with DELASEM—”

  “What?” Angelo had no idea what DELASEM was.

  “The Delegation for the Assistance of Jewish Emigrants,” Camillo supplied. “There are growing networks, Angelo. And the Catholic Church is quietly assisting where they can. The Catholics may save our souls after all,” Camillo said, smiling around his pipe. “Or maybe just our lives. But I will settle for that much.”

  “What can I do?” The instructions seemed very vague.

  “With the threats of war, Ostrica’s contracts have gone up tenfold. The government is our largest contractor. They don’t pay well, but they buy huge volume. We are just happy they haven’t taken the company in the name of the greater good. We specialize in fine handmade glass, but we invested in the machinery to do heavier, industrial-grade glass when Mussolini started posturing and war looked like it was going to become inevitable. We are richer than we’ve ever been, and a large percentage is going to DELASEM. I have even donated a large portion to the church with the caveat that you are the trustee of the account and have a right to dictate where, within the organization of the church, that money goes. I would ask that you make sure that it goes to feed and hide refugees and those who are sheltering them. Can you do that? Will you do that for me?”

  “How?” Angelo asked again.

  “Become a priest. Just like you’ve always planned. And if worse comes to worst, use your connections to hide us. I need you to save our family, Angelo.”

  Eva lay awake all night, gloriously giddy, caught in the haze of remembered kisses, only to fall into a fierce depression when she contemplated the future. The last year had convinced her there were no happy endings, only happy interludes, and somehow the interludes made the endings even worse.

  She ended up falling asleep near dawn and slept until noon. She took a leisurely bath, dried and curled her hair, painted her toenails red, and finally slunk down the stairs at about three o’clock, certain that everyone would take one look at her and see her feelings stamped all over her face. She was terrified of that first glance with Angelo, because then she would know if he felt the same. Maybe she just wouldn’t look at him at all.