Now a male voice started singing: ‘The Americans will hear my song, our friends who left just yesterday, whose flowery shirts lent colour to our streets and to our springtime … And your lovely eyes …’
At this spectacle of music and electric light, everyone on the roof stood up and hugged each other, with tears in their eyes.
Only the Grown-ups could do something like this, thought Anna, while her neighbour squeezed her hand, saying over and over again: ‘It’s not true … It’s not true.’
A floodlight dipped down, sliding over the thousands of heads, bathing them in light and making them jump excitedly. Then the beam moved up, dazzling the children on the roof, who stamped their feet, turning the warehouse into a drum.
Inside the building an engine came on and a siren started up.
Anna clung to the roof, dazzled by the light. Below, hundreds of children hammered on the walls with their fists.
The engine revved up and the doors opened, driving them back. The green nose of a lorry emerged.
Anna saw it cut slowly through the crowd like an ice-breaker, heading for the skeleton. The sides of the long trailer were lowered. On top were dozens of blue children waving sticks and flaming torches, as on a carnival float.
In the middle, chained up on a platform, among billows of black smoke, between Rosario and Angelica, who were whipping up the crowd, was a strange tall, gaunt figure. Its skin was so white it could never have been in the sun. Its arms dangled long and straight. A row of pointed humps ran up its back. Its long, bald skull was too big for its small fleshy ears. A sparse beard, streaked with grey, hung down like a bib over female breasts, which fell limply over skinny ribs.
‘The Little Lady!’ shouted the children on the roof, leaning forward to get a better view.
Five or six of them, pushed by those behind, fell down on the crowd, which swallowed them up.
Anna was finding it hard to keep her balance, but couldn’t stop looking at the strange creature.
Its forehead was low, rounded and devoid of eyebrows. A stupid smile hung on its toothless mouth, from which a stream of drool ran down onto its grizzly beard. Its eyes, as dark as onyx, were frightened. It shook its great head, as if trying to drive away a swarm of wasps.
Anna recognised its expression as of one afflicted by idiocy.
She remembered Ignazio, the son of the woman who used to come to the farm once a week to do the cleaning. The poor boy had been starved of oxygen at birth, and had been left retarded. He would roll about on the ground drooling, his head sunken into one shoulder, and he would eat anything he found, including shit.
Anna wondered why the Red Fever had spared the Little Lady. Maybe because she was half man and half woman. She certainly wasn’t a real Grown-up.
She’s not going to save anyone. Not even herself.
A bitter smile formed on her lips as the crowd surged wildly towards the trailer, trying to touch the deformed creature – only to be beaten back with sticks by the blues.
Her brother was at the back of the trailer and, like the others, was fighting off countless hands trying to pull him down.
Anna called out to him with all the breath she had, but her voice was lost among the shouts, the siren and the roar of the fire.
She looked down. For a moment she was tempted to jump, then she set off on all fours towards the pylon she’d climbed up. The central part of the roof had caved in, and a mass of bodies was writhing inside the shed.
She fought her way down through the others, tugging at hair and T-shirts. Halfway there she gave up the struggle, dropped onto the crowd and was absorbed into it. Then she rushed after the lorry, along with hundreds of other children.
She was pushed forwards, and then backwards, by colliding, screaming waves of human beings.
A long way ahead, the lorry honked its horn as it made for the skeleton, with clumps of hysterical children clinging to the sides and the cab. It entered the fire with all its retinue.
Anna didn’t see what happened next – it was too far away. But the marionette caught fire, and within a few seconds was burning right up to its head, a human torch lighting up the whole quarry. One blazing arm broke away from the bust, and a huge fire spread, engulfing the tanker.
There was pandemonium. People were running in all directions, while Anna stood motionless, staring at the inferno into which her brother had gone.
The world exploded.
There was a loud bang, and the tanker turned into a red ball. It rose and swelled in the darkness, sending out meteors which left luminous trails behind them, whistling into the crowd or into heaps of sand, and setting fire to pine trees at the top of the quarry. The blast was like a red-hot slap in the face. It threw Anna backwards, scorching her face, neck and eyelashes, entering her mouth and going right down to her lungs.
The sphere imploded, releasing a thick black pall which settled over the valley. Swirls of fire emerged in the pearly mist. Black figures appeared and disappeared again, sucked back in by the smoke.
Anna got to her feet and started walking forward. She screwed up her eyelids, trying to wipe the tears from her eyes. She coughed, choked by the acrid petrol fumes. A little girl running with her head down collided with her, and she was dumped on the ground again. She stood up again and walked on towards the fire. Her brother was there. The heat was burning her legs and she wondered if her hair was on fire.
Someone grabbed her shoulder from behind. ‘Anna!’
She shook her head and didn’t turn round.
‘Anna!’ This time he grabbed her wrist.
Pietro, black with soot, his T-shirt torn, was carrying a little boy in his arms.
She moved closer, putting her hands to her face.
The little boy lifted his head slightly, looked at her and stretched out his arm. ‘Anna.’
Part Three
The Strait
8
The sand was warm on top, but if you dug down a little with your feet, it was cold and wet. Anna was lying on a beach towel, enjoying the sun on her forehead and limbs. The undertow slowly dragged the shingle. Seagulls screeched out at sea.
She felt drowsy and apathetic.
Turning her head, she opened her eyes a little and saw the tail and bony haunches of Fluffy, lying beside her. The scaly black pads under his paws twitched as if he was running in his sleep. Down by the water’s edge, Astor was running about naked, jumping and kicking at waves. His arms projected from two green water wings like little sticks. He drew lines in the sand with his toes which the waves washed away.
‘What are you doing?’ she shouted.
He looked at her for a moment, picked up a long gnarled branch and ran up to her, spraying her with sand.
‘Be careful …’ Anna complained, brushing her face.
‘Look at this! Isn’t it great?’ Astor waved the branch in the air.
‘It’s a stick.’
‘No, it’s not.’ He pointed to a darker crack in the pale wood. ‘It’s a snake. See the head? It’s got a mouth, too.’
‘Are you hungry?’
‘A bit.’
‘Shall we go home?’
‘You said we’d go for a swim.’
‘When? I don’t remember saying that.’
‘Yesterday.’ Her brother grabbed her forefinger and tried to pull her to her feet.
‘Are you sure?’ Anna sat up and stretched her back. Out at sea some clouds like tufts of white steam had appeared. At the end of the bay, where Cefalù stuck its rocky old nose into the sea, a flock of seagulls were swooping down on a shoal of fish.
‘Come on …’ the little boy whimpered.
‘All right.’
Astor triumphantly displayed his array of lopsided teeth and rolled in the sand, like a meatball covering itself in breadcrumbs. He jumped to his feet, ran over to Fluffy and grabbed hold of his tail. ‘We’re going for a swim!’
Anna puffed out her cheeks. ‘Leave him alone.’
But he wouldn’t let go;
he grunted, trying to drag him along.
That dog was a saint. They’d found him waiting outside the hotel, and he and Astor had instantly made friends. He would ride on his back, pull his ears, explore his jaws like a lion-tamer. And yet the Maremma was so gentle when he played with Astor you’d have thought he was afraid of breaking him. He pretended to bite him, but didn’t apply any pressure. During the long trek to Cefalù, he’d never let him out of his sight. If Astor lagged behind, Fluffy would be constantly going backwards and forwards between him and Anna.
‘Why won’t he go into the water?’
Anna shrugged. ‘He doesn’t like it.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t know. Do you like tinned peaches?’
Astor made a face. ‘Those mushy things in that clear liquid? No, I can’t stand them.’
‘And he can’t stand the sea. So don’t keep pulling him about, or one day he’ll lose his temper and bite you, and it’ll serve you right.’
They made their way down towards the wash, hand in hand. Near some overturned boats there was a small polystyrene surfboard, spattered with tar. The front part was missing, as if a shark had taken a bite out of it.
Anna took off her denim shorts and was left in her swimming costume, a green two-piece with white polka dots, and a padded top that made her look grown-up. She took a mask and snorkel out of her rucksack, picked up the surfboard and entered the water, while Astor ran past her and did a belly flop, uttering squeals of joy.
Although it was a mild winter, the water was freezing cold. Anna walked gingerly, as if crossing a carpet of broken crockery. Her brother, unconcerned by the temperature, tried to dive down, holding his nose with his fingers, but the water wings kept him afloat.
Anna pushed the surfboard till the water came up to her thighs, then lay down on it. ‘Start up, engine,’ she ordered, pulling down the mask.
Astor gripped the rear end of the board and started making raspberry-like noises.
‘Forward. Slow down. Straight on.’ She put her head under the water, biting on the snorkel. Below her there appeared an expanse of grey pebbles and strips of sand combed by the current. A silent landscape which had little to offer, but which Anna never tired of observing. When she breathed into the tube, with the water sloshing in her ears, she felt at peace.
‘Hey, what’s going on?’ she shouted into the snorkel, bending her back as though she’d been whipped. Through the steamed-up glass she saw Astor kicking his feet like a madman. ‘Stop it! You’re soaking me. Are you the engine?’
‘Yes,’ her brother replied, very serious.
Anna spoke slowly and clearly. ‘Well then, engine, listen to me carefully: go slowly and don’t splash, or I’ll puncture your water wings and you’ll drown.’
‘All right.’
She resumed her exploration. Shoals of grey mullets chased each other, while red mullets brushed the sea bed with their whiskers. Thoughts, with your head underwater, formed slowly, grew bigger and burst in abstract bubbles. How wonderful it would be to lose your bones, turn your flesh into transparent jelly and be carried along by the current like a jellyfish. How wonderful to sink slowly down to the bottom of the sea and find, among the luminous creatures that live there, Cola the Fish, the boy who carried Sicily on his shoulders.
Further out, the sea bed, mottled with clumps of Neptune grass, turned a deeper blue, and suddenly she saw a big concrete cube covered with green and brown and with clusters of mussels, and surrounded by myriad little fish with coloured heads. A tiny planet teeming with life in the middle of a sandy desert.
‘Stop, engine.’
She’d seen these big things before, but didn’t know what they were used for. Maybe for mooring boats. Close beside it she noticed two small yellow pebbles with a black stripe in between. She looked at them from all angles and gradually made out a camouflaged form. It was the same colour as the sand, yet slightly different. Around those two little pebbles, evidently eyes, was a ring of fleshy tentacles.
‘An octopus! There’s an octopus!’ she said excitedly, and felt her brother’s fingers grip her ankle.
‘No! What’s it like? Is it big?’ Astor was as excited as if she’d said there was a basket full of salami down there. He’d never seen a real octopus, though he’d once had a toy one.
‘It’s hiding in the sand.’ She passed him the mask. He started spluttering and gulping seawater, and Anna was scared there was something wrong with him.
‘Please, please, will you get him for me?’ Astor fluttered his lashes, with his eyes wide open, playing the good little boy. He reminded her of herself standing at the window of the toyshop in Via Garibaldi and asking Mama if she could have the Chinese Barbie with the panda and the red dress.
‘I can’t reach it. It’s too far down.’
‘But you can swim.’
‘Swimming and deep-sea diving aren’t the same thing. Anyway, how would I pick it up?’
‘With your hands. It’s friendly. It won’t bite.’
Once her father had caught an octopus in Zingaro Nature Reserve. He’d come back to the shore immensely proud of the little creature which stretched out and curled round the barbs of the spear, and he’d slapped it on the rocks as if he was washing clothes. To soften it, he’d explained, but when they cooked it, it had become a pathetic fleshy flower.
‘I want to play with it,’ said Astor.
‘I could try.’ Anna slid into the water. Millions of icy pins pricked her skin. She looked down. She was no longer sure that it was an octopus, and she didn’t know how many metres it was to the bottom. At least three – four Annas, one on top of the other. And as well as going down, she’d have to come up again.
She started breathing in and out, filling her lungs. It’d be a miracle if she could just get to the bottom and grab a handful of sand. Counting up to three, she closed her mouth and went down. After a few strokes the pressure squeezed the mask against her face. Then she felt a pain in her ears; she tried to ignore it, but it was like two bradawls boring into her ears. She swam back up to the surface and grabbed the board, gasping.
‘Did you catch it? Let me see it!’
Sometimes Anna suspected her brother was soft in the head. ‘Can you see it? Am I holding an octopus in my hands?’
Astor thought about it. ‘Well, you might have stuffed it inside your swimming costume, so you could spring a surprise on me later.’
‘Listen, engine, instead of thinking, switch yourself on and take me back to the beach.’
‘Won’t you try again? Please?’
‘I’m freezing cold.’
Disappointed, Astor switched himself on, blowing a raspberry.
*
‘Hey, Anna, how many tentacles does an octopus have?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Ten?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Why does it have ten and not nine? And how many suckers does it have?’
‘Lots.’
‘Why does it have lots?’
‘Because that’s the way octopuses are.’
Since his time with the blues, Astor had changed; his tongue had loosened and he never stopped talking. Coming into contact with the world had made him less introverted and more tiresome.
‘And if a sucker sticks to you, will it tear your skin off?’
‘I don’t know.’
Her brother ran alongside her and grabbed her by the wrist. ‘Hey, do octopuses have willies? And why don’t they come out and live in the air instead of in the sea?’
Anna stopped. ‘What’s the matter with you? That’s enough! I don’t know anything about octopuses.’
A question mark crossed the little boy’s mischievous eyes.
Anna put her finger to her lips. ‘I don’t want to hear any more questions. Don’t say another word till we get home. If you do have any questions, keep them to yourself for the moment, choose four and ask me them tomorrow.’
Astor looked at her, puzzled. ‘Why four?’ r />
‘Shhh …’
*
So here they were, the three of them, on Cefalù promenade. The dog out in front, Anna in the middle and Astor bringing up the rear with hundreds of questions in his mouth.
The road, the pavements and the iron benches were buried in sand; only a few concrete walls and rusting lamp posts stuck out of it. On the landward side, rows of restaurants formed a solid mass. Many signs were still there, The Seagull, Nino’s, The Pirate’s Den, but in four years of dereliction façades had faded and paint on windows had peeled. Many places had lost their glass fronts and the sea had pushed plastic, wood and deckchairs into the rooms. In one there was even a capsized rowing boat.
‘Will we go and see the octopus again tomorrow?’
‘Be quiet.’
In front of them was the bay, which ended in a small harbour hemmed in by the village. Stone houses, squeezed together, overlooked the sea in a jumble of arches, windows and little balconies. Towering up behind the dark pantiled roofs were the two square bell towers of the Duomo and the sheer sides of the Rocca, a round mountain resembling a panettone.
They walked across a car park crammed with cars white with salt and guano. From there they went down a narrow street flanked by buildings sprouting balconies, street lamps, electric cables and lines that had once been used for drying clothes. The shops’ shutters were lowered and most Persian blinds barred. Street signs still pointed the way to the cathedral, bars and hotels.
Looting, destruction and fires had raged all over Sicily, but not in Cefalù. She’d found few skeletons in the houses, as if the inhabitants had left the village before the epidemic could kill them. Now it was a refuge for rats, ducks and colonies of seagulls. Most of the cats had been chased away by Fluffy.
Anna stopped outside the bookshop, The Compass. She tried to lift the shutter, but it was locked. To one side, the fanlight above a green door was open.
She made a stirrup with her hands and Astor shot through to the other side like a squirrel. A few moments later the door opened onto a yard paved in stone. A green forest grew out of pots standing against the walls. The bar, The Comet, was still in one corner, its iron tables next to a small wooden dais. A poster announced that the Mariano Filippi Jazz Trio would be playing there next Thursday.