The Quick Boat Men, page 8
Eight
Dressed once more in their damp and wrinkled clothes, Edward and Rafaela felt awkward and avoided eye contact.
‘We must see Father Anselmo,’ Rafaela said.
‘Remember, I’m not a Catholic.’
‘It doesn’t matter. Father Anselmo will know what to do. He will make it all right.’
The old priest didn’t ask questions. He did no more than tell them to kneel, and muttered a few prayers in Latin over them.
Two policemen arrived on horseback during the morning. Behind them came a cart pulled by a mule and driven by one of the villagers. They dug up the corpse and without much ceremony threw it into the cart. As it drew away, Father Anselmo raised his fingers in blessing.
‘I shouldn’t bother, Father,’ one of the policemen said. ‘He was inside for murder and rape. He wouldn’t have made old bones. Nor will his mate. Not with half his head shot away.’
Rafaela gasped and went pale.
‘There was no choice,’ said Edward. ‘No choice.’
In the days that followed, Rafaela became increasingly withdrawn. There was nothing Edward could say or do, so he occupied himself with practicalities.
Messina was still full of people clothed only in whatever they could find. A few had followed the example of the escaped prisoners and looted whatever clothing shops they could find. No one stopped them.
With the aqueduct broken, there was no water except from a few tainted wells, no bread, meat, pasta or vegetables, and no fish because most of the fishing boats had been swamped by the waves that had swept across the beach, carrying away hundreds of people who had rushed there to escape falling buildings. Many bodies had been washed back onto the beach and lay decomposing in the sun.
The stink was appalling and everybody wore handkerchieves over their noses and mouths. There was cholera in the poorer quarter of the town, and the rats were said to be spreading typhus. Thousands of homeless cats and dogs slunk about the ruins, gnawing at human flesh, and more than a few disappeared into the cooking pots of starving people.
The wine shops had been emptied and the drunken orgy that had followed the first invasion of looters had ceased. But tremors continued and people had taken to heading for the orange groves at night to sleep under the trees. Business was at a standstill because everyone was concerned simply with survival. But Orlandos was one of the few businesses beginning to function again.
Evrone was delighted to see Edward. ‘There is much to do here, Capitano,’ he said, twisting his curlicue moustache nervously. ‘Food and building materials are going to arrive soon in great quantities, but there will be no one to handle them. Orlandos should be doing the work. We have the facilities and the experience. Di Portos have vanished, and the whole family perished.’
‘Including Bruno di Porto,’ thought Edward unworthily.
‘The Caniglias and Della Setas are gone. We are the only importers left here and the Banco Meridione have told us they are prepared to advance money. Signor Capitano, somebody should be here to give the orders.’
‘I can’t do it,’ Rafaela said later.
‘Yes you can.’
‘It’s not a job for a woman.’
‘It’s a job for anyone who can do it.’
Next morning, dressed in odds and ends of her own, her mother’s and Zia Monica’s, she twiddled her thumbs while Edward harnessed the old horse to the carriage, which had been polished till it shone by Zia Monica’s brother, an old man who until the earthquake had worked as a gardener for a convent.
The Banco Meridione had been only partly damaged and they were putting on a brave show. Rafaela was shown with some ceremony into a small office where the manager had been temporarily transferred.
‘Signorina di Orlando,’ he said. ‘What sadness. Please accept my condolences on the death of your father. What can I do for you? What do you wish?’
Rafaela swallowed. ‘Money,’ she said.
To her surprise, the bank was only too eager to supply her and, drawing out a substantial sum, she headed for the Orlando office to pay the wages of the clerks.
Urged on by Edward, she made a short speech. ‘My father counted on you. I need you,’ she ended. ‘Just be patient. And we will make this company great again.’
That night Rafaela insisted on retreating to the far end of the stable, where she erected a barrier of blankets, boards and sheets of cardboard to form two rooms. A mattress was dragged in and placed on boxes. Rafaela even found some sheets. They could still hear the mice scurrying about and the shuffle of the horse, they could hear each other, but they had a privacy of sorts.
Edward lay awake for hours, staring at the cold moon slicing through the warped planks of the door. There was the muted rumble of a new tremor and Rafaela whimpered on her side of the barrier. Then she called out his name and he went to her. She was warm with sleep but her limbs were stiff with terror.
‘Oh Edward,’ she said, ‘please don’t leave me.’
He kissed her gently, and her arms went round his neck, drawing his head down to her breast.
Food started to arrive with the government officials from the mainland. The man from the Ministry of the Interior in Rome who appeared in the Orlando offices was a small stout bureaucrat with a spade beard and pince-nez spectacles.
‘You?’ he said, frowning at Rafaela. ‘We need a man of experience.’
‘What’s wrong with a woman of experience?’ Rafaela already rounded on him, lips curling, contempt in every curve of her body. ‘I have sat by my father and watched what he has done. When he was busy I have even done it for him. I can do all that one of your stupid men can do and more.’
The man from Rome disappeared in a hurry, a pained expression on his face. Edward grinned at Rafaela. She glared back at him, but as the door slammed, she hugged him quickly then she swung round and shouted into the outer office.
‘Evrone! Can you come in a minute, please.’
Evrone appeared, plump and dainty, fiddling with his moustache.
‘Where’s Dummo?’ Rafaela demanded. ‘He’s the manager. He should be here.’
Evrone shrugged. ‘Signorina, he’s dead.’
‘What about Jenschi?’
‘Also dead, Signorina.’
For a moment there was silence then Rafaela said, ‘How much do you know about the business, Evrone?’
‘Everything there is to know, Signorina. I have been with your father for twenty years.’
‘Then why are you only the chief clerk?’
Evrone shrugged again. ‘Because my education came from the nuns and the parish priest, Signorina. I was an orphan. I was not considered to have enough education. Signor Dummo had been educated at a private school.
‘Signor Dummo,’ Rafaela said, ‘was an old snob who had his eye on me. How would you like to be manager?’
Evrone’s jaw dropped.
‘Could you do the job?’
Evrone stared at her wildly, then his back stiffened. ‘Si, Signorina. Of course.’
‘Very well. You’ve been appointed. Who would you recommend as your assistant?’
‘Carlo Zoparella.’ The name came at once. ‘He is young but very bright and very forceful.’
‘He’s your deputy from this moment. But teach him your job as well, and see he finds a good chief clerk.’
Evrone shuffled his feet. ‘May I make a suggestion, Signorina?’
‘You’re the direttore now, Evrone, looking after my interests. You have every right to make a suggestion. Speak up.’
‘You need a man, Signorina. In the office of the head of the firm.’
Rafaela’s face darkened. ‘I shall sit in that office.’
‘Not immediately, Signorina.’ Evrone was insistent. ‘At first you need a man. Preferably some member of your family. For a figurehead. So the people from Rome will not turn round and walk out of the office as they have just done. Let us get things moving, and then consider what else to do.’
Rafaela frowned. ‘There isn’t anyone.’
‘There must be someone,’ said Edward, ‘surely. What about Zia Monica’s brother? All he has to do is look important.’
‘E bene,’ said Zia Monica, when she heard Rafaela’s proposal. ‘It’s good.’ They found her brother trying to sort out the damage to their house and snatched him away. Putting him in one of di Orlando’s rescued suits, they brushed him down and drove him down the hill and stuck him in di Orlando’s office.
The old man was in a daze. He couldn’t believe his luck. He was to be paid for doing nothing. All he had to do was sit.
Avvocato Montesi, the lawyer, raised objections to their plans at once. ‘A woman can’t carry on a business like this. Especially one of your age.’
Rafaela stared coldly at him. ‘I was old enough to be married, Avvocato,’ she said. ‘You know that, because you arranged the contract. If I am old enough to be responsible for a household and for bringing up children, I am old enough to handle a business that will keep me alive. Not only me, but you, too Avvocato. Your firm handles all our legal work.’
Montesi looked baffled.
‘I am willing to offer you a directorship,’ Rafaela continued. ‘But only under certain conditions. You will draw the usual salary and bonuses but you will deal only with the legal aspects. I am running Orlandos from now on. I have already appointed a manager.’
‘Who?’
‘Alfonso Evrone.’
‘Signorina, he is a man without education.’
‘He is a man with twenty years’ experience of this business. If you don’t accept my appointment, I shall have no alternative but to terminate our association with your office and find someone who will agree.’
Montesi’s lips tightened across his teeth. ‘Signorina,’ he said. ‘I have no option but to agree.’
‘I don’t want you to agree because you have no option, I want you to agree because you believe in what we’re doing. We’re going to modernise this business. You’ll not get much in the way of bonuses until we’ve built things up again, but after that I promise you there’ll be plenty.’
Montesi managed a bleak smile. ‘Then I will give it a try, Signorina. I will give Evrone all the help I can.’
‘Signor Evrone now. He’s the manager of the firm, not just a clerk.’
Montesi coughed behind his hand. ‘Signor Evrone,’ he said.
Nine
The relief supplies were beginning to trickle into Messina now and Orlandos were handling everything. Meat, milk, grain, flour came first, and then the materials of reconstruction.
The men from Rome were shown into Zia Monica’s brother and the old man sat like a sphinx saying nothing. When addressed, he gestured silently at Evrone or Zoparella who answered for him. Eventually, he even began to develop his own characteristics and guess what the answer should be.
The American official from Taormina who was organising the relief was by no means unwilling to work with a woman. He was very young and obviously much attracted to Rafaela.
‘In New York, Signorina Direttrice,’ he said, ‘we would have done our business over a lunch. But there are no restaurants.’
‘Perhaps Orlandos should open one.’
‘Good idea,’ he replied, smiling.
In another room, Edward was considering lists. When the crunch came, Rafaela found she didn’t know as much as she thought she did and Edward knew nothing at all, but they were young and adventurous and, with Evrone and Zoparella to guide them, they were beginning to see daylight.
‘We exported grain, wood, beans, grapes, wine, fruit, sulphur, rock salt,’ Evrone said. ‘The producers on the island used us as a depot and also as a co-operative. We imported flour, treated wood, cement, machinery, cloth and household equipment that isn’t available on the mainland. Again we acted as a depot for those firms who needed the things.’
‘Apart from what’s being given free,’ Edward said, ‘you’ll have to double – no, quadruple, if not more – the cement you’re importing. There’s going to be a lot of rebuilding.’
Evrone nodded. ‘We must buy glazed drain pipes, plaster, glass, planks, nails, screws. Those are the first essentials. They’re needed immediately.’
‘You ought also to think about crockery and glassware. There can’t be a whole plate or glass on the island.’
Rafaela sighed. ‘I feel guilty about charging for these things when people need them,’ she said.
‘They’re arriving free at the moment,’ Edward pointed out. ‘And no one’s going to buy until they can afford to. Give things free if you wish. The first essential is to get the place going again.’
Zoparella interrupted. He was a young, spaniel-eyed man who looked about seventeen and he was wearing one of Salvatore’s jackets, because he had lost his own and needed to look properly dressed for his job.
‘Someone should go to Reggio di Calabria, Signorina,’ he suggested. ‘Twenty thousand people have been killed there. I crossed by fishing boat during the night to see my sister who, thank God, is safe, and returned this morning. All the small towns – Scilla, Canitello, Villa San Giovanni, Gallico, Archi, San Gregorio – they say that they are nothing but a vast cemetery. There are thirty thousand dead in the ruins, they say, and several thousand more injured. In Pellaro there are only two hundred left alive. Someone should be there to help. We have no one on that side of the strait and a lot of materials are coming down from the north. It needs organising.’
‘Can you deal with it, Carlo?’ Rafaela asked.
‘I’m sure I can, Signorina.’
‘Then you go. We’ll find someone else here to replace you. Set up an office. You can draw on our account. I’ll want to see all paperwork, of course.’
Zopparella gave her a sly look.
She stared back at him, then they both grinned. ‘I think we understand each other, Carlo,’ she said. ‘The time may come when there’ll be more than just a small office over there. And you could be running it.’
That afternoon, Edward was surprised to find a letter from his uncle waiting for him at the Orlandos’ office. It was full of warmth and promised him a tremendous welcome home. When he told Rafaela, she was silent. Then she said, ‘You will never come back.’
‘Of course I will.’
‘When?’
He reached for her hand, but she turned away.
Edward gradually became aware, as he went about, of long slow stares from the people of Friddi, and they were not friendly.
‘There have been murmurings in the village,’ Rafaela said. ‘According to Zia Monica. And I have had letters from cousins. They think you’re planning to steal their birthright.’
The following day, Edward was jostled in the street, and when he protested he was immediately surrounded by a crowd of hostile youths.
During the afternoon, three men in dark suits came to see Rafaela at Orlandos. When Edward went to join her, he was politely ushered outside and the door shut in his face. He was about to insist when Evrone laid a hand on his arm.
‘Not now, Signore,’ he said quietly.
When the men left, Rafaela called Edward into her office.
‘What the hell is going on,’ he asked furiously.
‘These are friends,’ she replied.
‘And what am I?’
‘These are people I know, people my father knew. They came to warn me. I have lived here all my life and I can play my enemies at their own game. These men will raise a small army to stand behind me because there are enough people in the island who are grateful to my family.’
She frowned. ‘But when my enemies can’t get at me, they will find another victim. You are an outsider. I can’t argue against that.’
She laid a hand on his arm. ‘Perhaps it would be wiser if you did go home for a while. Until we can arrange things on the mainland. I intend to open in Rome and other places, and it would be safe there. But it needs time. For the moment it may be better if I am seen to be alone. Then the cousins can’t complain. There are other reasons, too.’
‘What other reasons?’
‘Reasons I can’t tell you at the moment because I’m not sure of them. Do you love me?’
‘What do you think?’
She stamped her foot. ‘You English are cold-blooded,’ she snapped. ‘An Italian would declare his love at once.’
‘And not mean it. Did Bruno di Porto tell you he loved you?’
‘Yes.’
‘But he didn’t love you, did he?’
‘I love you, carissimo Edward. I’ll always love you. All my life.’
Part Two
1909 – 1911
Ten
It was strange to see the green fields of England again after the arid landscape of Southern Italy. Even in the rain Sicily was bare and devoid of colour except where gardens had been planted or the sea glimmered through the olives in an ever-changing pattern of blue, purple and grey. England looked too lush to be real. But though the fields were green, the skies were grey as gun-metal and full of harshly crying crows. The sea that lapped its shores was the colour of lead.
As Edward stepped from the Southampton train at Porthelt, Egg was waiting on the station, tall, dome-headed, bearded, more like a professor than a boat-builder. He was bubbling over with excitement.
‘Good God, boy, how you’ve grown.’
‘It wasn’t the food, Uncle Egg.’ Edward paused. ‘Uncle Egg – about Fairy.’
‘Forget it, boy.’
‘I’m so sorry. It was supposed to be an experiment. I was probably showing off to Georgina.’
‘It’s over and done with,’ Egg insisted. ‘Forgotten. But, perhaps you could tell me, Edward, what exactly were you trying to do?’
‘I was trying to torpedo her.’
