The Volcano Lover (28 page)

The French would have none of his pictures. But what about his collections of volcanic minerals, his statues, bronzes, and the other antiquities? Only some could be taken with him. What a burden it is, finally, to be a collector!

He had sometimes dreamed of a fire in which he stood paralyzed with indecision, unable to give the orders to his servants naming the few objects to be saved. And now the dream of loss has come true. But fleeing before the fire of war is still better than being caught in an eruption, in which he would have to rush into the street in his nightgown, carrying nothing, or attempt to carry out some of his things and be trapped by the descending lava. He can take a great deal. But not all. And everything is so dear to him.

*   *   *

The people are angry—and the hero has thought it prudent to move his ships farther out in the gulf, beyond the range of Neapolitan guns, where they are berthed now, rising and dropping in the turbulent water. On the cold rainy night of December 21st he landed with three barges, went to the palace, led King, Queen, children, including their eldest son, his wife, the newborn baby and wet nurse, the royal doctor, royal chaplain, head gamekeeper, and eighteen gentlemen- and ladies-in-waiting through the secret tunnel to the harbor, and guided them across the craggy swell to the
Vanguard.
The Cavaliere and his wife and mother-in-law, to disguise their flight, had gone that evening to a reception at the Turkish ambassador's residence from which they slipped away and came on foot to the port. There they went aboard their own barge and were welcomed with shrieks of relief by those of their household chosen to accompany them. The Cavaliere's English secretaries seemed almost as overwrought as one expected the Neapolitans to be: the major-domo, two cooks, two grooms, three valets, and several maids in the service of the Cavaliere's wife. And Fatima, her new favorite—a beautiful black Copt, chastely held trophy from the Battle of the Nile which the hero had presented to her—broke down in sobs when she saw her mistress. Another barge carrying two ex-prime ministers of the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies, the Austrian ambassador, the Russian ambassador, and their dependents and servants, followed them out into the rising gale.

The hero hoped to sail early next morning: Neptune's trident was digging into his throbbing stump, there was going to be a storm. But the King would not permit the
Vanguard
to weigh anchor until seventy of his hounds were brought from Caserta and boarded onto one of the other British ships waiting to leave for Palermo. The King, who would not entrust even his hounds to a Neapolitan ship, stood on the deck of the
Vanguard
and chattered excitedly to the Cavaliere about the grouse hunting they would do in Sicily, while Admiral Caracciolo paced the deck of the
Sannita,
enduring his final humiliation. Not only had the royal family elected to be transported by the British admiral, but they had not confided a single crate of their belongings to the Neapolitan flagship. Finally, on the evening of the following day, the
Vanguard
was allowed to venture out of the gulf into the tremendous sea. It was following rather than leading a flotilla that included the two other warships in the hero's squadron; the
Sannita
and another Neapolitan warship, most of whose crews had deserted and which were now manned by British sailors; a Portuguese man-of-war; and the merchant ships, on which had been distributed two cardinals, a number of Neapolitan noble families, all the British residents, the French residents, many of them aristocrats who had fled the revolution, a vast number of servants, and most of the possessions of the Cavaliere and his entourage.

In all the many trunks that the Queen has insisted must accompany her, she had not thought to put bed linen. When this was noticed the Cavaliere's wife promptly gave up hers, Mrs. Cadogan made up a bed for the King, and he went to sleep. The Cavaliere's wife sat with the Queen on a portmanteau containing sixty thousand ducats in royal savings and held her hand. Her youngest child, six-year-old Carlo Alberto, lay on a mattress in a corner of the cabin in an unnatural-looking sleep, wheezing and sighing. Before leaving the Queen, the Cavaliere's wife brushed away the secretions of sleep from his eyes and wiped the clammy moisture from his pale face. The older royal children were out on the tilting decks, trailing the British sea-slaves as they frantically crisscrossed the ship to prepare it for the storm's attack, and getting in their way. They were fascinated by the tattoos and unhealed scurvy ulcers on the sailors' faces, necks, biceps, and forearms.

By the next morning the storm was at full strength, and each pitch of the ship seemed more extreme. The waves lashed the hull. The sky punched the sails. The oak of the hull cracked and groaned. The sailors cursed one another. The adult passengers did the mostly noisy things people do when they think they are going to die—praying, weeping, jesting, sitting tight-lipped. The hero, who avowed that he had never seen as fierce a storm in all his years of seafaring, remained on deck. The Cavaliere's wife went from cabin to cabin with towels and bowls, assisting passengers who were sick. The Cavaliere stayed in their sleeping cabin and retched until there was nothing left in his stomach. He tried to sip some water from a flask and noticed the tremor in his hand.

*   *   *

To the blind, every happening is sudden. To the terrified, every event is happening too soon.

They are coming for you, to take you to the firing squad, the gallows, the stake, the electric chair, the gas chamber. You have to stand up; but you can't. Your body, gorged with fear, is too heavy to move. You'd like to be able to rise and walk between them out the open door of your cell with dignity; but you can't. So they have to drag you away.

Or,
it
is coming, it is upon you, you and the others; bells or sirens have gone off (air raid, hurricane, rising flood), and you've taken shelter in this cell-like space, as out of harm's way as you can be, and out of the way of those trained to cope with the emergency. But you don't feel safer; you feel trapped. There's no place to run, and even if there were, fear has made your limbs too heavy, you can barely move. It's an alien weight that you shift from the bed to the chair, the chair to the floor. And you are shivering with fear or cold; and there is absolutely nothing you can do except try not to be any more terrified than you already are. If you remain very still, you pretend that this is what you have decided to do.

The Cavaliere wasn't sure what he minded most about the storm. Perhaps it was having to huddle in the semi-darkness of the cramped, clanking, clattery cabin—the smallest cabin in the world. Perhaps it was his sodden clothes and the cold; it was terribly cold. Perhaps it was the noise: the creaking of the ship, as wood shuddered and ground against wood, and that terrible crash, which could be a mast tipping over; that blast, which must be the topsails being blown to pieces; the screaming of the storm, and the cacophony of human shouts and cries. No, it was the revolting odors. All the portholes and hatches have been closed. In the entire ship, which is a little wider than and twice the length of a lawn tennis court, with some fifty passengers added to its crew of more than six hundred, there were only four latrines, all unusable. He wants to breathe sharp, stinging, pure air. Instead, what assails his nostrils are rank intestinal smells.

If he were outside he could see it, brave it: the ship rising, pitching forward, and falling back between two high walls of black water. Was he afraid to die? Yes, like this. It would be better to go up on deck, if his trembling legs could negotiate the slippery passage. He had gone out of the cabin to try to find his wife, wandered down the narrow listing corridor sloshing in several inches of cold sea and excrement and vomit, and turned right. Then the candle he was holding went out. He was afraid of getting lost. He longed for his Ariadne to come and console him—hold out a thread. But he was not Theseus, no, he was the Minotaur trapped in the labyrinth. Not the hero but the monster.

Steadying himself by holding on to the slimy walls and rough guide ropes, he returned to his tiny cabin. The candle-lantern was still lit. As he shut the door, the ship dipped sickeningly and he was hurled against the wall. He slid to the floor and held on to the frame of the bed, then leaned against it, gasping at the shock, at the stinging pain in his breastbone. The lantern flickered. He rocked violently from side to side. Every piece of furniture was bolted to the floor but he was not. He closed his eyes.

What had the sibyl said? Breathe.

Recipe: When you are sad, when you are alone, when no one else comes, you can summon spirits to keep you company. He opened his eyes. Efrosina Pumo was sitting now in the cabin with him, nodding with concern. And Tolo was there too, so it was not true that he had been cut down by a French soldier on the retreat from Rome. Tolo is holding his ankles, steadying him, keeping him from slumping over. And Efrosina is stroking his forehead.

Do not be afraid, my lord.

I'm not afraid, he thought. I'm humiliated.

He had not seen Efrosina in many years. She ought to be very old, but she looks younger than when he first visited her so many years ago. He wondered how that was possible. And Tolo looks young too, not the bearded, brawny fellow with a half-closed eye who had accompanied him up the mountain for twenty years (growing a little less agile, even he), but again the delicate, vulnerable boy with the open milky eye he had once been.

Am I going to die, murmured the Cavaliere.

She shook her head.

But the ship is going to capsize.

Efrosina has told you when. You still have four more years.

Only four years, he thought. That's not so long! He knew he should be relieved.

I don't want to die this way, he said sullenly.

Then he noticed—why hadn't he noticed before?—that Efrosina was holding out a deck of cards.

Let me show you your destiny, my lord.

But he could barely read the card he picked. All he could see was someone upside down. Is that me? he thought. The way the ship pitches and turns, I feel as if I'm upside down.

Yes, it is His Excellency. Notice the expression of detachment on the face of the Hanged Man. Yes, my lord, it is you.

The Cavaliere a man hanging head down in the air with his hands tied behind his back, suspended by his right ankle from a wooden gibbet?

Yes, it is certainly His Excellency. You have cast yourself head first into the void, but you are calm—

I am not calm!

You have faith—

I do not have faith!

He studied the card for a moment. But this means I will die.

Not so—and she sighed. The card does not mean what you think. Look with the eye of indifference, my lord. She laughed mirthlessly. Not only will you not hang, my lord, I promise you that you will live to hang other people.

But he didn't want to hear about the cards. He wanted Efrosina to distract him, to make the storm into a picture on the wall, make the dark walls white, draw back the space, raise the ceiling.

The storm swatted the ship again and he heard a crashing sound and shouts from the deck. Another mast fallen? It was tipping more strongly to one side. It's going over now, he can feel it. Tolo! The air will start to fill with water. Tolo!

The boy was still there, massaging his feet.

I cannot find my calm, he muttered.

Take out your pistol, my lord, you will feel safer. Tolo's voice. A man's counsel.

My pistol?

Tolo brought him the traveling case, which contained two pistols he always carried with him, while Efrosina wiped the sweat from his brow. He took them out. He closed his eyes.

Safer now?

Yes.

And it was thus that his two companions left him, with a pistol in each hand, trying, despite the swerve and smash of the storm, to hold as still as he can.

*   *   *

The Cavaliere's wife had just left the cabin of the Austrian ambassador, Prince Esterházy, who had been vomiting and praying, when she realized with a start that she had not seen the Cavaliere for several hours. She made her way down the heaving corridor to their cabin.

What relief she felt when she pushed the door open and saw him, sitting up on a trunk; and what fright, when she saw he was holding a pistol in each hand.

Oh, what's that!

Guggle guggle guggle, he said in a ghostly toneless voice.

What?

The sound of salt water in my throat, he shouted.

In your throat?

In the ship! In my throat! The moment I feel the ship sinking—he brandished the pistols—I intend to shoot myself.

Holding on to the shuddering door frame, she stared at him until he averted his eyes and stopped waving the pistols.

Guggle guggle, he said.

She was overcome with pity for his fear and misery. His mouth looked swollen. But she did not rush to comfort him, as she had been comforting so many others on the ship. For the first time she is not his. That is, for the first time she wishes he were other than he is—a doleful elderly man, weakened by vomiting, offended by stink and the proximity of too many human animals and the absence of all decorum.

The ship isn't going to sink, she said. Not with our great friend at the helm.

Come and sit by me, said the Cavaliere.

I'll be back in an hour. The Queen—

Your dress is stained.

In no more than an hour I'll be back. I promise!

And she was, and that night, it was Christmas Eve, the wind fell. She coaxed the Cavaliere onto the deck to watch a fine sight: the live volcanoes of the Lipari Islands, Stromboli and Vulcano, flaring and flaming skyward. They stood together. The wind slapped and salted their faces, and the volcanic fires lit up the star-speckled sky.

See, see, she murmured, and put her arm around him. Then she guided him back to the cabin, where the presence of Efrosina and Tolo still lingered.

She left the Cavaliere to sleep, having resolved not to enter a bed as long as she was needed. At dawn she came back to the cabin to wake him and brought him outside on the debris-strewn deck. The sea had gone flat, the red ball of the rising sun was burnishing the full-out sails with rosy light, and the ghosts of the two who had come to console the Cavaliere began to fade. She showed him a note she had received at four in the morning, while she was in the Queen's cabin trying to lull the fretful, squirming Carlo Alberto back to sleep. Addressed to her from the hero, it requested the happiness of having the Cavaliere, her ladyship, and Mrs. Cadogan take Christmas dinner with him at midday in the admiral's cabin. What a beautiful morning, she said.