Rosamanti (22 page)

“We need to go now. The sun will be up in about fifteen minutes. Providing the swell is not large, it will be perfect timing.”

Sarah hurriedly slipped her arms into the lifejacket, tied the straps securely, then climbed in and sat on the back seat. Pietro and Carlo pushed the boat out farther, the small waves already sending spray into the boat as it pushed through them. When the water was up to Pietro’s knees, he told Carlo to jump in and sit in the pointy bow, then he climbed in himself. He sat facing Sarah and grabbed hold of the oars, his biceps bulging as he pulled the boat across the surface of the water.

As they rounded the headland and saw the opening of the Blue Grotto, a shaft of bright orange light seared their eyes as the sun peeped over the eastern end of the island. Perfect.

The swell was much bigger than it had been when Pietro brought Sarah here last time. She had to hold on tightly to the seat as the craft tossed and bucked on the choppy open water. Silver droplets of spray hit the bow and cascaded down on them, hitting her in the face. She scrunched up her eyes against the salty sting.

They were quite close to the grotto entrance when Pietro shipped the oars. Panting slightly, he called out to them.

“Lie on the floor, now. I will wait for the right swell.”

Sarah smelled fish, salt, and old ropes as she lay in the rocking boat. Normally, she knew, Pietro would have waited until the tides and swell were perfect before attempting to enter the grotto, but they were all so excited that he decided they would take a chance. After several minutes, she heard the rowlocks rattle and he called out loudly.

“Now!”

She could see him straining on the oars, trying to propel the boat as rapidly as he could. Suddenly he crouched down on top of her. He reached up to the chains to pull them through the narrow slit. They entered the darkness just as a large swell lifted the back of the dinghy. The aluminum shrieked as it scraped on the roof of the opening. Pietro pulled harder, and as the swell sank, he gave one last haul, shooting the little boat into the relative calm of the grotto.

He sat there panting, sweat beading across his brow, the underarms of his cotton shirt saturated. He lifted one arm and wiped his sleeve across his face. Then he did the same with the other.

“You can sit up now, Sarah.”

She sat up awkwardly, trying to regain her position on the bench seat. Even inside the grotto, the swell was quite big, the opposite to the placid waters of their last visit. The sun was not yet high enough to cause the vivid blue color in the grotto, but instead, it was infused with a delicate, ice-blue, quite unlike anything she had seen before.

His breath returning to normal, Pietro once again took hold of the oars, dipping them into the surreal water, causing splashes of crystal shards. He rowed them over to the ledge, where Carlo nimbly climbed up and secured the rope to the old brass ring. Pietro and Carlo exchanged some words in Italian that Sarah didn’t understand, but she watched as Carlo tied another rope to the stern of the boat and attached it to another ring farther along the rock wall. Even so, the aluminum gunwales scraped on the rock ledge, as each swell lifted the boat.

She sat watching them as they prepared for the dive. Pietro stripped off his shirt and flung it in the boat. Carlo pulled his thin T-shirt over his head and did the same. They tied thin nylon ropes around each other, the other end to an aluminum handle welded to one of the gunwales. Pietro talked all the while to the young boy, who suddenly seemed so manly. His little face was set, concentrating on every word Pietro said, occasionally nodding. Then, placing goggles on their heads, they both began taking very deep breaths, holding, then releasing the air slowly. Pietro’s voice, quiet in the echoing chamber, was firm, confident. Eventually, the two shook hands. Pietro turned to her.

“We are ready. You must keep your hands on these two ropes. If you feel us pull, like this, you need to haul us up. OK?” His gaze burned into hers.

She nodded. “Si. OK.”

They slid into the water quietly. She could see their legs treading water in the clear aqua of the grotto. At the same time, they pulled their goggles over their eyes and tested them to ensure they were watertight. With a deep breath, Pietro duck-dived, his feet splashing through the surface. Carlo did the same. She leaned over the side of the boat, watching them go down, down, until they were just two dark undulating shapes way down in the deep water.

The boat creaked against the ropes and rock ledge. Looking around her, she noticed the vibrant blue becoming more pronounced as the sun rose farther in the sky, reflecting through the underwater opening of the grotto. She was nervous.
What if the tourist boats come in? What if something happens to either of them?
Water always made her uneasy, and being alone here in the Blue Grotto brought back fearful memories of her night alone, stranded in the White Grotto. Her heart rate increased as she allowed negative thoughts to permeate her brain. Time ticked slowly by.

Soon, dark shadows under the water caught her eye. She stared, wishing she was brave enough to stick her head in the water with her eyes open. As the dolphin-like movements lifted the shapes—one large and one smaller—closer to the surface, she let out the large breath she didn’t realize she had been holding.

Their heads broke the surface, flinging their hair out of their eyes. They clung to the side of the boat gasping, trying to get their breath back. Pietro threw a brown package into the floor of the boat and held up his hand, Carlo high-fiving it with gusto. When their breath was more normal, Pietro gave Carlo a leg up onto the ledge. The boy untied the rear rope, tossing it to the floor of the boat, while Pietro climbed into it, causing the little craft to lean over in the water. Still panting, he cast a quick glance at her and winked. He was still too breathless to talk, but she relaxed her shoulders, relief flooding through her.

The swell inside the grotto seemed to be worse now. Pietro looked worriedly at the opening. Carlo waited by the second rope, ready to untie it when told to. Still panting loudly, they spoke to each other. It was clear to Sarah that Pietro was a strong father figure to the little boy. Carlo seemed to hang on every word Pietro said. She remembered him telling her how he taught Carlo about boats and fishing. Now, he had passed on to the boy the biggest secret on the island. The cave that only Nonna and Pietro knew about. Her heart warmed as she watched them working together.

Carlo turned and untied the rope. Still holding it, he put his foot on the gunwale of the boat and pushed it away from the ledge, at the same time jumping nimbly into the bow. Pietro moved the oars from where they lay inside the boat and dipped the tips into the water, pulling hard in the direction of the opening. He turned the dinghy side on so that he could watch the swells. He and the boy seemed to be counting them. Sarah started doing the same, noticing that around every fifth one seemed to be a bit smaller. They looked at each other. Pietro nodded.

“Lie down now!” he called, his voice echoing in the chamber.

She slid to the floor and once again lay as flat as she could on top of the wet ropes and other bits and pieces. Pietro struggled, pulling the oars with all his might against the rip in the water. Then he lay on top of her, his back on her face. She heard the chains rattle against the rock and heard him grunt with exertion. Crash! The boat jolted hard against the rock. Still, Pietro fought to get them through the opening before the next big swell. She heard scraping noises as the boat grated against the jagged rock. She couldn’t see anything, his back blocking any view. But she sensed that the ceiling was only inches from Pietro’s face. With a roar from deep in his chest, his arms heaved on the chains. More scraping. But the boat moved. Suddenly, it popped out of the opening and into the broad sunshine.

Pietro swiftly pulled himself up and grabbed the oars, pulling hard to move them away from the cliffs. Slowly she sat up and took up her position on the back seat, facing Pietro, clinging on tight as the waves crashed over the bow, spraying them all. His face contorted with the effort of rowing them away from the grotto opening. She could tell that one rogue wave could easily suck them into the cave again.

With each pull, the oars thrust into the angry sea, biting deep and taking them farther away from any danger. They rounded the small headland and headed for the little beach where they stored the boat. As they got closer, Carlo stood on the small triangular prow, ready to jump in to the water. She heard the crunch of shingle underneath the boat, and Pietro shipped the oars. Carlo jumped over and guided the boat into shallow waters. Pietro stepped over the side, then turned and held his hand out to her. His strong hand held hers, helping her to jump onto the sand at the water’s edge.

Pietro and Carlo pulled the boat up a few feet, then Pietro collapsed onto the sand, panting hard. She pulled a bottle of water out of her bag and passed it to him. He had a few mouthfuls and handed it back, still trying to catch his breath. Soon, he looked at her.

“Are you OK, bella?”

“Sure, I’m fine. What about you?”

“Oh sure. It’s been a long time since I’ve done a dive like that, but I’m still pretty fit.” He smiled.

The three of them sat on the sand, letting Pietro rest for a while. He looked at Carlo.

“Let that be a lesson to you. Never go in there with a big swell.”

Carlo smiled. “Si. I won’t.”

After a while, Pietro retrieved the parcel from the boat and stowed it in Sarah’s bag. They wound up the ropes and stowed the boat securely in the cave. The long climb up the cliff track was slow, everyone puffing when they got to the top. They climbed into the golf buggy and headed off in the direction of Rosamanti, way over on the other side of the island.

* * *

They stopped at Carlo’s entrance on via Lo Capo and waited while he ran up the track to his house. A minute later, he returned, holding his mother’s hand. They both climbed back in the buggy, and Pietro drove on farther, turning into the entrance to Rosamanti. He parked the golf buggy in the courtyard, and they all went and sat at the table under the pergola.

Pietro had recovered from the exertion of pulling the boat through the grotto and was in high spirits. He reached into Sarah’s back pack and pulled out a wet, dark brown package tied up with hemp rope. Laying it on the table, he reached into his shorts pocket and pulled out a pocket knife. The blade slid easily through the old rope. The four stared as Pietro, with shaking fingers, peeled open the stiff oil cloth. The layers seemed to go on forever, Pietro rolling the parcel over and over, still not seeing what was inside. Eventually he stopped. Taking a deep breath, he looked up at the others. Sarah hoped that Pietro wouldn’t be disappointed with whatever was inside.

A black tube rolled onto the table. One end was about an inch in diameter, the other end about twice that size. It looked like plastic, but it couldn’t have been. Pietro tapped it with his fingernail.

“It is a Bakelite telephone earpiece. When I was a child, I remember that the Post Office had a large wooden telephone hanging on the wall. The earpiece sat in a cradle on the side.”

He turned it over in his hands, examining it. On the smaller end, where the cord would have been attached, the hole had been plugged with some sort of gum.

“Maybe tree sap, or window glass putty?” He was talking more to himself than to those around him.

He turned his attention to the other end, the mouthpiece. The pattern of holes on the speaking end were also plugged. He gripped it and tried to twist the end off. With effort, he moved it. The thread was still good. After several turns, the end came off. With bated breath, they all watched as he carefully shook out the contents of the waterproof earpiece. The corner of a piece of yellowed paper protruded through the opening. He grasped it with his fingers and deftly pulled it out. As he did so, a small packet fell onto the table. He shook it again, and another one, larger, fell out.

Pietro’s hands shook. Sarah looked at him, his face pale as he stared down at the objects on the table. He picked up the folded piece of paper and very carefully opened it up. Black India ink, written in the same handwriting as the letter that Sarah found in the drawing room, covered the page. He spread it out on the table so that the others could see it.

Clearing his throat, he began to read the letter out loud, his voice thick with emotion.

“19 Dicembre, 1928

Today we buried my mother, Concetta Lombardi, under the shade of the old ilex tree, on the hillside above Rosamanti. I can see the fresh earth on the mound as I sit at my open window, looking up at the hill.

I have no tears left. My mother is now at rest, away from the tyranny of my father, who worked her hard by day and beat her by night.

As I sat by her deathbed, she gave me her wedding ring and some gold coins, saying I can use them to get away from my father. She said I must hide them, or he will take them from me.

As the loss of my mother sits so heavily upon me, I have not the energy to run away. I don’t have anywhere to go. So, I am hiding my treasures in the hope that I can one day retrieve them and start a new life.

This letter is for whosoever I choose to tell my secret to, in the event that I never return to the Blue Grotto to retrieve my treasure.

Elena Lombardi

Rosamanti, Lo Capo.”

Pietro’s voice was barely a whisper. Tears flowing silently down his face, he handed the letter to Teresa so that she could read it. Sarah reached over and placed her hand on his, squeezing it. Carlo reached up and used the back of his hand to wipe away a tear. They waited until Teresa read the letter, seeing her face also become sad, and moisture form in her eyes to spill down her cheeks.

Taking a deep and ragged breath, Pietro picked up the smaller packet. Carefully opening it, he pulled away at soft material that was securely wrapped around what looked like a single hard lump. A flash of bright yellow gold popped out of the wrappings. Sarah heard gasps as Pietro disentangled it and held it up for all to see. A dark blue sapphire sat atop a beautiful filigree carved setting, the eighty odd years underwater not dulling it in any way. With shaking fingers, he passed the ring to Sarah. When she had examined it, she passed it over to Teresa, then it went to Carlo. As he handed it back to Pietro, Carlo let out a sigh, his big black-brown eyes popping.