Vango (32 page)

The doctor had frequently suggested that she move into his place if she was afraid of getting another nasty visit. She wasn’t frightened of anything, she had replied.

This was true: the only fear she had ever experienced had been for Vango’s sake. And now that he had gone away, Mademoiselle felt a painful sense of peace.

The mystery of Vango’s absence, and his silence, sometimes kept her awake at night. She would talk to him a bit, as if he were still there in his little bed, in the corner of the bedroom. She would regale him with stories. She would tell him about a dazzling big white boat that sailed across the seas, with dozens of dolphins following in its wake.

Her voice would break at the ends of her sentences. Often, she couldn’t finish her tales.

But once a year, Vango let her know that he was alive and well. One letter, the day after Easter. A few loops in that clumsy handwriting she was so familiar with. That was all she asked for.

Mademoiselle slid her hand under the sink.

She wasn’t mistaken. She had just seen a reflection in the white ceramic tiles. Somebody was behind her. A shadowy shape had emerged from the bedroom and entered the kitchen.

There was a small shepherd’s knife hidden under the stone sink. She had it in her hand now. The blade was slim and cut like wild grass.

Mademoiselle mustered all her courage. Her right hand continued sorting capers while the left one gripped the knife.

The man didn’t move. Mademoiselle was singing. The reflection in the tiles was blurry, but she could see that he wasn’t very tall.

His silhouette was like a brush-and-ink drawing, with narrow shoulders. Perhaps he was young, or else standing sideways.

She would be able to overpower him.

She had no choice. Or her life would be over before the flower in her hair had wilted.

Mademoiselle was waiting. She needed him to get a bit closer.

She decided to talk to him without turning around, to let him come to her.

“You won’t get him. I know what he’s been through,” she called out in Russian before adding enigmatically, “He has the strength of a survivor.”

Behind her, the figure moved slightly and pinned itself to the wall, as if it couldn’t quite make up its mind.

“You won’t get him!” she shouted.

With one leap, the man rushed over.

She released her left hand and turned around forcefully as the white flower flew out of her hair. The blade of her knife ripped through the air, but it didn’t touch the visitor, who managed to dodge.

“Mademoiselle!” he shouted.

The nurse’s fingers relaxed. The knife landed in the thick wood of the tabletop, chopping the caper flower in half.

She opened her eyes again.

It was him. The survivor.

“Vango! Evangelisto! Vango!”

He fell to his knees before her.

“Mademoiselle.”

He wrapped his arms around her waist.

She was crying so hard that everything was a blur. She clasped Vango’s head and stroked his face to make sure it really was him.

“Evangelisto, you’re here,” whispered Mademoiselle.

Vango was getting used to the sound of her voice again and to his name, Evangelisto, which he’d almost forgotten. She had always called him Vango, but on important occasions the full version of his first name would put in an appearance, as if she needed more letters to express everything she wanted to say.

“Leave, Vango.”

“Who were you expecting, Mademoiselle? Who were you talking to?”

“They’re looking for you.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. Leave.”

“I’m not going to stay for long. I came to ask you something.”

In his pocket, Vango could feel the piece of paper from Ethel. The message had landed in his hands, transported by an invisible force. And it asked the question that would haunt him from now on: “Who are you?”

Vango was reviewing his life and its mysteries.

There are some closed doors we’re so frightened of opening that we don’t see them anymore. We’ve pushed furniture in front of them; we’ve jammed the lock. Children are the only ones who might crouch down on all fours to stare at that red glow coming from under the door as they wonder what lies behind it. But Vango had always been afraid of the glow. He preferred to soak up the sunlight outside.

Today, this secret was all that he could see. In barely five days, he had rushed from Paris to get an answer out of his caretaker.

“Mademoiselle, tell me everything you know. Tell me who I am.”

She looked up.

“What?”

She had understood perfectly, of course.

“Tell me who I am.”

“My little one,” she whispered into Vango’s hair, “you are my little one.”

Vango stood up and gazed deep into her eyes.

“Tell me,” he begged.

This time she felt her resolve weakening.

They stayed like that for several minutes, staring at each other. Mademoiselle had gone to sit down. Her face was unrecognizable. So many memories were flickering across it, one after another. Not a word in all of this. Her face was a flag in the wind, stretched, rippling, supported by the power of recall.

The winds of memory were bringing an entire other life back with them. There was no time for the sobbing and the laughter to stop. They were like grains of sand whipped up by that Mediterranean wind known as the sirocco.

Mademoiselle still hadn’t uttered a word, but Vango could already recognize his own life being played out silently across her face.

“I won’t be able to tell you everything today. These days, I can’t always distinguish between what really happened and what I’ve dreamed. I’ll need a little time.”

“I haven’t got time!” exclaimed Vango.

With her finger, Mademoiselle nudged the empty cup that had betrayed the news of Vango’s arrival.

“I’d like to begin at the end,” she declared. “With the last night. Let me start with the last night.”

From his belt, Vango took out the silk handkerchief that had never left him: the blue square with the capital
V
and his surname. And those crumpled words:
How many kingdoms know us not.

Mademoiselle stood up and took the handkerchief. She held it very close to her mouth and began to speak.

“We’d had fine weather all day.”

She repeated herself, as if she needed those words to act as a springboard: “We’d had fine weather all day. And when the weather was good, the boat was a little piece of paradise. There was some shade provided by the rattan parasols, making circles on the deck. The three masts swayed gently. The oriental carpets were spread out up on the bridge. The crew shut down the steam engine. It was hot. They were diving off the roof of the boat.”

Her voice sounded mellifluous; she was smiling.

“I can see you, Vango. You’re on a deck chair made out of a wood that’s almost black. There are splashes of sunlight around you. I remember a voice singing.”

She sang the first few notes of a Greek lullaby, as poignant as a siren’s song.

“Who was singing?” Vango interrupted her with tears in his eyes.

Mademoiselle continued as if she hadn’t heard him: “We’d had fine weather all day. That evening, you were sleeping on the deck chair in your blue pajamas.”

“Who was singing?”

“Give me time, please, Vango.”

She put her hands together on the table.

“That night, the boat was gleaming like a gold coin. There were garlands of lights strung between the mast cables, and flares along the bridge. It was a big boat, nearly sixty meters long, with only six sailors. When night fell, the wind picked up. We were enjoying the breeze after the heat of the day. But it began to whip the sea into motion. The rain came down on the carpets on the bridge. We took shelter inside the cabin.”

“Who took shelter, Mademoiselle?”

“You, me, . . .”

She closed her eyes and hummed the sirens’ song to summon the strength.

“And your mother . . .” she said at last.

A sort of gentle shifting noise could be heard coming from Vango’s direction. A breeze sent a piece of dried grass gliding to the floor.

“And your father . . .” Mademoiselle added in a whisper.

Her pupils shone as she spoke these last words. She carried on with her storytelling.

“We were in the small cabin belowdeck. The storm was taking its hold on the sea. We weren’t afraid. There wasn’t a more reliable boat in the world. It had sailed over wild seas to Denmark. A more reliable boat did not exist. That’s what your father always used to say.”

She smiled again.

“And I’m sure he was right. Your mother sang again, to help lull you to sleep. Your father was sleeping too, his head on his wife’s knees. He loved her. He’d had the boat’s previous name removed from the prow, and he had a star painted with five points, because your mother’s name — and the boat’s — was Stella. I admired your father. He spoke to me as if I were a lady, even though I was just a French nanny, while he was every inch a prince.”

Night fell over the house at Pollara. Vango was barely present inside those walls. Instead, he was rediscovering a past he had forgotten all about. In his stomach he could feel the rolling motion of that October night in 1918.

“The sailors came in to dry off. We heard them talking in their cabin at the front of the boat. That’s why it happened. Your mother didn’t want them to stay outside in the rain. She told them to go into their cabin. She took them some hot water.”

Vango thought of those hands carrying the kettle. His mother. How sweet to hear that forbidden word. His mother was named Stella. The star. Vango’s eyes were shut now.

“I was sitting near one of the portholes,” Mademoiselle explained. “I was the only one to realize that something strange was going on. At one point I said, ‘There’s a light out there, on the waves.’ Your father went outside for a moment. He came back in and reassured me. He hadn’t seen anything. He said there was very little risk of a stray boat crashing into us in the storm on this stretch of sea. He pointed to a dot on the map. He said, ‘We’re here.’ I can remember that very clearly.”

She put her finger on the blue handkerchief that lay unfolded in front of her.

Vango could sense the impending catastrophe, but he was clinging to the picture of those fingers on the map, the heat of the cabin, his mother’s singing.
A little while longer
, he thought.
A bit more tenderness before the end of the world. . . .

“You fell asleep at the same time as your mother. Through the porthole, I was watching the rain lashing the waves as the white foam flew up. Then came the first explosion.”

Vango opened his eyes.

“Your father stood up. I think he understood right away. There hadn’t been any jolt. Just an explosion at the front of the boat. Another followed. Then several more. Your mother got up and asked, ‘Is it a rock? A boat?’ Your father didn’t answer. He went over to a drawer and rummaged around in it. Your mother asked him what he was looking for. He said, ‘A weapon. I’m looking for a weapon.’ There wasn’t one. You were still in my arms. You were sleeping. Your mother wanted to hold you again, but that was when the door opened.”

And, seventeen years later, she began to describe the men as if they were still standing there in front of her.

“There were three of them, armed with hunting guns. Three jittery men. They spoke a mix of Sicilian and Italian, and they wanted to know where the money was. I translated for your parents. The first intruder was behaving like a madman. Another was trying to calm him down. And the third kept quiet. Your father told them there wasn’t any money. So he offered them his watch and the gold chain around his neck, and took off the four rings he was wearing. The madman snatched them and cast them to the floor with a derisory laugh. And then . . .”

Mademoiselle started sobbing.

“Yes?” Vango prompted her.

“He . . .”

“What did he do?” whispered Vango.

“He fired.”

She was still sobbing.

“The madman fired his gun. He knew what he was doing. He didn’t want to kill your father before getting what he wanted. And since I was carrying you in my arms, he didn’t shoot at me either. . . . No . . . He fired . . . and your mother fell to the floor.”

Vango went over to Mademoiselle, squatted down, and pressed his cheek to hers.

“You didn’t even wake up,” she said. “You stayed asleep in my arms. It was because of me. If you’d been in your mother’s arms, she might have survived. A child should be in his mother’s arms. Why didn’t she take you in her arms? Why?”

“But then you wouldn’t be here.”

She had folded the blue handkerchief on the table. She couldn’t take her eyes off it. She was reeling.

Vango took Mademoiselle’s hand.

“They tore your father away from his wife’s body. They made all three of us go outside. . . .”

She fainted.

Aeolian Islands, October 1918

They shoved them toward the bow of the boat.

A salty rain was pounding down.

None of the three pirates knew what they were doing. None of them, the day before, would ever have imagined that they’d be mixed up in this madness. They were peasants and fishermen. One of them had a wife and three daughters in Santa Marina. Another had an elderly father waiting for him back on dry land, on the other side of Salina.