Passeggiata (complete 2016)

Toni, her youngest, brought a cup of tea and sat by her side, and the warm china felt good on her bones. Cool breezes drifted by unseen, parted sheer curtains on the window to her world, and like the petals of flowers opening she could smell him once again. She could smell the sea, feel the cool breezes that had pushed them together now more than sixty five years ago. She closed her eyes, saw him falling into the sea again in all his flaming glory. She heard explosions echo through corridors of memory, fire as it consumed the sea, the never ending ruin of war dancing to ghostly anthems beyond understanding and meaning. The men who came to her in their need, and the men who were taken away to march into the fire. Yet the memory of him, of the day he came to her -- that alone made her days bearable.

Oh yes, there was that day, and only that. Her day of miracles. The day he fell from a burning sky, the day he came to her on flaming wings, both of them -- waiting to be reborn.

+++++

Goodwin followed Doncaster back to the ristorante, back to the table. They were there, all of them -- waiting in the shadowed light. Mary Ann and Margherita were together now, though the younger woman's face was red from so much wine and fires of so many conflicting emotions. And Paulo was still there too, looking concerned for his sister, dreading the possibilities the night held in tenuous abeyance. Goodwin sat down, put his iPad on the table as a prosecutor might present damning evidence at trial.

The old man looked at the computer, his eyes full of dancing mischief. He took another sip of wine. "What is this? This is not a photograph."

Goodwin explained; the old man listened politely to descriptions of digital cameras and compact flash cards, but he waved such folly dismissively from the air with an errant hand.

"I see," the old man said as Goodwin's technical explanations fell to the ground, for he knew like all the other bitter illusions of life, this too would pass. "So, this is as it must be, of course. Things change, and I assume for the better, but nevertheless we must begin our journey now, for time grows short." He looked around the table. "Obviously, I have not seen Goodwin's photographs before, but I am going to hazard a guess. I am going to say that the dolphin the good doctoré saw, the one so agitated, trying to warn Goodwin of the coming storm, has two small scars on his left side, not far below the eye. He will have two dark spots, small but nevertheless visible, under his right eye. And, I am going to guess that the doctoré's talisman is indeed a native of these waters."

"Preposterous!" Malcolm shouted.

"Now lovey," Mary Ann chided, "do try not to be such an ass!"

"Bah!"

"Must I stay for this?" Paulo asked.

The old man looked at the boy, his patience wearing thin. "Si, Paulo, I would like you to stay. I don't know why, but perhaps you were there at the cape tonight for a reason, so you may yet have a part to play in this drama. Now if you please, doctoré Goodwin, may we see these photographs?"

Goodwin opened the file and the slideshow started; he turned the screen so everyone could see. The first image that came up was of Goodwin's friends on the dock waving as he pulled away from land at the beginning of his voyage across the Atlantic, then a few more images of friends following him out to sea for a few miles, for a few last goodbyes, then several of a very dramatic sunset followed. The very next frame was of a dark sea, of torpedo shapes beside Springer as the boat pushed through heavy seas. The dolphins in the image were dark grey on top and shockingly white below, a few had specks of dark coppery brown down their sides. The light wasn't good but the images were in sharp focus, and Goodwin cycled through them until the old man called out: "Stop! There!"

Goodwin turned the screen a bit so he could see better; the photograph showed the dolphin who had warned him, and it was plain that there were no scars or spots in the relevant areas. "So, nothing! This isn't him," Goodwin said smugly.

"No, no," the old man said, now clearly exasperated, "not her! Him! Look at the one behind!"

Godwin looked at the photograph again; he looked at the dolphin behind the one busy warning him. The image was of the right side of this other dolphin, and two dark spots were clearly visible under the eye as the animal just barely arced out of the water.

"Coincidence!" Doncaster shouted. "Nothing but bloody coincidence!"

"Perhaps," the old man said. "We need to see more of this dolphin, eh doctoré. Surely there is another photograph?"

Goodwin resumed the slide show. The alleged female was visibly agitated in many of the images, and Malcolm made a snide comment about the resemblance of this dolphin to Mary Ann. This earned him a round of laughter and a swift kick under the table.

The next image came and everyone gasped. Goodwin paused the slide show and zoomed in on the image. There was no doubt about it; there below the left eye were two old scars, probably made by an encounter with a propeller years ago. Goodwin looked at the old man; he wasn't even looking at the images . . . he was eating cheese and reaching for his glass of wine.

"I will be damned," Doncaster said quietly.

"Oh, surely not, Malcolm," the old man said. "You've led an honorable life." He smiled at Doncaster, then looked at Margherita. "My dear, you recognize him, don't you?"

"Si."

"It is the same one, from all those years ago?" he continued.

"Si, I believe so. But how can this be?"

"And was this the same one you were with tonight?" the old man asked.

"I am not sure. I could not see him well," Margherita said.

"I could," Goodwin said. "and it's him, alright."

"Are you certain, Goodwin?" Doncaster said. "I mean, absolutely certain?"

"Yes, I think so. But Ludvico, what were you implying when you asked Margherita if this was the same one? From many years ago?"

"Oh, I imply nothing, doctoré," the old man said impishly. "It was merely an observation of fact."

"Margherita?" Doncaster asked. "What does he mean?"

She looked around the table uncertainly. Paulo was ashen-faced, his beliefs shaken to their core, Mary Ann was erect in her chair staring off into the infinite. Malcolm leaned forward, rested his forehead in his hands as if nursing a sudden headache. The old man had resumed picking at his food, though he had a smile on his face. Only Goodwin was looking at her now, and she saw in his eyes that he alone was on the verge of understanding.

"Yes, Tom. Many years ago, when I was twelve, no, thirteen, I was fishing with my father on his boat. My foot was caught in a net as it was thrown into the sea, and it pulled me in. The men on the boat did not see this happen, not even Papa was aware." She looked down now, down into the dark well of deepest memory. "I remember the water, how clear it was, the nets spreading out around me, my ankle caught in the line, but what I remember most was the sunlight, and how it spread out and filtered down through the blue, and I could see Papa's boat, the propellers as they turned in the water, the bubbles behind the boat as it moved away. I was never afraid, the whole event was almost peaceful. I knew I was to die, right then, and there was nothing for me to do. Then I felt him. Not rude or subtle, but I remember his eyes, the way he looked at me. I knew what he wanted me to do. I put my hand on his great fin and he pulled me to the surface, he swam alongside Papa's boat until one of the men saw me. Papa jumped in and cut the line from me. The dolphin was gone by then; he left as quickly and as silently as he came to me."

She had to stop talking now, as gales of memory tore through her, and it was as if she had fallen into the sea once again, and she felt lost in the powerlessness of the moment -- once again.

"And you're saying, if I understand you correctly, this is the same one?" Goodwin asked softly, pointing at the screen. "This dolphin, here with me in the Atlantic last May, is the one who saved you? What, how many years ago?"

"Si, doctoré. Almost thirty years ago. Yes. The same one."

Goodwin slumped back in his seat, sighed heavily as the weight of implication settled on his soul. 'Impossible,' he muttered to himself.

"Yes, doctoré Goodwin. This was no accident of chance." The old man pointed at the screen with his fork, and for all the world Goodwin had to stifle the laugh that spread through him when he saw the old man so, for he looked just then like an old statue of Neptune he had seen once.

"Alright," Mary Ann asked, clearly full of subdued anxiety. "I have a picture of these events in my mind, but why would Paulo not tell me what he knew . . ."

"Because," the old man sighed, "Paulo doesn't know the story in it's entirety. He has played but a minor role in these matters. At least so far."

"Now just what the devil does that mean, Ludvico?" Malcolm asked. "This is riddle upon riddle without end!"

"Eh? Sorry, professoré! Perhaps we will achieve clarity before the sun rises. Perhaps not. It is as you say; we are denizens of the cave, not inclined to accept some truths even in the light of day."

"Clarity! Who's talking about clarity? We're talking about purpose! Purpose beyond our understanding!"

"Just so, professoré. But I do not need Paulo to talk of his role in these matters just yet."

Goodwin continued to stare at the old man. It was as if by association with these mysteries that he could just see the skin of the old man ripple and reform right before his eyes; he could fathom another being lying just beneath that which was apparent to his senses. It was just an impression, an impression of huge blue eyes and bright red wavy hair, but it wavered in the air before him for a moment -- and then was as suddenly gone. He shook his head, told himself he'd had too much to drink while he reached for his glass. But the visage held him, caught somewhere on the very boundary between instinct and memory...

"And what is your role in these matters, Ludvico?" Goodwin asked.

The old man turned to face him slowly, the smile on his face gentle, knowing, and full of incomprehensible power. "It is your time, Tom Goodwin. Your time to finish what was begun. I am just a simple guide, that is all. Do not fear me."

Goodwin shook his head. "Nope. Sorry. I've had enough. I'm tired and I'm going to bed." Goodwin shut down the iPad and stood. "It's been nice, a real slice," he said. "Somebody let me know what I owe for this shindig, okay? I'm out of here."

"Tom," Margherita said, an edge of deep sorrow in her voice, "you must not leave me. Not yet."

"Then come with me. Now."

"She can not, Tom." Ludvico continued to smile benignly at him, but now there was more than a hint of power gathering in his voice.

"And why not?"

"Tom, sit down please. Sit, and tell us why of all the places in the world you could have chosen to run, why did you choose to come here. To this village, to this harbor."

"I'm not sure I'd say I was running away from anything, not really."

"No? Well, perhaps not, Tom. But then, are you running towards something?"

"What's your game, old man? What are you getting at?"

"Is it a game, Tom?" Ludvico said calmly. "Are you running from the truth, or to the truth?"

Goodwin sat down, sighed as defeat caught him unawares. "I don't know," he said, clearly exhausted. "After what happened out there? I don't know anything anymore."

"Tom?" It was Mary Ann speaking now. "Does this have something to do with what happened to your mother? Between you and your father?"

Goodwin looked at Mary Ann; his eyes accused her of an immense betrayal.

"Tom? Doctoré Goodwin? Tell us what this means. It could help us understand."

Goodwin looked from Mary Ann to the old man. "Why? Understand what?"

"Let us come to that after you tell us of this struggle between you and your father. Please Tom. Do not fail us now. We are so close."

"Close?"

"Yes, Tom. Close, to the truth. To a resolution too long in coming, too long denied."

"This doesn't make any sense," Goodwin said.

"I know, Tom. You are too close, but to just one part of the story, but I have seen a great unfolding over many years, and I have seen the hearts of many people touched in it's telling. And this story is too big to be about one person, Tom. Still, you are obviously a key piece of the puzzle, and I need to understand why. You need to know why you were chosen."

"Chosen?"

"Yes, Tom. How did these events choose to find you, and why were these dolphins there if not to protect you. To what end? From what? Do you not care? Do you not want to know?"

He looked away -- into the heart of memory -- and he tried not to turn away. "My mother grew ill, her heart was failing almost two years ago. She wanted me to perform the surgery; I refused, it's ethically questionable and against medical practice to operate on family members unless no other surgeon is available, and that wasn't the case. She insisted, then too, so did my father." Goodwin was lost as these memories washed over him. "I continued to resist, colleagues and administrators supported my decision, we found others to perform the surgery and yet still my mother refused, and so in the end I relented. She went into SCD, sudden cardiac death, and she died, after we got her on bypass." Goodwin pinched the bridge of his nose as he relived the moment, and he looked away. "My father condemned me, in effect disowned me, told everyone that I had murdered my mother. I left my life behind, rather than face his hatred. I left that life behind because I was tired of all it had taken from me."

"Yes. He is hot tempered. He always has been."

Tom Goodwin reeled under the implications of the old man's words, his world turned grey, distorted tunnel vision defined his view of the old man.

"You knew my father?"

Everyone around the table turned to look at the old man.

"Yes, Tom. There was a time when I called your father my friend."

Mary Ann Doncaster's mouth fell open, Paulo shook his head, a bead of perspiration formed on his forehead.

"Oh-h-h, this just gets better and better," Malcolm said.

"The seventh of July?" Margherita whispered. "1943."

"Yes," the old man said as he looked at the physician. Goodwin flinched as the number bit into him, as memory of another day with his father returned.

"Alright, I'll bite," Malcolm said. "What happened in July, 1943?"

"My father's B-24 was shot down." Goodwin said stonily.

"Go on," the old man said, but he was looking at Margherita as he spoke, concern in his eyes racing now, like a wildfire before savage winds.

"His unit was based in North Africa; they were flying raids all over southern Europe. He never talked much about it, but one day over northern Italy his plane got shot up pretty bad. I think he said he was trying to get to Corsica or Sardinia, he didn't have enough fuel to return to his base in Africa. A German fighter jumped him somewhere near Genoa, the gunners still alive on his airplane held the fighter off, but it managed to shoot up his plane even more. A few of the surviving men bailed-out over land; Dad bailed-out somewhere over the sea and partisans hid him until invasion forces reached the area. Then he went back to flying, finished the war, as a matter of fact, bombing Berlin more than once as the Russians closed in."

"And so, he continued to fly, even after the war?" the old man asked, though he was still looking at Margherita.

"Yeah, he flew for TWA until he retired."

"And did he ever talk about the day he crashed? The things that happened to him that day? Or about his time with, as you say, the Partisans?"

"No, not once that I recall." He looked away for a moment, then back at the old man. "Refused to, as a matter of fact, now that I think about it."

"Oh, no, don't tell me..." Malcolm groaned.

"Yes," the old man said. "I watched him falling, from right over there Tom, from that window. His parachute was on fire, and he hit the water at an incredible speed. There, right off the cape, a few kilometers out there, in the sea."

"Oh, no..." Doncaster too grew visibly upset, he too began to sweat as implications danced all round the room.

"Yes, Malcolm. That same dolphin brought Tom's father to our little harbor. To a boat that was moored exactly, Tom, where your boat was this morning. Where you were, if I may be so indelicate, when you so graciously fell into the sea. And to that end, I suppose we should thank Paulo for his part in this drama. Eh, bravo, Paulo!"

"Yeah, glad I could be of help. Now fuck off!"

"There's an odd symmetry about that, don't you think, Tom?" Doncaster croaked.

"You know, Malcolm, you continue to be a master of understatement."

"Thank you so very much." Malcolm was rubbing his temples now.

"Wasn't he hurt," Mary Ann asked, "in the fall?"

"Yes, but not badly. He was tended to by a young woman in the village who had begun nursing school before the war. She had just come home to be with her family when America was pulled into the war." The old man paused, looked at Goodwin. "Your father fell in love with her, Tom."

"Who was she?" Goodwin asked. "Is she still alive?"

"Oh yes, very much so. In fact, you walked with her this evening."

"Mrs Morretti? Margherita's mother! Oh, come on now! You can't be serious!"

Paulo had been very still in the moments leading up to this exchange. "Oh si, doctoré Goodwin, this is most serious. Of that I can assure you."

"My father and your mother! Are we . . ."

"Oh, no, no, doctoré," the old man continued, "Margherita is in no way related to you."

"I feel sick," Goodwin said. "Excuse me..." He stood and left the table, walked out into the night. Margherita looked at Goodwin as he left, then looked at the old man.

He nodded to her, "Yes, you may go to him. He is confused now, so be careful not to offend his sensibilities further."

Margherita followed Goodwin into the night. She walked onto the piazza and looked around, her eyes adjusting to the darkness, then she saw him sitting along the quay, his feet dangling just above the blackness, looking out to sea. She walked over to him and sat down, put her head on his shoulder, and she smiled inside when he didn't pull away. She could feel the heat of his soul's fire on her skin, she could hear his heart beating to the music of the spheres. It was a good, deep, steady heartbeat, strong, his song full of life and, she knew, full of love.

"This must not be easy for you," he said to her, though his soul felt heavy and careworn.

"I never had any idea, about your father, I mean."

"Neither did I -- who could know all this stuff?" He drifted for a while, thoughts of symmetry crossed his mind's eye . . . "Can you, would you tell me about your father?"

"He was a fisherman, but only just. He was from Rapallo, over there," she said, pointing at a glowing smudge beneath the mountains. "But I think he was a very complex man who yearned for a simple life, for simplicity. He went to university to become a lawyer, yes, right after the war, but he stopped for some reason. Nobody knows, but I think he hated duplicity. He went to work for a fisherman, worked for years making barely enough to eat. Then he met my mother, moved to our village and went to work for my grandfather, on my grandfather's boats. When my grandfather died, he took over for a while. He had married my mother by then; that was, I think in 1953. He developed cancer in his lungs and died years later. He was a very unhappy man."

"So your mother never mentioned my father?"

"No, not really. But I wonder. There was a man here from time to time. He helped her. When all was lost, when my father was at his worst, I remember a man."

"If you don't mind my asking, when were you born?"