Passegiatta Pt. 04

He nodded to her, "Yes, go to him. He is confused now so be careful not to offend him."

Margherita followed Goodwin into the night. She walked onto the Piazza and looked around, her eyes adjusting to the darkness. 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. 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 mean, 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. From Rapallo. I think he was a very complex man who yearned for the 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 why. 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 boat. When my grandfather died he took over. He had married my mother by then; that was, I think in 1953. He developed cancer in his lungs and died. In 1992."

"So your mother never mentioned my dad?"

"No."

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

"1965. The seventh of July."

"Oh. Twenty one years to the day. You know, the number seven keeps popping up. Weird."

"I did not see that."

"Probably not important. What about your brothers? When did they come along?"

"Paulo in 1967, and Antonio in 1970. Yes, I see what you mean about the number seven. What does this mean?"

"Beat's me. Numerology was never my thing, but I know a lot of people who read a lot into numbers. Like the year you were born, 1965. Add the numbers up. That's twenty one, or seven times three. So your birthday is seven, seven, and seven times three. Twenty one years after your mother and my father . . ."

"Can this be coincidence?"

"Two ways of looking at the world, Margherita. Things either happen for a reason, or they don't. If you believe things happen for a reason, then I guess you believe in God. If nothing has a reason or purpose, then I guess you don't believe. But then there are the people like me; people who can't make up their mind."

"It would be impossible for me not to believe in God. I cannot imagine death without believing there is something more. If I knew there was nothing more, I think I could not live a sane existence. If there would be a world without reason – or purpose, as you say it – then right and wrong, good and evil, all those things our souls struggle with would be without purpose. Do you think this possible?"

"Margherita, I've been a physician for almost thirty years. A scientist. I mean hard core science. And I hate to say this, but in all that time I've never seen one thing that made me think there was a divine plan. Why does this innocent baby die while that drunken criminal lives a happy, carefree life. Or just look up at the sky. Imagine the incredible distances involved between us and that smudge in Orion's belt. And that smudge is alive with stars being born right this instant! The impossible scale of it all!"

"We are small," she said, yet he could feel the warmth in her voice. "And still we believe that our problems are so big."

He put his arm around her shoulder. "How do you feel about tonight, Margherita? About what happened out there in the water?"

"How do I feel? I don't know the right words, but let me say that I felt it was commanded of us. I know that sounds stupid. But I felt purpose, yes, that is the word. I felt there was a purpose in what we did, yet I feel something much more important to me, happened to me. To us."

"And . . ."

"I think we, you and I, were brought together. For a purpose, yes, for a reason. But not to join and then fly away on the wind. And . . .

"Yes, I know. Your mother, my father; was there a union between them, and did they not follow through? Did something happen, something go wrong? Is that why we were brought together?"

"That would explain much, wouldn't it? Perhaps Ludvico knows."

"Who is he? This Ludvico? Is he a relative?"

"No, but he has loved my mother since she was a little girl. They were in school together. Then the war came. His brothers went off to fight, but he was yet too young and remained to help with the boats and the ristorante. He loved my mother, or so she has told me, and then something happened."

"Yeah. My father happened. He, what did he say, fell from the sky?"

"Si, yes. From the sky. Like an angel."

"If there's one thing my father is not . . ."

"Tom! Quiet!! Don't move . . ."

"What is it," Goodwin whispered.

"Look down, there in the water. By your . . ."

"Oh my God . . ."

The dolphin was there, on his side. He was quite still now, his black eye looking up at them, the two scars plainly visible in the waning moonlight. Goodwin could hear its breath again, could see lights from the village reflected in its eye – or were they the stars he saw reflected there?

"What do you want?" Goodwin asked. "What do you want from me!?"

The dolphin continued to look into Goodwin's eyes.

"Do not speak now, Tom. Just let him be."

The dolphin raised his head from the water slightly, then slipped under and was gone.

"I think I just wet my pants," Goodwin said.

"You ain't the only," Malcolm Doncaster said.

"How long have you been standing there!" Goodwin said, his anger welling up.

"I was just coming out to ask the two of you to come back inside when I heard Margherita telling you to be quiet. I stopped dead in my tracks until I heard you talking to it, then I came forward. When he saw me, by God, I think that's when he slipped away. Could you see his face, Goodwin? The scars or the spots?"

"Two scars, left side. Just like the photo."

"You know what, Tom? I'm getting too old for this kind of thing."

Goodwin laughed. "Alright smart-ass, why don't you tell me exactly what a good age would be for dealing with crap like this!"

"I see your point."

"Good. I'm glad. That means I'm not the only one going stark-raving mad out here on a dock at half past whatever! And I'm just not drunk enough for this kind of bullshit, you know, Malcolm? It's time to go and get good and pissed!"

"Here, here. I second that."

"Would you two shut up," Margherita said.

They turned and looked at her; she was staring out at something in the little harbor.

"They are both here now," she said. "There, Tom, behind your boat."

"I say, Goodwin, I think she's right."

He looked at the moon-dappled water . . . it was hard to make anything out . . . but yes, there, about ten yards aft of Springer, a dark shape moved on the water, then another.

"Alright, Doncaster. Go and tell the others. Watch from the windows, but don't come out. Margherita, will you come with me?" He stood, held out his hand and helped her up. She just nodded, then they walked away from Doncaster and the ristorante, and on toward the Springer. The closer they came to the boats, the more apparent it was there were two of them circling behind his boat.

"I am not so sure I want to do this, Tom."

"Yeah? Well I'm absolutely sure I don't want to do this!"

"So why . . ."

"Oh come off it, Margherita. They're here. They've come for us. After what I've heard tonight I'm not sure there's not a goddamn UFO out there somewhere, and these two clowns are here to escort us up to their goddamn mother-ship!"

He heard her giggle, and he started to laugh.

"Tom Goodwin! You are a crazy man, but I think I am in love with you!"

Goodwin stopped, looked down at her face, at the moonlight in her eyes, and he kissed her. Gently at first, but soon with a force, a passion that left him breathless. He could taste wine on her tongue, feel the intensity of her response on his chest.

Suddenly she pulled back from him, but she was smiling and held out her hand.

"Come! Let's go see them!" she said as she pulled him along. He couldn't resist the pull of her smile, so he ran along beside her until they came to Diogenes; he jumped on board then turned to help her across, then helped her cross to Springer. He made his way to the back of the cockpit and stepped over onto the swim platform. Margherita had a little difficulty making it over the rail but he guided her over, and soon they were sitting on the platform, their bare feet disappearing into the cool darkness.

She felt it first and jumped, then laughed, and she gripped his arm. "The skin is so smooth," she said finally.

Goodwin could just make out the cool grey form as it slid by, then one of the dolphins burst from the water like a rocket and arced up into the night sky, spinning as it climbed; it came down on it's back, creating a huge splash and a wave that washed up onto Goodwin and Margherita.

The acrobat slipped alongside Goodwin's feet, just lightly rubbed along the soles of his feet, then turned and surfaced next to the platform. Lying silently on his side, two scars still clearly visible in the starlight, the dolphin continued to stare at Goodwin. Another dolphin surfaced and assumed the same position just beside the first.

Goodwin lifted himself forward on the platform with his hands, then slid into the water.

"Tom! What are you doing?"

"I have no goddamn idea!"

"You'll freeze to death! Get out!"

Two Scars came alongside Goodwin, rolled and presented his pectoral fin, and Goodwin took it.

It was almost like sailing. That was his first thought. Moving silently, swiftly through the water, he held onto the fin as the dolphin slid silently out of the harbor, only once turning to look back at Margherita on the boat.

It was over almost as soon as it had begun. Two Scars and Goodwin were back off the cape and the waters where he and Margherita had joined earlier. He left Goodwin standing in waist-deep water but continued to circle slowly, as if waiting.

It wasn't long before Goodwin understood.

He heard Margherita's laughter, saw her head and shoulders gliding across the water toward the cape.

"What, you didn't have enough of a show earlier?!" Goodwin quipped. Two Scar squirted water in his face then slid beneath the water; Margherita came alongside and slipped from the other dolphin's back.

"Well, this seems clear enough," she said as she drifted over to Goodwin.

The two dolphins surfaced side by side, began to circle the two humans in the water.

"Yes, clear enough." Goodwin looked into her eyes as she climbed onto him; he managed to push his khakis down, then his skivvies. She had her arms around his neck now, and she lifted herself. She had the barest of panties on; he slid these aside and entered her in one slight movement. He felt the warmth of her as a knife to its scabbard.

She arched backwards, looked over her head at the water above, felt the two swimming beside her, joining her in this dance, their sounds together joining in new music. She rocked forward, her eyes half closed as the ecstasy she felt spread from her loins through her body; it was as if she was riding a wave, then wave upon wave built and crested as she rocked and arced through the starry night.

She could feel them now, both of them . . . swimming furiously around the womb of this night, the sea turning into a milky brine as seeds of a million lost generations mingled, as if inside this primordial moment both purpose and destiny were finally to fuse.

She looked at Goodwin, at the look of bewildered intensity on his face, and she was aware that she was swaying now from side to side as the water carried her to and fro like a tattered remnant of seaweed on an ebbing tide.

One of the dolphins lay by her, adrift, dozing on the surface, and she reached out to touch it. She ran her hand along its side, felt deep muscle under smooth skin, and she was amazed by the colors it took from the night. The last of the night's stars fell on the dolphin's skin and glittered like tiny emeralds, the first warming rays of the rising sun were still far away, but amber-winged warmth cast pale light on far distant skin, and the cool greys of seaborne skin melted into the heart-fires of their creation.

She could feel the muscles of her womb contracting, feel the solid length of Goodwin still ensconced in the milky warmth of this joining. Then she felt the tender arms of sleep carrying her away . . . away into the last of this darkness . . . the last of this night.

End Part IV