Passegiatta Pt. 05

Weber looked at the flaming aircraft, saw parachutes like trailing petals fall from within roiling black plumes and settle on errant breezes toward the sea. Ludvico looked at Weber's face for a moment, saw the hard set of the man's jaw, the anger and hatred flaring from red, bull-like nostrils, pale, grey eyes watching, calculating, hoping that death would claim these desperate men and so not interrupt his lunch, his afternoon with this slut du jour now simpering at his table.

Weber called out to the two officers seated near the patio door, told them to take a detachment of men toward Santa Margherita Ligure and see to it that any survivors were rounded up and brought to him this afternoon. "NOW!" Weber shouted, and the two men jumped and ran out through the piazza and their waiting truck.

Ludvico reached down, picked up the knife then drove it into Weber's neck with ferocious intensity. He felt the blade slice through the larynx, felt cold steel against sinew and bone, and he twisted the blade while he watched with satisfaction as Weber turned to look at him. Weber fumbled for the pistol on his belt but Ludvico slashed the blade mercilessly through the German's neck; blood filled the man's mouth and sputtered into the air when the knife was withdrawn.

"Excuse me, Sir, while I just go and fetch your bread and butter," Ludvico said, then he walked over to the whore and drove the knife through the woman's breast, into her heart, holding his hand over her mouth while he did.

"Vico!" he heard his father screaming. "What in God's name are you doing!"

The son turned to the father as the son becomes the father, and as he looked at the cowardly old man he felt a wave of sympathy wash over his soul.

"Help me, father. Let's get them to the boat, now, before someone comes!"

"What?!"

"Father! Move! We must move then before it is too late!"

His father ran into the kitchen with terror in his eyes; one of the cooks came out a moment later and looked at Weber's body, then at the whore's.

"Eh, Ludvico! Don't you know how to stick someone without making such a fucking mess!"

Though he might have expected any number of responses to seeing what he'd done, Ludvico never expected this one. Trini LaFortuna was a rogue, almost a harlequin, and a great cook as well, but Ludvico had never once suspected Trini was with the partisans. And Trini had never suspected young Ferrante had the balls to pull off something so utterly brazen and – heroic!

The two young men wrapped the German in an old linen table cloth, then the whore, then they carried the bodies out to the cart the used to bring fish up from the docks to their market stalls. They dumped the bodies in the cart, covered them with garbage – fish guts and cans and scraps of beef and vegetables – and while Trini went back inside to mop up the floor and straighten up the rest of his mess, Ludvico rolled the cart down to his father's fishing boat.

He looked once toward the sea while he unloaded the cart into the ice well under the deck.

Nothing. He could see little, if anything, of interest out past the cape, just a line of black thunderstorms headed south across the bay. Of the darkness that had settled over his heart . . . he could see nothing at all.

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Paul Goodwin felt the last series of blasts shake Hell's Belles just as he ordered his crew to start jumping; the next thing he was aware of was hurtling through the sky free of the aircraft. He had no idea if he had jumped or if the aircraft had exploded and he'd been thrown clear; whatever had happened it didn't matter now, he knew he was falling inexorably seaward and he had but moments to deploy his parachute before he hit. Cold, powerful gusts from the storms slammed into him, tumbled him, and he fought to get his hands on the metal release and pull. He was aware just once during these first frantic moments that his flight suit was scorched, indeed, parts of it still seemed to be aflame. Concussive waves of thunder crushed the air from his lungs, the hair on his arms tingled as sheets of lightning arced through the air all round his falling body, yet all he could think of was that he might be on fire!

He found the release and pulled, clouds of silk trailed skyward and opened, Goodwin's body jerked and twitched as the 'chute opened, and suddenly he was aware that the fabric of his flight suit around the neck was hot, and suddenly he could smell flesh – his flesh – burning. The pain was instantly unreal, excruciating, and he beat at the unseen furies with his gloved hands, writhing and screaming in anguished frustration . . . and then he looked up.

Glowing traceries of fire raced up the nylon lines toward his parachute, one by one the lines began to blacken and snap; soon little patches of flame erupted on the 'chute itself. 'This is a fucking nightmare!' he told himself . . . 'I'm going to wake up . . . now! Time to wake up . . . Time to wake up . . .'

But the nightmare didn't end.

He looked down between his feet at the sea. He could see waves now, white-capped storm-driven waves cresting and breaking everywhere he looked, wind-driven foam racing away leeward with his last hopes and dreams - and he looked up one last time to see the remnants of his parachute burst into flame, felt the sudden jolt of acceleration that pronounced his onrushing death. He watched in helpless wonder now as the once serenely remote sea reached up for him, ready to smash the spark of life from his body. In one last act of defiance, Goodwin spread his arms and legs wide, tried to make his body produce as much drag as possible then, just seconds before impact, he straightened his body, streamlined his form as rigidly as he could – his toes pointed down, one hand over his nose, the other pointed straight overhead as if beseeching a just God to show just the tiniest bit of mercy on his soul . . .

He felt nothing, absolutely nothing of the impact. His first awareness was of cool water soothing his burned neck, salt water flooding his nose, stinging his lips. He pulled at the cord on his Mae West and – nothing happened! He remembered something from flight training, what was it? Follow your bubbles, push hard for the surface and follow your bubbles! His lungs began to burn, his eyes too as salt water flooded over them, but he found after a moment that the stinging stopped once he blinked his eyes a couple of times and the pH balanced out. He looked up, saw the roiled surface just above his head and he burst into the air and sucked down as much as he could before a wave rolled over and tumbled him mercilessly back down into the sea. He kicked his way back to the surface again, found the manual inflation tube on the Mae West and began blowing the damned thing up. He chose a few angry words, hurled them carelessly at God when the Mae West proved totally defective, and he began treading water. His best hope now was to stay afloat long enough for a German patrol boat to come looking for his body.

Within a few moments the worst of the storm passed, the sea even began to lay down a bit, and as waves rolled-by he looked from the crests toward land, tried to gauge how far away it might be to the nearest bit of shoreline. Storms obscured his view to the east and south, more storms appeared ready to roll down from the north, and only one small parcel of land was just barely visible off to the west. Trees were not individually visible, so he assumed land was at least five miles away, maybe more.

"Well, fuck," Goodwin said aloud. "It's either swim or die. So come on, Goodwin, let's get to it!"

On the next crest he got his bearings and began swimming. It felt good at first, the movement kept him warm, and the sea grew less agitated as time passed. Soon he convinced himself he could make out trees and a few castle-like villas perched on distant hillsides, but he also began to get a better angle on the distances involved. He was still at least four or five miles offshore, and now he could tell that strong winds were blowing him away from land! Every stroke he took seemed to set him back further, and he soon grew dispirited, then angry.

He turned on his back to rest, stroked along slowly looking up at black-bellied clouds as they raced by just over head, just out of reach. How easy this would be, he dreamt, if he could just reach out and grab a cloud and be pulled along. He began to feel the storm-chilled waters seeping into his bones, his teeth began to chatter, and he reached up for a passing cloud, tried to grab onto it . . . and fly again . . .

Water washed over his face, into his eyes, and he lazily spit the water from his mouth as he paddled now slowly in aimless circles. Time passed, waves rolled by, yet in the end Goodwin felt himself slowly giving way to a softly beckoning voice, to the ever seductive call to the sweet release of sleep . . .

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Ludvico and Trini cast off the lines and pushed the boat away from the stone quay and drifted out into the harbor, then Trini started the old one-cylinder diesel and steered clear of harbor moorings on their way out of the harbor. The boat slipped past the cape and into the bay; they waved at a group of German troops manning an anti-aircraft emplacement near the lighthouse and watched as the troops looked at them, then waved back. They continued well offshore and threw nets over, began to fish – or at least they hoped they appeared to be fishing. When they were far enough away that no one could see them, they lifted the bodies from the well and wrapped them in old rusted chain, then rolled the bodies into the sea and watched them sink into the blackness.

They set more nets, ran back and pulled in the first line and landed what was actually a pretty good haul of mackerel and sea bass. They kept at it for another couple of hours, then brought up all their nets, packed the haul in ice, and with tired backs and wicked grins turned back toward the harbor. Trini lit a cigarette and checked his compass course, took a drag and let the fag settle lazily in the corner of his mouth. Smoke trailed from his nostrils as cold wind blew through his hair; Ludvico set about cleaning trash from the nets and mending all the small tears and frayed lines that inevitably cropped up after an afternoon's fishing.

They waved at the Germans again as they closed on the cape; Ludvico stood by the cockpit ready to head for the bow and snag their mooring buoy for the night. He was tired, but the adrenaline from the kill still rushed maddeningly through his veins, alternately confusing, then washing over him like jittery fingers. His eyes watered in the chill air, and he reached up and wiped them dry with a careless knuckle from time to time, and once he thought he saw something in the water, so he rubbed his eyes once again and looked again.

There. Something yellow.

It's moving.

"Trini! Look! There, by the entrance marker! What is it?!"

Trini backed off the throttle and the boat settled bow-down into the water as it slowed; he craned his neck out the cockpit and looked. He saw it, rubbed his eyes then looked again.

"It's moving!" Ludvico shouted.

"Shut your goddamn mouth, or every German between here and Rome will be down our ass before we can get tied off!"

Ludvico went forward, held on to the rail as the boat pushed through the last of the wind-driven swell, and then he saw it.

The yellow he had seen was a life vest, the type worn by airmen; now he saw the airman was alive, indeed awake, and he was holding onto the dorsal fin of a dolphin! The man looked at him and smiled, shot him the 'thumbs up' so typical of an American, and Ludvico turned, looked at Trini to tell him to get between the man in the sea on the people on the quay. Trini's mouth hung open, the cigarette dropped from his mouth, then he caught Vico's gestures and tried to listen to what was said. Finally he nodded, maneuvered the boat alongside the man in the water and shielded him from view; Vico knelt beside the man and talked to him while he pretended to work with his lines, told him his plan, and Trini slowed as they approached their mooring. Vico took up the mooring pendant and tied off the line, motioned to the airman, asked him to get off the animal's back – and the man did so, though obviously with no small amount of reluctance. The dolphin circled the man once, twice, surfaced between the man and the boat; the man reached out, rubbed the dolphin's face with intense affection, and to Vico it was obvious the dolphin understood the feelings and meaning behind the man's movements.

The dolphin appeared to nod his head, then looked at the man one last time and slipped silently into the blackness, and was as gently gone.

Ludvico spoke enough English to at times make a complete fool of himself, but today he somehow managed to make his thoughts clear. He got the American aboard, told him to go into the tiny cabin and wait; they would bring him dry clothes and food as soon as they could, move him off the boat in the night and up into the hills. Trini hollered to men on the quay; one of them rowed out to pick the two men up.

"Go now, below!" Vico said. "Blanket downs below, gets warm. Engine warms. Be backs soon."

Paul Thomas Goodwin slipped below, found a pile of rope and lay down on it. He found a blanket and pulled it over his body. He dug some chocolate out of his flight suit; it was soaked but still, 'thank God!' tasted like chocolate! He found an orange and some bread in a little bulkhead mounted cupboard and ate those as well, and fell asleep without one more thought of the day's events.

Vico and Trini made it ashore and walked toward the ristorante, only to pause when they saw dozens of uniformed Gestapo milling around outside as if waiting for something, or someone. The two men drifted into shadow, watched as a group of Germans hauled his father out of the ristorante and threw him into the back of a truck and drove off into the night.

Vico looked at Trini, then after his father as the truck disappeared into the soft fog that was just settling over the harbor, and the village. Then he looked back at the fishing boat.

"We could maybe trade the American for your father," Trini said.

"No."

"But they will kill . . ."

"No. We must hide until we can get the American off the boat. Then we must get up into the hills."

"But . . ."

"Trini, do as I say. There is no time to argue. Let's get food and clothing and some rest. Come, we will be at it for a long time tonight."

"But where can we go?"

"I know a place." And he did. He knew she would take them in, knew she would help. He turned toward the darkness and made his way into the night.

End Part V