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“Gustavo!” Caterina wailed, falling to her knees on the dock.
The crowd surged to comfort her.
The wind picked up, and the waves grew taller and broke harder. Suddenly, everyone was shouting and pointing at the same time. Mafalda looked out to sea, appalled to find dark humps popping out of the water, filling the harbor like a tide of corpses. Amid the bodies bobbed broken blue-and-white wood, oars, and debris.
Mafalda, Concetta, and the other women ran screaming from the dock, reached the shoreline, and rushed into the water. Mafalda held Lucia high above the waves, crying Turi’s name over and over. Everyone shouted, cried, and wailed, a cacophony of shock, horror, and grief echoing throughout the harbor.
Old men started swimming to the bodies, but Mafalda couldn’t tellif Turi was one of them. The corpses kept turning this way and that, tossed about by the sea, revealing clothing, hands, a foot without a shoe. Body after body was brought to shore by whoever could swim. Rescuers staggered out of the water with corpses, weeping and exhausted. Wives raced into the waves, only to be knocked off their feet.
Husband after husband was taken to a widow. Father after father was lost to his family. The bodies of Concetta’s Giuseppe and Nicolina’s Stefano washed up hideously bloated.
Mafalda stood in water up to her belly, holding Lucia high and praying to Madonna del Lume to bring Turi to her. Suddenly she spotted a man’s body carried forward by a wave, his arms floating. She recognized the diamond pattern of his shirt. It was Turi.
Mafalda wailed, agonized that she had become a mother and widow on the same day. But then she noticed Turi’s arms, moving of their own accord.
“Turi, Turi!” Mafalda could see him swimming, then a large wave picked him up, carried him on its crest, and brought him closer.
“Help him, please! Help!” Mafalda cried again, and older men heard her, raced into the water, and swam to Turi. They helped him out of the water between them.
“Turi!” Mafalda rushed to embrace him, and he staggered toward her, falling into her arms, chilled and soaking wet.
“Madonna,Madonna,” was all Turi could say, over and over, and Mafalda helped him to shore, still holding the baby. They eased as a family onto the coarse sand, where Turi gave in to hoarse, heartbreaking sobs. He seemed not to notice his newborn daughter, but Mafalda understood. All around them was wailing, crying, and grieving.
Mafalda held him and Lucia, thanking Madonna del Lume and praying for the safe return of the other husbands.
An hour later, she knew the awful truth, and so did the entire village.
Turi was the sole survivor of the disaster.
And Mafalda didn’t know if they were blessed or cursed.
CHAPTER SIX
OUTSIDE MUSSOMELI, A MOUNTAINTOP TOWN IN CENTRAL SICILY
Alfredo D’Antonio was a blessed and happy man with daughters named Bella, Valentina, Flora, and Ginevra. Each was beautiful in her own way and had a wonderful personality. Alfredo loved each one, and the fact that they were goats made no difference to him.
“Come, Bella,” Alfredo said, and she walked over, always first to be milked. The others waited patiently, chewing their hay in the shed. They knew Alfredo was trying to get to them quickly, aware they were uncomfortable with full udders.
“Good girl, Bella.” Alfredo helped her to the milking stand, and Bella began to nibble hay from a hanging net. He didn’t have to lock her in with any device, as his girls made the job easy for them both. The milk they produced had a lot of fat, which enabled him to earn a living by selling their cheese in Mussomeli.
Bella, Valentina, Flora, and Ginevra were Girgentana goats, a breed unique to Sicily, with creamy-white coats that curled around their bodies. Their eyes were a warm amber, and their longish ears flopped. Their pinkish noses were refined, and their mouths curved into permanent smiles. Most remarkable were their horns, which spiraled into the air like tall corkscrews, almost seventy centimeters high. Alfredo lovedtheir soft white beards, and he had a beard, too, so the whole family was bearded.
He pressed his thumb and index fingers up into Bella’s udder, which felt warm and heavy on his knuckles. He began to squeeze and release her teats, in alternating fashion. Her milk began to flow, and he reached for his tin bucket and resumed milking, finding his rhythm.
“Bella, which story would you like? How about ‘The Cat and the Mouse’?” Alfredo liked telling stories while he milked, and if he told a medium-sized one, Bella’s teats would be flat by the time he was finished.
He cleared his throat. “Once upon a time, there was a cat who married a mouse. One day, the cat went out to get some pasta, and the mouse fell into a pot of boiling water and died. The cat cried, tearing out his fur, and the door asked him what was the matter. The cat told the door, and the door got so upset it started slamming. Oh my, then the window asked what the fuss was, and the door told him, whereupon the window got so upset it began opening and shutting.”
Bella shifted on her hind legs.
“Now, seeing this, the tree asked the window what was amiss, and after the window told him, the tree hurled itself onto the ground in grief. You can imagine what happened next, when a bird landed on the tree. The bird asked the tree why it wept on the ground, and the distraught tree told the bird, whereupon the bird plucked out its own feathers, one by one!”
Bella’s milk flowed nicely, and Alfredo continued the story.
“The bird flew to a fountain to get a drink, and when the fountain asked where its feathers were, the bird told him. You can guess, the poor fountain dried up on the spot. Well, a cuckoo flew to the dry fountain, and after the cuckoo heard the tale, she was so sad she burned her own tail. A Monk of Saint Nicholas passed by and asked the cuckoo why her tail was on fire. The cuckoo told him, and the Monk became so distressed he went to Mass without his robes on—”
“Signor D’Antonio, are you home?” a woman called from outside the milking shed.
