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“I know,” Mafalda said, sympathetic. Giuseppe was Concetta’s husband, and his would be the first of two funerals tomorrow, held in the morning and the afternoon. They had to be separated because the village undertaker had only one hearse.
“I tried to help them, I did. So did Giuseppe. He and I were the best swimmers. I tried, so hard.”
“Of course you did,” Mafalda rushed to say. Turi had barely slept since the disaster, nor had he taken interest in Lucia. He seemed not to care that the baby had even been born, much less that she was so pale.
“We managed to get to Fabiano, but the waves were relentless. They engulfed him. It was all we could do to keep our heads above water.” Turi raked a hand through his hair. “The storm came so fast, the waves grabbed the oars from our hands. The sea broke our boat like a stick.”
“I’m sure.” Mafalda worried he was ruminating too much.
“Giuseppe was holding one of the boards, calling to me, and I tried to swim to him but I couldn’t, the sea was churning. Then another wave lifted the boat into the air and crashed it down on him.” Turi shook his head in anguish. “He went below the waves and never came back up.”
“How terrible.” Mafalda felt a deep pang, experiencing Concetta’s loss as if it were her own. She’d brought Concetta some food, but she was starting to wonder where their own next meal would come from. So did the town, since the good boats had been destroyed and only the old men were left to fish.
“It was so dark, the lamps went out, and the moonlight wasn’t bright enough to see anything. We were at the center of the storm.”
“Madonna del Lume protect us,” Mafalda said under her breath.
“But shedidn’t.” Turi looked up, his dark eyes glistening. “She didn’t protect us. She turned her face—”
“No, Madonna del Lume protects us always. She loves us.”
“Then wherewasshe?” Bitterness twisted Turi’s lips. “I watched every man drown, one after the other. I prayed to her, I cried to her. She abandoned us.”
“She savedyou,” Mafalda said reflexively, regretting the words as soon as they left her lips.
“How do you think I feel about that, my love?” Turi’s eyes brimmed with tears. “How can I witness the grief of so many? Why didn’t she save Giuseppe? Concetta’s heart is broken, and she has four children. And Fabiano, and Leo? Why did she take my friends and save me?”
“We have a baby now, Turi. Maybe that’s why.”
“I don’t want her then. You keep her!” Turi grabbed the wine bottle and left the table.
The Parrocchia Maria Santissima delLume sat atop the tallest hill in town, bathed in sunshine on the piazza. It was a beautifuledifice, dominated by a triangular cornice withMARIA S.S. DEL LUMEwritten in colorful mosaics, flanked by towers. Its stone façade glowed a beautiful alabaster hue, radiating the warmth of the sun, and its carved wooden doors stood open for the funeral Mass.
Families filled the piazza, a throng of women and children dressed in black, dazed with grief. They hugged, kissed, and comforted each other in subdued tones, bearing the loss as one village.
Mafalda and Turi reached the crowd with baby Lucia, swaddled in a white blanket. Mafalda spotted Concetta’s hat at the front, but she was too far away. The friends had barely had a chance to speak, and Mafalda grieved for her. In ordinary times, they would be clucking over Lucia and sorting old baby clothes. The white blanket Lucia slept in was from Concetta.
Mafalda spotted heads turning in their direction, then women talking behind their hands. She heard a sob and looked over to see elderly Nicolina Castro scurrying toward her in widow’s weeds. Mafalda met her to pay her respects. “Nicolina, I’m so sorry about—”
“Thank you,” Nicolina interrupted, reaching for Turi. “Turi, I want to know if Stefano said anything before he passed. Did he have any last words? Did he call for me? Did you speak with him? Or hear?”
“Nicolina, I’m sorry.” Turi winced, stricken. “He was in another boat. The storm was so loud, the wind was howling, I didn’t hear anybody, I couldn’t.”
“What happened exactly? Who was in his boat?” Nicolina’s hooded eyes spilled tears. “Turi, you’re a good swimmer, and my Stefano, he’s an older man, I understand why he didn’t come back alive, I just want to know he didn’t suffer. Do you think he suffered?”
“No, no, I don’t, I believe he went quickly, I believe they all did.” Turi nodded, his eyes brimming, and Mafalda touched his back. Other widows in the crowd were trying to get his attention.
Caterina waved at him, angry. “Turi, why did you go to sea that night? I knew the wind was from the northeast! I could tell by the trees!”
Mariana frowned, moving aside her black mantilla. “I thought the same thing! Why did you go, Turi? It was the Greek wind!”
Turi wiped his eyes, straightening. “Caterina, Mariana, everyone, I’m so sorry for the loss of your husbands, who were my dearest friends. Please accept my deepest sympathies.” He raised his voice, hoarse with grief. “Believe me, I have asked myself, many times over, why we set out, and this is my answer. We underestimated the sea, we failed to respect her, and we let our guard down—”
Mariana interrupted, “Did you discuss it before? Tell us what was said!”
Caterina chimed in, “Turi, I don’t feel sorry for you! You’re alive to tell the story! My husband is dead!”
Liliana nodded, sobbing. “Did you try to save them? Why didn’t you save my Marco?”
