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Canidy shook his head.
“Tuna fisherman,” Fulmar translated.
Nola smiled and nodded. “Bluefin tuna. You would like it. They take a number of boats and work the nets, surrounding the big fish like cowboys herd cattle. The nets close in and the great tuna struggle to escape, and the water, as you can imagine, becomes a brutal swirl of fish and blood.”
Fulmar said, “Those fish can be four hundred pounds.”
Nola smiled again.
“Yes. Some as big as some cattle. And when you catch the entire school—twenty, thirty fish or more—it is called a mattanza.” He paused. “That is a word that also has come to mean ‘massacre.’”
Canidy studied Nola, who clearly was happy with this tale of his family heritage, then glanced at Mario on the couch.
Maybe there is some fight to these people after all, Canidy thought. Not blooded in human battle, but unafraid of being around blood and violence.
“So how far from here to here to here—Porto Empedocle to the Black Pearl to Tunis?”
“About one hundred and fifty kilometers,” Nola said. “One way.”
“And how often does your family run the route?”
“Every day. There are boats traveling in both directions. They usually take two, three days—when there are no patrols or other problems, such as mechanical breaks—fishing as they go.”
“What if they did not fish?”
“Straight across? Less than a day, considering the seas.”
Fulmar said, “Tell us about the patrols.”
“Germans mostly. Sometimes Italians. They usually do not stop us. But sometimes they board the boats, make sure we are doing what we say we’re doing. Sometimes they take our fish. Confiscate it?”
Fulmar nodded. “Harassment.”
“Yes. They say it is a price of doing business.” He paused. “One captain from another family refused to give up his catch—he had been stopped twice that month—and the Germans shot his boat full of holes. So he lost the catch and the boat…and was lucky to live.”
Canidy said, “How many boats do you have and what size?”
“There are—or at least there were when I was last there—nineteen boats. Eight of them are deepwater boats that average twelve meters in length. The others are smaller—maybe six meters—and completely open.”
“And the crew for the big boats?”
“Two to six. Depends on the time of year—more in May and June, when the big tuna move through—and who is available.”
Canidy pointed to the chart, at the southern shore of Sicily.
“Let’s say I was coming into port on one of your boats. What would I see? Who would I see?”
Nola’s eyes brightened and his narrow face spread with a broad grin.
“Oh, you would see the most beautiful port in your life. And the most wonderful people.”
Canidy said, “I need details, please. Specifics.”
Nola nodded agreeably.
“Not a problem.”
He went to a box across the room and took from it a heavy leather-bound volume some two feet square and at least three inches thick.
