Chapter 149
I COULDN’T FIND PARKING in front of the clinic, so I threw my flashers on and double-parked, then walked Laura inside.
The clinic’s receptionist was a stocky British ex-pat named Deirdre, who had a good sense of humor, and when we explained what was going on, she nodded along, gave Laura a bright smile, and said, “It’s probably just gas, isn’t it?”
Laura went beet red, and as I steered her toward a chair in the tiny waiting room, I reminded her, in a whisper, that Deirdre was not, in fact, a medical professional.
“I think I might already be feeling a little better,” she said. “Maybe we can go?”
“No way,” I said. “We’re staying.”
Once Laura was settled, I told Deirdre I had to go move my car, but that I’d hurry back.
“Take your time, love,” she said. “It’s a bit of a wait this morning.”
I parked farther down the Via Principe Amedeo, near the entrance of the compound, where several members of the Carabinieri were milling about, machine guns hoisted over their shoulders.
When I got out of the car, I could hear shouts coming from the Piazza Comando, and I walked a hundred or so feet in the wrong direction to figure out what was going on. The crowd was still gathered down by the water, and not just the regulars waving their signs and chanting America, go home!
These new protesters were staging some kind of performance in front of the wharf.
They had oversize cardboard boxes painted to look like blocks of granite, and they were stacking them along the waterfront, as if building a physical wall.
A bald middle-aged man wearing a tunic was shouting into a megaphone, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying.
I crossed the street and stood among a crowd of onlookers. “What was that he just said?” I asked a woman next to me in Italian.
“That this wall is symbolic,” she said. “A means of separating La Maddalena from everything that goes on at Santo Stefano once and for all.”
“Well,” I said, “I guess that’s one way to go about it.”
Francesca was standing a few dozen feet away, amid a group of PCI protesters, and I called to her. We walked toward each other. “Who is that guy?” I asked with a nod in the direction of the crowd.
“He’s with a group from off the island.”
“They look a little crazy.”
“They are,” Francesca agreed. “They’re good at creating these big spectacles that get a lot of attention, but they don’t always play by the rules.”
“I guess that explains the Carabinieri?”
“The magistrate called in reinforcements once he realized who was showing up.”
We watched as the bald man spat curse words into the megaphone.
The Carabinieri looked uneasy, but it was not until a man, wearing what amounted to a loincloth, took a swipe at a police officer that all hell broke loose.
The officer grabbed him by the chin and screamed in his face, “You will get off this island right now.”
“Make me!” the man said, and the officer threw him into the harbor without so much as a moment’s hesitation.
“Jesus,” I said as we moved closer. “Can he swim?”
“I certainly hope so,” said Francesca.
The man was fine, treading water beside a moored motorboat. But he had a friend who had already rushed to his defense. “You can’t just leave him there,” the friend yelled at the officer, and then he was in the water, too.
Now the officer was shouting at both of them. “We said get off this island, so we suggest you start swimming!”
People in the crowd began whispering to one another. Santo Stefano had to be at least a mile away, and there was some debate as to whether the men could make it that far, especially if they had to contend with the currents.
“Is he really going to make them swim?” I asked Francesca.
“It’s outrageous.”
The officer grabbed the megaphone and shouted, “As for the rest of you, our original order stands. When this peaceful protest is over, you will return to the school grounds, where you may camp for the night. Anyone who is not on the ferry by noon tomorrow will be swimming back to Palau. Am I understood?”
The group moved farther along the lungomare, and the Carabinieri resumed their watch. In the harbor, the two men began a slow dog paddle toward Santo Stefano.
“Look, Francesca,” I said, “I know everything is really shitty right now. What with the sub and the leak and whatever else is going on. But is this safe?”
“Who are you to ask me if this is safe?” she said.
I felt like I’d been smacked.
“Do I need to remind you that this is my home, not yours?”
“You’re right,” I said. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
She softened a little. “But I promise, I’ll go if things get bad.”
I rolled my eyes at her, and we watched the swimmers become dots. Eventually, a fishing boat pulled up alongside them, and when they were hauled aboard, a cheer erupted from the crowd.
“I’ll see you,” I said to Francesca, but she stopped me.
“Where are you going?”
“The clinic.”
“I’ll walk with you.”