Chapter 37
The small, whitewashed house was as quiet when Mira returned as when she’d left.
It was midmorning, and Dante would have left hours ago to join his students.
He would have made an efficient breakfast of black coffee and bread spread with prickly pear jam before gathering his satchel and glasses.
Dante was as reliable as the clock that kept time on the stone mantel, the clock that he routinely wound and oiled.
He didn’t believe in retirement and still taught statistics and calculus during the spring and fall at the university in Cagliari.
Mira untied her belt and laid it and the pouch it contained atop the wooden kitchen table.
Dante had cleaned up, but he’d left her a note: Asparagus and fava in the fridge for lunch.
Don’t forget to eat. Mira smiled and walked to the back of the house to their bedroom, where the bed she’d deserted was tidy, the hand-stitched quilt tucked tight beneath the pillows.
She stripped off her tunic and the swimsuit, damp and stiff with salt, and stepped into the stone-tiled shower.
She’d dived for hours, a solitary figure surfacing and disappearing again like a dolphin.
Now, her muscles tired and her skin tight from the sun and salt, Mira stood beneath the shower’s warm, fresh water and let it stream the length of her body.
It took longer than it once had to bounce back from hours of labor, even such a labor of love.
Later, after wringing the moisture from her waist-length hair and dressing in a fresh, dry cotton dress and sandals, Mira sat at the table to examine the day’s harvest. Curtains fluttered at the open windows, ushering in the spring warmth and fresh air, and Mira pushed her heavy-framed glasses up her long nose and swept her hair up off her neck in a thick twist. She teased open the drawstring on her pouch and tipped its contents into a bowl of clean, fresh water.
It was a tangle of shell-encrusted, algae-covered string, almost like the cast-off salted nets tossed aside by the fishermen once they were past mending.
Mira’s fingers dipped and swirled the mess again and again in the water, pulling off shreds of algae and carefully scraping tiny shells from the surface of the byssus.
After a few hours, she’d tossed and refilled the bowl’s contents at least ten times, with most of the debris removed from the prize underneath.
She studied the jumbled remains that sloshed in the bowl and hummed a song of thanksgiving in Hebrew.
As often happened, her thoughts drifted to Daniella, and Mira wondered what her daughter was doing at her Venetian apartment.
It was just after noon, and she might have just awakened.
She’d become a night owl, that one, abandoning their early-morning routines in favor of late-afternoon classes and later-night studies, a scholar like her father.
Neither she nor Dante had been surprised when she’d laid out her plan to leave for school and a broader world.
The byssus and quotidian life on their island felt provincial and safe, and their bold daughter was after more than that.
If Mira was honest, she admitted to being equal parts disappointed and proud.
She admired la audacia of Daniella, and it was partly her own fault, raising her with loose reins, that she’d chosen to forsake the byssus.
But perhaps forsake was too strong a word.
Daniella was immersed in the Department of Antiquity and Literature, and although it was early days—she was young and only just starting in her field—she’d already made a name for herself with her publications based on the letter of Queen Berenice.
While she wasn’t a weaver, the byssus still had a hold on her in its own way.
The telephone’s jangle interrupted Mira’s musings, and she realized she’d been lost in thought, absently swirling the byssus in the bowl. She dried her dripping fingers and picked up the phone.
“Pronto.”
“Signora Barone?” Mira didn’t recognize the voice, but it sounded official. “Mira Barone?”
“Sì, sì.”
“This is the Ospedale Civile in Cagliari. Your husband, Dante, has been in an accident. You need to come, please.”
Mira was grateful she was seated. “What kind of accident? How is he?” Her voice rose in pitch with each word.
“Automobile. He’s stable for now, but you need to come.”
“Certo! I’ll get there as soon as I can.
” Mira hung up and collected her purse and keys in a scramble.
Dante had their car. How would she get to the hospital?
Carmina, she thought, quickly dialing the number of her friend.
Only when Carmina had assured her she was on her way did Mira allow herself to think.
Dante had to be all right. Her hands trembled as her imagination rambled.
Mira glanced at the mantel clock and calculated what time it would be three hours from now.
Once the byssus was harvested, it had to be rinsed and transferred to clear, fresh water every three hours.
If she went to the hospital now, she’d have to be back by six.
With no car, she’d have no way of getting back and forth on her own.
Mira caught herself and was horrified. Dante had been hurt.
Nothing was more important than that right now.
The byssus would have to wait. Having Daniella had taught her there were more important things than the byssus, a thought she once would never have believed.
Carmina’s tires crunched on the gravel outside, and Mira placed her hands on the bowl, muttering a hasty prayer.
It was the best she could do. She grabbed her purse and headed out to her friend’s idling car.
Wringing her hands in the passenger seat, Mira explained the little she knew to Carmina.
“They didn’t say what had happened?” Carmina shifted gears and zipped around a tour bus. “Il fastidio,” she growled, glaring at the groups taking pictures of the coastline, heedless of the local traffic.
“Only that it was a car accident. Dante is so careful, I can’t imagine.” Mira pressed a fist to her mouth.
Carmina pulled up to the emergency room entrance, and Mira climbed out, blowing her a grateful kiss as the glass doors slid open. The bright artificial lights shone cold against the white tiled corridors and floors. An antiseptic tang stung Mira’s nose as she hustled to the front desk.
“Dante Barone?” she asked. “They called about my husband?”
The young, blond nurse nodded and stood. “This way, Signora,” she said, her voice as crisp as her white uniform. “He’s awake.” She led the way down a series of hallways that made Mira dizzy before stopping at the doorway of a patient’s room and ushering Mira inside.
“Dante?” Mira whispered. He lay in the hospital bed, his bandaged head propped on pillows.
His tanned face had been cut in several places, the stiff ends of stitches poking through spots of dried blood.
His handsome nose was bruised across the bridge.
Mira noticed his broken glasses lying on the bedside table.
Already, his eyes were blackening with bruises. He turned to look at her and groaned.
“Sorry, love,” he managed. “Rotten timing.”
“Don’t think about that.” She waved a hand but glanced at the clock all the same.
Of course he would think about her work, despite everything.
Sweet Dante. “What happened?” She dropped her things on the floor and took his hand, careful of the IV that snaked from his arm to the hanging bag of fluids.
“I was on my way home from class, and some young Tom on a Vespa swerved right in front of me. It was on the coastal road. I was between a bus and a drop-off, and when my tire went off the edge, the whole car went with it.”
“Dante!”
“I was lucky. You should see the car.” He winced. “Or maybe you shouldn’t.”
A middle-aged man in a white coat knocked on the door and entered without waiting for an answer. “Signora Barone?” He shook Mira’s hand. “This one was lucky they didn’t have to fish him out of the sea.”
“People keep using that word. I’m not sure I’d call what happened lucky,” said Mira.
“Could’ve been much worse, I mean. As it is, in addition to all these bumps and bruises on the outside, your husband has some significant bruising on the inside that we’re keeping an eye on.
I don’t like the look of his spleen, for one.
We’re going to keep running some tests, but surgery is a real possibility. ”
Mira nodded, taking it all in. Dante shrugged, clearly sleepy from whatever was in the IV. She’d be here. She’d make it work, even if the byssus went unattended for a season. Mira’s stomach growled so loudly her eyes widened in embarrassment. Dante, half-asleep, patted her hand.
“You didn’t eat the asparagus and fava, did you?” he chided. “Who will look after you while I’m gone, tesoro?” Mira shrugged. She knew the answer: no one had ever looked after her like Dante.