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Mari

Wednesday, April 11, 1821

M ari walked home with two other streghe : Paola, her nineteen-year-old stepsister, and Cleila, her stepmother. After the loss of her mother twelve years ago, Mari’s father had swiftly married Cleila, a widow who lived not far from the DeLuca family.

Now Mari couldn’t help but wonder if one of these two would be voted in as the next leader. Neither was a strega finisima , but they were related to Mari by marriage, and that counted for something.

Back at the family villa, the women stepped into the dark foyer. Mari let out a loud yawn, badly desiring a few hours of rest. But then, she swallowed hard: Corso—a distant cousin, the man she was supposed to marry—and her father were awake, even at this ridiculously early hour. Corso had been in the village for the last several days, visiting from Rome as he often did. The two men were sitting side by side in the salotto with a lantern lit on one of the tables. Its light glinted off the cool terra-cotta floors.

Mari’s father wore dark trousers and a simple white linen shirt. Corso, on the other hand, wore a perfectly pressed morning suit, bespoke and of a vibrant blue hue. In the humble village of Positano, no other man dressed in fabrics so expensive or in colors so bold.

At the sight of Corso, Paola ran her fingers through her hair, pulling a few strands around her face. She’d always made much of his fashionable attire, his babylike skin.

Mari, on the other hand, preferred a less civilized look. She wasn’t bothered by a shirt with a few tears. A scar or two.

She touched her bosom, thinking of the letter tucked against it.

At the sight of the women, the men stood. “ Le mie ragazze ,” Father said. My girls. “Did the tide wash in anything interesting?”

Like the other men in the village, these two had no knowledge of sea witchcraft. They believed the women were out gossiping, or searching for shells, or swimming naked, all of them huddled together in the frigid sea.

They were good men, in their own way, these husbands and fathers and growing sons. Hardworking, well-built. Many in the village were fishermen, their arms lean and rippling with scars. Their hands were nimble, too, and quick to work the fishhooks, the nets.

Industrious as they were, the men of the village—and everyone else in the world, for that matter—were terribly unaware, and this was just how the streghe liked it. For if the village men got word of the truth, there would be complications. They would tell their friends, and their friends would tell their friends, and soon the entire coastline would be moving to town, monetizing and exploiting the women and their gifts.

“A few things,” Mari said, “but nothing exceptional.” The bag slung over her shoulder dug into the soft flesh, weighed down by the heavy rope still laden with seawater. Next to her, Paola shifted. They were far from the best of friends, but they had this secret-keeping in common. “You’re both awake early,” Mari added.

“A few of us are planning a morning watch.” Father checked the clock next to him. A mug of something hot sat on the table behind him, sending up tendrils of steam. “Another hour or so and we’ll go out. You didn’t see anything unusual tonight, did you?”

He meant the pirates, of course. Mari shook her head. “No sign of anything.” Nor will there be.

Corso nodded to the bag on Mari’s shoulder. “May I have a look?” he asked. “Something to add to your collection of chincaglieria ?”

Chincaglieria. Trinkets. Curios. That’s what Corso always called the things the women brought home, though it was mostly just Paola now, for Mari no longer gathered things from the sea. All she wanted from it was the two people it had taken from her. Still, over the years, Corso had occasionally asked to see her old collection, and she’d shown him a few things: her comb made of a sawfish jaw, and the jar of dried kelp powder, good for applying to blemishes. Mari had made a point of explaining that everything in her collection had some purpose or function—that a woman could do more than gather useless trinkets.

“They are like gifts from the sea,” Corso had once commented. “Little offerings.”

At this, Mari had clenched her jaw. If only he understood how cruel the sea had been, how cruel life had been. Her plan to someday marry him was proof of it.

Mari’s father had once done quite well for himself as the owner of Positano’s only net-making shop, selling wares the village men required every day: corks, weights, net needles, and hemp in a variety of lengths and weights. But after his wife’s death, he became inattentive, even negligent, with the business accounting records. One of the shop employees began discreetly stealing from the shop, ultimately making off with an extraordinary sum of money, never to be seen again. If not for the dowries that Father had set aside for Mari and Sofia, the family would have been left bankrupt, even homeless. Even after many years, he was still working to get the business back afloat.

Corso, an affluent cousin of Mari’s father, had always paid regular visits to the family. Several years ago, as Mari developed from a spindly adolescent into a well-endowed young woman, he began to convey his interest in her, often bearing lavish gifts for Mari and a small purse of ducati for Father. Aware of the family’s financial struggles, Corso made it clear that he expected no dowry. On the contrary, he wanted to help provide for them, and even offered to restore Sofia’s emptied dote .

Though she felt no attraction to Corso, Mari knew this arrangement would at least give her dowry-bearing sister a chance at true love. It was decided that Mari and Corso would marry sometime after Mari turned twenty-one.

Of course, Mari had no way of knowing that Sofia would be dead a year after the arrangement was made. Her sacrifice had been all for naught and instead left her trapped and miserable.

Now, Mari shook her head at Corso’s request to view what was in her bag. “Not now. Later, perhaps, once we’ve cleaned things up.”

He paused, considering this. “Your hair is wet, yet your clothes are dry,” he said, narrowing his eyes ever so slightly. Behind him, Father kept silent.

“I went for a swim.”

Corso slowly dragged his eyes across her waist and breasts. He is imagining me naked in the sea , Mari thought, like she was another curio pulled from a bag.

“Will you join me on the terrace for a moment?” he asked her, absentmindedly running his finger down the edge of his vest. As he took a step closer, Mari was struck, as she often was, by his height. He towered over her, all lanky limbs and no muscle whatsoever. He was a terrazzo merchant who sat behind a desk in Rome, negotiating numbers while other men moved the heavy goods. He was as rich as he was repellent, at least in Mari’s eyes. Everyone else seemed to worship the man.

Mari began to refuse, weary as she was. She wanted nothing more than to read her letter. “I’m so very tired, I—”

At once, Father pushed himself from his chair. “Mari,” he said under his breath. A one-word warning.

Though their marriage had been agreed upon long ago, Corso had not formally asked for her hand, much less produced a ring. Might he be planning to propose now, on the terrace, as the sun slowly rose over the sea? She could imagine nothing more miserable—both the backdrop and the man.

Feeling her father’s watchful eye, she placed a hand on her lower stomach and twisted her face into an expression of pain. “Just give me a few minutes, please,” she said to the men. She pulled this trick every so often, feigning women’s discomforts. “Ten minutes, Corso, and I will meet you on the terrace.”

What did it matter if he proposed today, anyhow? They’d all believe her dead in a few weeks. Corso would grieve his almost-wife and, in time, he’d inevitably turn his attentions to Paola, who desperately wanted him for herself, anyway. Father would keep getting his ducati . It would all turn out perfectly well.

Without waiting for a reply, Mari raced up the stairs to her bedroom. She had not even shut her door before she had the envelope out. She lit the candle by her bed, withdrew the missive, and turned to the final page—the signature line—if only to lay eyes upon his name. Holmes. He’d signed as he always did, the tail of the s in a whimsical flourish.

A smudge of tar marred the bottom corner of the paper. Holmes’s letters often bore marks like this, a result of his working with rigging and sails, which were regularly doused in tar to keep them waterproof. Mari felt no repulsion at the sight of such grime; if anything, it made her feel closer to him.

She rubbed her thumb over the smudge, letting it stain her skin, and began to read. The letter was dated March 22, several weeks ago.

Mari, my beauty. It is now more than three weeks since I last saw you. I am sure I cannot long for you any more than I do now, but I have been thinking that since I left Positano. Do you know that as we sailed westward, I could see you standing on your terrace?

Here, Mari paused. She remembered this exact moment: she’d watched him go, his ship in silhouette, the sky all pink and orange. She read on.

I look at our seashell every day. I have turned it over in my palms so many times, I fear I am dulling the ridges.

Promise we will go seashell hunting when I return?

Mari smiled. Our seashell. He’d found it the day that he and Mari first met, in May of last year. Holmes had been in port in Positano, and they’d found themselves on the seashore at the same time, walking very near one another. She’d known he was a sailor by his low ponytail, his wide-legged trousers, and the tar stains on his palms. He bent down to lift an object from the sand and held it up, consternation on his face.

“Something is unusual about it,” he’d said, catching Mari’s gaze. “But I cannot put my finger on it.”

She’d caught a strange accent in his voice. “A sinistral shell,” she explained, stepping closer. “It is like a left-handed shell. The spiral goes left, instead of right.” She plucked a few other shells from the sand near her feet, showing him how their spirals differed from the one in his hand. “Sinistral shells are highly valued, rare as they are.”

“Indeed. I have never found one before.” He held it out for her.

She shook her head, indicating he should take the shell for himself. “I find them all the time. Keep it. It’s good luck.”

He smiled, dropping it into his pocket. “What else have you found?”

“All sorts of things,” she answered over her shoulder, hoping he hadn’t noticed the slight quiver in her voice. She felt feverish suddenly, despite the cool air. She dipped a foot into the shallow waves, and at once the water began to sparkle, tiny flickers of orange and pink. It reminded her of the luminescent sea creatures she’d marveled at a few times before.

They explored awhile longer, studying shells of various sorts. They made introductions, and at one point, she turned, pointing out her family’s villa at the top of the hill.

When they parted a short while later, Mari thought she’d never see him again.

How very wrong she’d been.

She continued reading his letter, smiling every so often at his imperfect Italian, which he’d learned after spending the last two-and-a-half years aboard various Napoli merchant vessels. She’d never had a problem understanding him; if anything, she found his blunders endearing.

Tomorrow, I will post this letter at the port of Anzio. We are anchored now, just off the coast. This might come as a surprise to you, as I should be farther north, near Livorno—but as these things so often go, there has been a change in vessels, a change in crew. I’d hoped to be done with the Fratelli Mazza, but I am back on another one of their vessels—the Aquila , a two-masted merchant brig. We are to run goods between Fregenae and Anzio through mid-May, after which we will return to the Amalfi peninsula. Seeing you again cannot come soon enough.

Mari placed her hand against her chest, hating this news for him. Everyone along coastal Italy knew of the Fratelli Mazza, Naples’s richest—and least principled—shipping company. Matteo and Massimo Mazza had inherited the enterprise from their father. With a fleet of more than three dozen vessels, the brothers ran merchant routes throughout Italy. It might have made for an impressive establishment if they came by their success honorably. On the contrary, the Mazza brothers were known to collude with black-market malefactors and ocean-going thieves—pirates and privateers, in other words.

They also provided room for such criminals in their storehouses, making them traffickers, too.

Whether in spite of or because of their illicit associations, the brothers made good businessmen. Their rates were competitive, and their trade routes the fastest. Many in the community turned a blind eye to the brothers’ degenerate behavior, caring for nothing but the fact that they had transformed coastal Italian merchanting for the better. People refused to call the brothers what they really were: thieves, most of the time. Murderers, some of the time.

And not to be trusted, anytime at all.

And as for the gendarmerie —the police? They could be bought off like anyone else. Many believed that the brothers made regular payments to secure impunity.

Mari continued reading.

The Aquila is smaller than the vessel I was on a week ago. Only three decks—the main, the berthing, and the cargo. There are hardly two dozen of us on board. It is the usual scope of work: toiling with the rigging and sails, and four-hour shifts on watch.

I didn’t complain when they moved me to the Aquila , for they increased my pay slightly due to the extra work. But a few days have since passed, and it is clear the men on this Mazza vessel are of the foulest sort. My fellow sailors are half-witted, and the officers are bellicose, particularly the first mate, Quinto.

Tonight, when we anchored, he and another officer called for us to ready the tender. As we did so, Quinto made no effort in hiding his plans for the evening: a visit to the bordello on Via Calipso.

Later, Nico—my only real friend on this brig—told me that this is Quinto’s way. At every port, he slithers his way through the narrow streets in search of prostitutes and easy-to-pilfer merchandise. As I’ve told you before, the Mazza brothers have people all over, men who loot and thieve by land and sea. Quinto, I am certain, is one of the middlemen in these schemes. Nico says he often returns from his evening romps with boxes or canvas sacks that he takes immediately to the cargo hold. Stolen or black-market goods, certainly.

You know I’d escape them and go elsewhere, to another country altogether, but…there is you. They’re worth tolerating, knowing that their routes keep me so close to my beloved.

Speaking of stolen goods, I think they are keeping something aboard the Aquila , hidden in the second mate’s cabin. They kicked the officer out, made him bunk with Quinto. Now the cabin is padlocked. Whatever it is they’re concealing in there, they don’t want any of us crew to see it, to even know about it.

I might have thought it was only jewels they’re hiding, if not for something I learned the other day. As I repaired a split panel outside the officers’ quarters, I overheard Quinto and the captain bragging about the fact that they were, at that very moment, transporting the “most valuable asset the Mazza brothers have ever moved from port to port.”

What, I wonder, could this be?

Surely more than gems.

Regardless, what a life they’re all living, chasing women and stealing goods. I’d rather be here—in my cold, rattling berth—with a sheet of paper on my lap and your name at the top of it.

The candle is growing low, my beloved, and still I must write to my father in Boston. It is almost too good to declare on paper, but it is due time to inform him of what you and I have kept between us for so long: next time I see him, I intend to have a sweetheart in tow.

***

With all my love,

Your Holmes

Mari read the letter a second time, then she folded it back up and pressed it against her chest. How very far away Holmes felt now. His routes would keep him north of Rome for the next few weeks. At least he’d made a friend, Nico, aboard.

She took a deep, unsteady breath. The letter unnerved her, especially the fact that Holmes’s new vessel was owned by the Mazzas.

And what of Holmes’s mention about the padlocked cabin, the valuable goods inside? It was perplexing, indeed.

She sat on the edge of the bed, aware of the time: Corso would be waiting for her on the terrace. She opened the bottom drawer of her dresser, reaching toward the back, where she hid her most prized possessions. The coral bracelet Sofia had always worn. A tiny satchel of dried pits, which she’d kept from the olives she and Holmes shared after the first time they’d made love. And the bundle of letters he had written her over the months, tied up with twine.

After their initial meeting, she and Holmes had managed to see each other every few weeks. Between these visits, they wrote to each other. It was this bundle of letters that chronicled their falling in love, all of the stories and secrets shared between them.

It revealed their escape plans, too.

She added this most recent letter to the bundle and closed the drawer.

***

The day after their initial encounter on the beach, nearly a year ago, Mari had been surprised to find Holmes settled beneath a tree on the outskirts of her family’s property. It was nearly dusk.

At the sight of him, she’d quickly wiped her eyes, cleared her throat. That day marked the one-year anniversary of Sofia’s death, and she’d spent a tearful afternoon walking through the hillsides and citrus groves belonging to neighboring villagers.

“Hello again,” Holmes had greeted her, speaking softly in Italian.

She did her best to look cheerful. “Hello.”

“You have been crying,” he said, frowning. He stepped toward her, studying the splotches on her cheeks, her neck. Of course he would notice , she thought, feeling foolish. He’d already shown his penchant for detail while on the seashore yesterday.

“Would you like to talk about it?” he asked her, pulling a clean kerchief from his pocket and handing it to her.

Mari glanced at the villa. A single lantern shone from within. Her father’s office. He had told her, that morning, that he would be in his office all day, reviewing invoices. He would not like to be bothered. Mari hadn’t pushed it: this, she knew, was a hard day for him, too. Work was how he grieved.

Meanwhile, Cleila and Paola were in Naples, shopping the markets, not minding the importance of the date.

“Yes,” Mari said, surprising herself. Holmes was a stranger, after all. But she felt so lonely on this of all days.

She took a seat next to him and began to tell him all about Sofia. Her whims, her curls, her stubbornness. It was an especially painful loss, she said, given that the girls had lost their mother long ago, too.

Holmes had not asked questions. He’d simply let her talk. After nearly an hour, Mari shook her head. “You now know more than Corso does. Perhaps more than he ever will.” She could never confide in him about such things. He’d grow bored in minutes.

“Corso?” Holmes asked, his jaw twitching. “Who is that?”

Mari bit her lip, recognizing her error. She hadn’t meant to say his name. It had slipped out, safe as she felt with her new friend, Holmes.

“The man I am supposed to marry,” she said. “Much as I do not want to. I do not want to be here at all, in fact.”

“Not here as in, not in Positano?”

She nodded. “Have you ever felt destined for a life you did not want?”

A thoughtful look crossed Holmes’s face. “Yes,” he said. “As an adolescent, when I could not grasp a whit of anything scholarly, and I managed to frustrate every teacher I ever had. My father so badly wanted me to follow in his footsteps as a lawyer, but I knew a stack of contracts on a desk would not satisfy my sense of adventure. I wanted to see the world.”

He shifted in the grass, stretching his legs out. “I fear he’d all but given up on me, but at age thirteen, even my father could not deny that I was destined for something else. With his approval, I made for the docks in Boston, seeking work. Plenty of other boys were there doing the same. None of us had any experience, only a hatred of restraint and a fear of boredom. I was hired as a sailor boy on a merchant vessel. My first journey took me to Havana. Later, I crossed the Atlantic. Eventually, I made it as far as China.”

The lantern in Father’s office suddenly went out. “I should go inside,” Mari said quickly. “Will you write me?” She recited an address. “That is my friend Ami’s house. She will make sure I get your letters.” It would be too suspect if letters sent by another man began arriving at Mari’s doorstep. “And next time you are in port, please come visit me again.”

He promised he would.

They stood, ready to go their separate ways.

“Holmes,” Mari said suddenly. He had seen the world. She wondered now whether his itch for adventure had been satisfied. “Has this life given you all you hoped for?”

He fixed his gaze on her. “Quite a lot more, in fact.”

***

On the terrace, Mari approached Corso from behind. He leaned over the railing, looking out at the ocean. The sun had just lifted above the horizon, and the clouds were grayish-pink.

On the water, not a single boat could be seen.

Quickly, Mari checked to see if Corso had anything in his hands, relieved when she saw that his spindly fingers were empty.

When he did bring her tokens of affection, she nearly always threw them away. It wasn’t that Corso was a terrible man, but even still, Mari didn’t want her bedroom riddled with reminders of him.

A few weeks ago, Paola had caught her discarding his latest gift. Mari had been standing on the terrace. From her pocket, she pulled out a colorful silk headscarf, something Corso had just given her. She lifted it to the breeze and released her grip on it, watching as the scarf caught the wind and floated away, making directly for the ocean. The silk, spun by worms, would dissolve in the sea in a matter of days.

Paola came up behind her, eyeing the headscarf, its teal and pink design twisting in the wind. She said nothing at first, merely watching it drift away like a kite. Then she faced Mari head-on.

“You are a fool,” she said. “You haven’t any idea how fortunate you are.” She glanced once more over the edge of the railing. “Marrying a man as handsome and rich as Corso. Everyone admiring you, or showering you with sympathy you don’t deserve.”

Mari frowned. “What do you mean by—”

She stopped short. Paola had turned to retreat inside.

Now Mari stepped to the railing, leaving some space between her and Corso. He slid himself along it until their shoulders were touching, then he dropped his lips to her ear. Mari closed her eyes, wondering what he was about to say. She knew she must play along, for rebuffing Corso would enrage her father and rouse suspicion. Besides, it was possible that Paola was watching from somewhere nearby.

“I’d hoped to have something for you today,” he whispered, gazing down at her.

Mari’s finger still bore a shadow of tar from Holmes’s letter. She comforted herself with the fact that, even now, some part of him, some tiny molecule, clung to her. “Oh?” she asked, trying to sound interested.

“Yes. Only, it is taking longer than I’d hoped. A few more weeks, according to my friend in the city.”

He meant Rome, of course. “Your friend ?” she repeated.

“ L’orefice ,” he said.

L’orefice. The goldsmith. The jeweler. Her hand went to her throat, and she stifled a cough.

“Think of it,” he continued. “We will go back and forth between here and Rome. The city is infinitely more exciting, anyhow. The streets are paved. Everything is made of marble. The people are civilized. And it is not along the sea, so it is not as rough, teeming with sailors and the like.” He rubbed his hands together, and Mari gazed at his pale, long fingers—as feminine as hers, really. How different he was than Holmes, who had calloused palms and wind-chapped cheeks. Yet it was Holmes’s toughened hands that Mari imagined every night, breathing hard in the quiet darkness of her bedroom.

Mari toyed with her ring finger, imagining a sliver of metal wrapped around it. Such a small thing, but binding her nevertheless to man she had never loved.

She had a sudden urge to lean over the railing and heave.

Corso was right, that Rome was landlocked, and this should have excited her. But like everyone else, he believed she loved the sea. “Rome does not have an ocean,” she half-heartedly countered.

“Ah, so it does not smell like fish, you mean? Besides, Fregenae is very close. I can take you there to collect little things from the sand. I’ve already spoken with a few other merchants. Those treasures you stumble across, the things you find during your swims—you cannot imagine the price they will command in a place like Rome. Sponges and oysters go for enough, but conch shells have sold for hundreds. Thousands. We will be even richer, Mari. So terribly rich.” He turned to face her, but his look of exhilaration disappeared when he saw her morose expression. “Why, I can buy us a place along the water in Fregenae, then, with a view. You can look at the sea every day.”

Mari could imagine nothing worse.

“I’ve been wanting another residence, anyway,” Corso went on. “I have a great deal of money coming in soon.”

Mari didn’t give a whit for his money. “It is all sooner than I expected. We have plenty of time, don’t we?”

He turned his face away, exasperation flashing in his eyes. “Your father has told me all about your mother,” he said. “He wishes they’d had more years together. I won’t let us be robbed of any more time.” He gave a stiff, quick nod. “The jeweler said it won’t be much longer. And I very much hope, Mari, that you understand how good this will be. Your father supports us. And your mother would, too, I think, if she were still alive.”

Mari flinched at this, biting her tongue, swallowing her reply.

Nevertheless, everything Corso had just shared was irrelevant. He’d painted a picture of a life she wouldn’t be living. He could be the richest, most handsome man in the world. He could own a thousand villas.

But he would never be what she wanted.

He would never be Holmes.