The island at noon

The first time he saw the island, Marini was courteously leaning down toward the seat on his left, setting down the plastic table and putting up the lunch tray. As he walked back and forth with his magazine or his whiskey glass, the female passenger looked at him several times; Malini unhurriedly adjusted the table, bored, wondering if it was necessary to respond to the persistent gaze of the female passenger - an American woman, one of many American female passengers. Just then, the blue oval of the porthole window showed the coast of the island, with its beaches like golden ribbons and a small hill clustered around a central wilderness. Marini smiled at the female passenger as she righted her tilted beer glass. "A Greek island." He said. "Oh, yes, Greece." The American woman replied, feigning interest. The bell rang and the steward straightened up, a professional smile still lingering on his thin lips. He went to fetch tomato juice for a Syrian couple, but paused for a few seconds to look down when he reached the rear of the cabin: the island was small, isolated in the sea, with the azure Aegean encircling it, framing it with a dazzling frozen white edge that should have been the waves splashing between the reef and the bay. Marini watched the desolate beach stretching north and west, the rest of it a mountainous ridge that tapered into the sea. A rock-strewn deserted island, though the leaden gray speck near the northern beach could have been a home, perhaps a cluster of primitive houses. He opened his can of juice, and by the time he straightened up the island had disappeared through the porthole, leaving only the sea, a sprawling green horizon. He subconsciously glanced at his watch: it was just about noon.

Marini was happy to be sent on the "Rome - Tehran" flight, because unlike the northern route, which was gloomy, the girls were always excited to go hunting in the East or to see Italy. Four days later, a little boy lost his spoon and sadly picked up his sweet plate, and when he went to help, he once again saw the edge of the island. The timing was off by eight minutes, but when he leaned down to look in the small window at the rear of the plane, he confirmed it beyond doubt. The island was uniquely shaped as if a sea turtle was peeking out of the sea with its limbs. He watched until someone called him, and this time he was sure that the leaden gray spots were a group of houses, and even distinguished a few sparse farmlands that stretched all the way to the beach. The island became a hang-up for Marini, and when he thought about it or had a porthole nearby, he looked at it, almost always shrugging his shoulders in the end.

As time passed, he found that Felicia was the only one who could understand him somewhat, and there was an understanding between them that as soon as he approached the porthole at the rear of the plane, she took on the lunchtime duties. The island was visible only for a few minutes, but the air was ever so clear, the sea almost cruelly carved the island in such a way that even the smallest details matched the memories of the last trip: the green spots of the northern promontory, the light gray houses, the fishing nets sunning on the beach. When he couldn't see the nets, Marini felt a sense of deprivation, almost an offense. He had wanted to film the passage through the island so he could relive the image of it in his hotel, but he preferred to save the money for the camera; after all, the holiday was less than a month away. He hadn't bothered much to calculate the time deliberately; today he was in Beirut with Tania, tomorrow in Tehran with Felisa, and his brother was almost always in Rome. It was all a bit of a blur, relaxed and intimate, as if it were some sort of surrogate by which to pass the time before and after the flight, and just as blurred, relaxed and silly in flight, until the moment when he leaned down at the aft porthole and felt the coldness of the glass like the side walls of an aquarium in which golden turtles moved slowly across the blue ocean.

The fishing nets were spread right on the beach that day, and Marini bet that the one black dot on the left, just off the coast, must be a fisherman looking up at the plane. There was no point in waiting any longer; Mario Meloris would lend him the money to pay for the trip, and he would be in Hieros in less than three days. He pressed his lips to the glass and smiled as he imagined himself climbing up to the green spots, going down to the sea naked from the small harbor to the north, fishing for octopus with the people, communicating by gestures and smiles. There is no difficulty once you have made up your mind, a night train, the first boat, then a dirty and broken boat, docking at Rinos, endless bargaining with the skipper of the dinghy, spending the night on deck, next to the stars, the smell of fennel and lamb, and being among the islands at dawn. Disembarking with the first light of dawn, the captain introduced him to an old man, supposedly the island's patriarch. Crairos shook his left hand, looked him in the eye and spoke in a slow tone. Two lads came, and Marini could see that they were the sons of Krairos. The skipper of the skiff exhausted his English vocabulary: twenty inhabitants, octopus, fishing, five rooms, Italian tourists paying for accommodation to Krajlos.

They went to load the boat, leaving him alone, he took off his travel clothes in a few clicks, put on his swimming trunks and sandals and wandered to the island. The sun was slowly gaining strength and steaming up from the thorny bushes with a subtle smell, a little sour, mixed with the iodine of the sea breeze. At almost ten o'clock he came to the northern promontory and recognized the largest of the harbors. Although he would have preferred to bathe on the beach, he preferred to stay here alone; the island rushed into his heart and he enjoyed the closeness so much that he did not know how to think or choose. The sun burned his skin and the sea breeze blew as he jumped naked off a rock into the ocean; the water was cool and it felt good. He allowed himself to be swept by the undercurrents until the entrance to some cave, which turned around and swam back to the sea, floating on his back, accepting everything in a conciliatory gesture, and deciding on the future. He was sure without a doubt that he would not leave the island and would somehow stay there forever. He could imagine the look on the faces of his brother, Felicia, when they found out that he was going to stay on a big, lonely rock as a fisherman. He withdrew his thoughts and swam toward the shore, and it was all in the past.

The sun immediately dried the water from his body and he walked toward the house below, where one of Krairos' sons was waiting for him on the beach, and Marini pointed to the sea and extended an invitation. The boy hesitated and pointed to the cloth pants and red shirt he was wearing. Then he ran into a house and came out almost naked; together the two jumped into the sea that had become warm, the surface of which glistened in the eleventh hour sun.

While drying off in the sand, Yunus began to list the names of various things. Marini began to practice her newly learned vocabulary and also taught Yunus Italian. The motorboat was getting smaller and smaller, almost at the end of the sky. Marini felt that he was now really alone on the island with the Krajeros. He was going to spend a few days, paying for the room and learning to fish as well. Some night, when they were already familiar with each other, he would say to them that he wanted to stay and work with them. He stood up, shook hands with Yunus, and then walked slowly toward the hill. The slope was steep, and he enjoyed every height as he climbed, turning frequently to look back at the nets on the beach, the women's silhouettes, who were talking excitedly to Yunus, and to Krairos, looking at him with their afterglow and smiling. When he came to the green patch, he entered another world, where the scent of thyme and sage was one with the light flames of the sun and the breeze of the ocean sea. Marini glanced at his watch, made an impatient face, and pulled it off his wrist and stuffed it into the pocket of his swimming trunks. It wasn't easy to leave the old me behind, but here, high up, with the blazing sun, he felt the shift was possible. He was in Hieros, right where he had wondered countless times if he would ever reach. He lay on his back on the hot stone, enduring its sharp edges and fiery back, and looked straight up into the sky, with the roar of the engines coming from far away.

He closed his eyes and said to himself not to look at the plane again, not to contaminate himself with the kind of malice it generated as it flew over the island once again. Yet in the shadow of his eyelids he couldn't help but imagine Felicia and the dinner plates, which she was handing out right then and there, and his successor, perhaps Jorjo or some other newcomer on the line, serving wine or coffee with the same smile. Unable to fight this much of his past, he opened his eyes and straightened up.

Just then he saw the right wing of the plane, almost over his head, tilting unexplainably, the turbines roaring strangely as the plane plunged almost vertically into the sea. He raced down the hill, bumping and banging among the rocks, and one arm was cut by a thorn. The island obscured the crash site, but he made a U-turn before reaching the beach, following the expected shortcut over the first ridge to reach the smallest one. The tail of the plane sank gradually a hundred meters or so away, without making a sound. Marini ran a few steps closer and dove headfirst into the water, still holding out hope that the plane would float again, but all that remained was the soft line of the waves, a cardboard box absurdly floating near the crash site. Almost at last, when there was no longer any need to continue swimming, a hand showed the surface, and for just a moment, Marini changed direction and dived into the water until she caught the man's hair. He was struggling to catch him, his voice hoarse as he drew in a large breath, and Marini allowed him to breathe, but did not let him get too close.

He gradually dragged the man to the shore, picked up the body, dressed in white, and laid it flat on the beach, watching his face covered with foam, death had come, blood was gurgling from a very large wound at the throat. Artificial respiration was no longer helpful, the wound splitting a little wider with each spasm, as if a repulsive mouth was calling to Malini, dragging him out of the tiny happiness of his short time on the island, crying out to him in the foam the words he could no longer hear. The sons of Crairos came running as fast as they could, followed by the women. When Crairos arrived, the boys were gathered around the body lying on the beach, wondering how he could have had the strength to swim to shore and crawl here bleeding. "Let him close his eyes." A woman cried and pleaded. Krairos looked out to sea, searching for other survivors. As usual, however, they were alone on the island, the corpse with its eyes open the only thing new between them and the sea.