I remembered the disbelief on the face of the red Speedo man. He had gray hair and thick, buttery skin. I looked for him now instinctively, as my backstrokes got weaker. I was shivering and my fingers were waterlogged and wrinkled. The tide rose, making the cliffs darker. I heard the sound of a motor underwater. I looked up. In the distance was Santino on his small fiberglass boat. I waved at him with the little strength I had left. He looked straight past me, but started to veer slowly in my direction.
I got picked up and slid on board, letting my limp body collapse on the floor over a pile of squirming fish. I wrapped my hand around Santino’s ankle to make sure things were solid. Fish wriggled up against my nose, under my legs. What were they doing there? Santino was a terrible fisherman. Everybody on the island knew it. He broke motorboats and cussed at the water. I pressed harder on his legs, smelling juniper and sweat—the acrid scent of sun, dirt, and seclusion. His body was not welcoming. It was hard and his leg hair was rough like a steel-wool pad. But I let myself go. I was shivering and the fish kept gasping and flopping over my thighs. Santino was the only warm thing, the only dry thing. I hung on to him, my savior, and pressed my lips hard against his ankle. I didn’t want to open my eyes.
I stayed there, rescued and in shock. As the boat proceeded toward the port, the sun peeked out of the mountain again and my body began to warm up.
I opened my eyes a few moments later. Santino smiled a forced smile I had never seen. I gathered enough strength to sit.
“Thank you for saving my life.”
“Thank you for saving my wife,” he replied sarcastically, keeping his gaze on the horizon. “What were you doing out there? You’re a good swimmer, why were you drowning?”
“I didn’t realize the tide would come in so fast. I thought I could walk back.”
“Watch out. The next time I might not see you.”
It sounded like a threat.
One more curve and the port would be in our reach, but Santino slowed down the boat and turned the engine off in the middle of the sea.
“You were naked at the Scoglio Galera. I saw you. Why don’t you take your wet bathing suit off now?” he said. “Take it off. The Germans are naked. Alma is always naked and so is your uncle. It’s natural, right? If it’s so natural then why keep your bathing suit on with me? ’Cause I’m an islander? You think I can’t understand? I understand. Take it off.”
I looked around. We were far from shore and I could not swim anywhere. I didn’t have the strength to fight back.
I pulled down my top and looked him in the eyes, establishing that we were not to go further than that.
“You’re pretty good at being a slut, right?”
He got on his knees. The flopping fish slid across his legs. His face was in front of my crotch and he looked up at me.
“Take these off or I’ll bite you.”
I removed my wet bathing suit bottom and scrunched it in a fist.
I looked up at the mainland. Maybe I could still swim. It wasn’t that far. Maybe I’d make it.
“Yes,” he said, examining my naked body. “You’re pretty good at being a slut. But that doesn’t mean you have to turn everyone else into a slut. You understand?”
I nodded yes, that I understood. He pressed his front teeth hard into my hip bone, then backed off, squishing the fish with his feet.
“Especially not my wife or daughters,” he concluded.
I put my bathing suit back on, keeping my eyes down. I wasn’t afraid.
We stayed quiet until he started the motor again. The boat began to move toward the mainland.
“Won’t you put the fish back in the water? You can’t eat them. They’re too small,” I said as we got closer to the port.
“They keep me company,” he said and smirked.
“They’re just piled up in here. They’re useless.”
We passed by the dump and the animal farm. Angelina looked pregnant even from far away.
“She’s getting there,” I mumbled.
Santino didn’t answer.
He raised the motor when we reached the shore so the propeller wouldn’t scrape the rocks on the bottom of the sea.
I hopped off and looked back at him, thankful he had not hurt me.
“You’ll throw the fish back in the water?”
He nodded yes. “Tutti a mare!” he winked reassuringly. “All back at sea!”
—
That night the island shuddered with the sound of donkeys braying—a continuous, repetitive wail that went on in twenty-minute increments. It stopped and started over. Angelina was giving birth. I got up from bed, sweating in the sticky night heat, and dashed down the stairs to Santino and Rosalia’s barn. Angelina was sprawled on a patch of hay, her eyes open wide. She was dilated. Two small legs wrapped in a liquid sac were making their way out of her body. It seemed impossible that something so big could emerge from a living being. Rosalia and the girls stood by. The vigilant ostriches had developed protective sisterly instincts. Angelina stretched out more as the foal’s legs pushed out, but the baby was stuck halfway and she was too exhausted to keep pushing. She stayed on the hay, her head drooped on one side. Rosalia turned to us and signaled to help. She squatted over the donkey, grabbed the small emerging legs, and began to pull. She put a hand on Angelina’s head and kissed her forehead. The girls looked at her in awe.
“Mom!”
She turned back to us.
“Don’t just stand there. Help me!”
We awoke to a primal call of duty and grabbed parts of the baby, whatever we could get our hands on. The amniotic sac was slimy and hot. It drooped over our fingers, covering our wrists, but we didn’t care. We pulled gently and firmly until the little one slipped out in a blob. He squirmed to the ground, not knowing how to get up, engulfed in slime. Angelina pierced the sac with her teeth, then licked him to clean him off. It was her first baby yet she knew exactly what to do. The ostrich sisters grunted, impressed with everyone’s performance. The girls hugged their mother. Maradona brayed so loud he woke up half the island. We all had tears in our eyes.
Santino didn’t come out for the birth.
We called the baby Nerino because he was darker than the other donkeys. He emitted a sound like a loud frog croak. Angelina licked his face until his eyes opened and in no time he could walk.
On my way home I passed by the quiet port. Santino’s boat was anchored at the end of the dock, shimmering in the dim village lights, water slapping against it.
I walked over. I could not see much, but I caught glimpses of a dark mass at the bottom. I knew what was there. I could smell it. I pulled the boat closer with the rope and stopped it under a sliver of light. It was the fish. They were all still there, piled on top of one another, covered in flies.
—