I heard a silvery tinkling somewhere above me.
She was
already on
the stairs and
climbing into the
stars with her white
dress swinging from her
hips and the bracelet around
her ankle so bright in the gloom.
My
heart
thudded,
a cask flung
down a staircase:
doom doom doom doom.
I knew the hills better
than anyone and I ran another
way, making a steep climb up crude
steps of mud to get ahead of her, then
rejoining the main path up to Sulle Scale.
I still had the silver coin the Saracen prince
had given her, when she went to him and dishonored
me by begging him to pay me the wage I was properly owed.
I put
his silver
in a tin cup
I had and slowed
to a walk and went
along shaking his Judas
coin in my old battered mug.
Such a pretty ringing it made in
the echoing canyons, on the stairs,
in the night, high above Positano and the
crash and sigh of the sea, as the tide consummated
the desire of water to pound the earth into submission.
At
last,
pausing
to catch my
breath, I saw
a candleflame leap
up off in the darkness.
It was in a handsome ruin,
a place of high granite walls
matted with wildflowers and ivy.
A vast entryway looked into a room
with a grass floor and a roof of stars,
as if the place had been built, not to give
shelter from the natural world, but to protect a
virgin corner of wildness from the violation of man.
Then
again it
seemed a pagan
place, the natural
setting for an orgy hosted
by fauns with their goaty hooves,
their flutes and their furred cocks.
So the archway into that private courtyard
of weeds and summer green seemed the entrance
to a hall awaiting revelers for a private bacchanal.
He
waited
on spread
blanket, with
a bottle of the
Don’s wine and some
books and he smiled at
the tinkling sound of my
approach but stopped when I
came into the light, a block of
rough stone already in my free hand.
I
killed
him there.
I did
not kill
him out of
family honor
or jealousy, did
not hit him with the
stone because he had laid
claim to Lithodora’s cool white
body, which she would never offer me.
I
hit
him with
the block of
stone because I
hated his black face.
After
I stopped
hitting him,
I sat with him.
I think I took his
wrist to see if he had
a pulse, but after I knew
he was dead, I went on holding
his hand listening to the hum of the
crickets in the grass, as if he were a
small child, my child, who had only drifted
off after fighting sleep for a very long time.
What
brought
me out of
my stupor was
the sweet music
of bells coming up
the stairs toward us.
I leapt
up and ran
but Dora was
already there,
coming through the
doorway, and I nearly
struck her on my way by.
She reached out for me with
one of her delicate white hands
and said my name but I did not stop.
I took the stairs three at a time, running
without thought, but I was not fast enough and
I heard her when she shouted his name, once and again.
I
don’t
know where
I was running.
Sulle Scale, maybe,
though I knew they would
look for me there first once
Lithodora went down the steps and
told them what I had done to the Arab.
I did not slow down until I was gulping for
air and my chest was filled with fire and then
I leaned against a gate at the side of the path—
you know
what gate—
and it
swung open
at first touch.
I went through the
gate and started down
the steep staircase beyond.
I thought no one will look for
me here and I can hide a while and—
No.
I
thought,
these stairs
will lead to the
road and I will head
north to Napoli and buy
a ticket for a ship to the U.S.
and take a new name, start a new—
No.
Enough.
The truth:
I
believed
the stairs
led down into
hell and hell was
where I wanted to go.
The
steps
at first
were of old
white stone, but
as I continued along
they grew sooty and dark.
Other staircases merged with
them here and there, descending
from other points on the mountain.
I couldn’t see how that was possible.
I thought I had walked all the flights of
stairs in the hills, except for the steps I
was on and I couldn’t think for the life of me
where those other staircases might be coming from.
The
forest
around me
had been purged
by fire at some time
in the not so far-off past,
and I made my descent through
stands of scorched, shattered pines,
the hillside all blackened and charred.
Only there had been no fire on that part of
the hill, not for as long as I could remember.
The breeze carried on it an unmistakable warmth.
I began to feel unpleasantly overheated in my clothes.
I
followed
the staircase
round a switchback
and saw below me a boy
sitting on a stone landing.
He
had a
collection
of curious wares
spread on a blanket.
There was a wind-up tin
bird in a cage, a basket of
white apples, a dented gold lighter.
There was a jar and in the jar was light.
This light would increase in brightness until
the landing was lit as if by the rising sun, and
then it would collapse into darkness, shrinking to a
single point like some impossibly brilliant lightning bug.
He
smiled
to see me.
He had golden
hair and the most
beautiful smile I have
ever seen on a child’s face
and I was afraid of him—even
before he called out to me by name.
I pretended I didn’t hear him, pretended
he wasn’t there, that I didn’t see him, walked
right past him. He laughed to see me hurrying by.
The
farther
I went the
steeper it got.
There seemed to be
a light below, as if