Russell Andrews: Hades

Favignana, Italy May 22

It was nearing the end of May, in the middle of la Mattanza-the tuna killing. During these few weeks, the tuna follow the currents from the Atlantic Ocean into the warmer Mediterranean to deposit and fertilize their eggs. For centuries, the fishermen have known this secret, and in mid-April they begin to set up a series of net barriers in the water. The tuna become trapped, forced to follow the direction of the barriers, and are obliged to swim straight toward those who patiently wait to slaughter them.

The boats were coming in now. They were driving the tuna, thousands of them, toward shore. Soon the water's rolling waves would be red; the islanders would be cheering; and all the nontourists who made their living on this speck of land just off the coast of Sicily, a short ferry ride due west from the city of Trapani, would be secure again. The restaurants would have no empty tables, the stores would sell their trinkets and T-shirts, and the poor box in the church in the Gothic square would be filled to the brim.

One of the most beautiful islands in the world, Favignana is speckled with coves, into which creeps the clearest water in the sea. Thin slices of white sand and finely pebbled beaches glisten and gleam in the summer sun. The island's main attribute is tufa-an almost-translucent-looking rock, formed over centuries as water gradually evaporated from the abundant amounts of lime that form the cliffs and caves. Remnants of ancient excavations are everywhere, the sites abandoned seemingly in middig. Thick blocks of the stone are discarded and left to turn even more yellow and red from rust. Four and five-hundred-year-old villas built out of that tufa are still standing, though, and dominate the coastline, giving the ancient stone a productive as well as ornamental life in the modern world.

Narrow strips of road cut into the hills and the rock, winding east and west, north and south, forging an impossible maze. Primitive and lovely, the island is mostly unspoiled by foreign tourists (except for the stray German here and there and the Italians from up north who come to lounge and tan and eat mounds of pasta with bottarga, the pungent tuna roe). Favignana is paradise for most people. But Angelo Tornabene was not most people. Angelo Tornabene hated the small island on which he had spent his entire life. He couldn't wait to escape. He didn't care that the great tuna hunt was described and revered as far back as The Odyssey or that the tufa could be linked to the building of the great pyramids. He couldn't get away fast enough from the foul-smelling fish; the bland, monotonous rock; and the tourists from the north who came for the weekends and the summer and bicycled around the maze from one bar ingresso to another. Angelo wanted to escape. Anywhere. Anywhere that wasn't this goddamn island. He didn't care about the great Roman naval battle with the Carthaginians. He didn't care at all about the past. Favignana was only about history. It was about things that no longer existed. Dead things. Dead stone, dead fish, dead people. Angelo wanted to live.

It's why he'd spent the last three days talking to the sailors on the huge ship. They were from South Africa. He didn't know where exactly. He'd never heard of the city whose name they kept repeating, but he understood the word "Africa" and knew they weren't Arab and knew they weren't black, so he decided they must come from the white part, which he knew was south, and all he really cared about was where they were going, which was far, far away from here. The Africans were waiting for the tuna to come in so they could load up on fresh fish for the next leg of the journey; they were excited that the wait was almost over, that it was almost time to leave. The sailors heard the cheering and they ran to look, to see the bloody spectacle, as Angelo knew they would. He ran with them, pointing out the oncoming boats, celebrating, slapping as many white Africans as he could on the back; and while everyone was cheering it wasn't hard for him to disappear, to slip below, and wander through the ship. As he wandered, a thick metal door opened and a man came through the opening. He was not in a uniform; he wore a dark business suit and a thin tie. He looked at Angelo but did not seem to care that a stranger was exploring places he shouldn't be. Angelo smiled to show that he belonged, but the man didn't smile back-he just walked slowly back to join all the commotion. The man looked serious and important, and Angelo wondered if he might be the captain. Or even higher up than the captain. The thought made him nervous, and as the man passed by, Angelo knew he had to be quick; so he darted ahead, caught the heavy metal door before it could close, stepped forward and found himself in a passageway that led to many rooms. He began moving slowly, tried several doors, all of which were locked. And then he tried one and it opened. Now he was in another maze of rooms, and without knowing what else to do he began trying more doors, examining more rooms. After perhaps fifteen minutes, he was standing in a doorway that led into a small dark space, a nearly empty room of seemingly little importance. There were wooden crates stacked up. Many of them. Still holding the door open, Angelo inched his leg in front of him and put his foot against one stack; it felt solid, as if filled with canned goods. Maybe it was a room for storage, but it didn't look as if it was used much. That was good, Angelo thought, it meant he'd have more time to remain hidden.

He stepped farther into the room and let the heavy iron door close behind him. He heard a lock click into place. Angelo tried to open it, found that he couldn't, but that was all right. He didn't mind. At some point, when they were far out to sea, someone would open the door and come into the room. They would see him and they would be angry, but what could they do? It would be too late. They would shrug and kick him off at the next port and that was just fine with Angelo. It didn't matter what that next port was. He'd be someplace else. He was sixteen years old, and he would no longer be on Favignana. He'd be free.

So he took off one shirt (he was wearing three-he was prepared for this journey; he'd brought shirts and nuts and raisins and bread and cheese, all hidden away in deep pockets); crumpled it up into a kind of pillow; and he sat on it, leaning against one corner of the room, and decided he was comfortable enough to wait. He knew he could wait now as long as he had to. He had already waited a long, long time, his whole life, really. He could certainly wait a little while longer.

He did not know how many hours later it was when the ship began to move. All he knew, all he cared about, was the movement itself. His voyage had begun.

He did his best, after that, to keep track of the time but it was difficult. It was pleasantly warm in the room and a bit stuffy and Angelo kept getting drowsy. He slept many hours, so he could only guess at the time or even if it was night or day. He guessed that it was already two days later when he'd finished eating some of his hard Parmesan cheese. As usual, he wasn't aware of the moment when he had fallen asleep that day and he didn't fully realize when he'd awakened, only that something had awakened him. A loud noise. Like an explosion. Or maybe a gunshot. He heard another loud noise. Yes, this was definitely an explosion. And then the ship was moving. But this was a strange movement. Not as if it was leaving port, it was moving as if something was wrong. The room was tilting, and the boxes of things, he didn't know of what-he had not yet looked inside the boxes that were in the room-were sliding and falling. Angelo stood up, wondering what was happening, and then he realized his feet were wet. There was water in the room. A lot of water. Angelo went to open the door, remembered that it was locked. He pounded on the thick steel, yelling, knowing that no one would understand his Italian but surely someone would hear him and let him out. He pounded again and again, and then he couldn't pound because he could not stand up. He was down in the water, and the water was getting higher and higher. It was almost to the ceiling. Angelo was a good swimmer, but soon there was no place left to swim. There was no place to keep his head above the water, and soon he was holding his breath, praying that someone would open the door because he couldn't hold his breath forever, couldn't even hold it for another minute. Not one more second.