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Show 170 the Italians. But a freighter is only a freighter and the Italians inevitably lost. It is old. Its engines wheeze and it has been too many times repaired, refurbished, repainted. Its weariness shows. The men who work it seem weary, too. They are of uncommon nationalities, many of them, and speak in strange languages. They amuse themselves with cards and liquor and music. They have only one home and they are floating on it. It is not a small ship. There are five levels below my cabin and two above, not counting the observation decks and pilothouse. It is easy enough to get lost. But most of the Aurelia's space is taken up with the cargo that fills its huge belly. Into the vast holds I have seen lowered crates of oranges, bellowing cattle, drums of olive oil. Out of them have come carpets, leaking bags of grain, wine. I met the captain my first day aboard, a sour-faced man who nonetheless shook my hand warmly. He knew Paco. We spoke of Malaga. I have not seen him since and sometimes wonder if he is still with us. We have already made many stops. From the deck and through my port window I have watched the cities grow, then disappear in our wake. Annaba. Iraklion. Cagliari. Izmir. I have walked through the dusty crowded streets, talked with the people, occasionally ventured into the countryside. But always I have made the ship's call. |