Whispering Tides

By Guido Mattioni

When his beloved wife Nina suddenly dies - after 23 years of life together - Alberto Landi understands he has to leave Milan Italy, where he has always lived and worked. He leaves his friends, colleagues, a good job and the polluted big city he has never loved which has now become even more intolerable to him. He is fifty, he is totally alone and he is confused, but he definitely knows that he has to escape very far away, across the ocean to the only place he and Nina had always loved together. He lands in Savannah, Georgia. There, in a natural paradise governed by the breath of the tides and with the help of many dear friends - colorful human characters as well as wise animals - he starts to rebuild his new life. His dream is coming true until the day he wakes up one morning and discovers that...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Guido Mattioni
• Release date: Oct 13, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465713674

Guido Mattioni

Born in Udine, Italy in 1952, I have lived and worked in Milan since 1978. During 33 years of journalism I have worked for daily newspapers as well as weekly and monthly magazines while holding almost every professional title possible, from reporter to editor-in-chief and deputy editor to special correspondent. When I was younger - yes, I’ve been younger! - I wrote two non-fiction books. I’m married to Maria Rosa, a medical doctor who is a specialist in oncology and so she is also someone who is much more socially useful than I am, apart of being definitely a much more beautiful person too. If I could be reincarnated I would like to do it as a chef. I’m also very proud of having been an honorary citizen of Savannah, Georgia since 1998. My novel "Whispering Tides" ended as Finalist both The Global eBook Awards in Santa Barbara CA and the Usa Best Book Awards in Los Angeles (Literary Fiction category). In 2013 Global eBook Awards edition my novel is the Winner of Multicutural Fiction category. The italian original version of the novel, entitled "Ascoltavo le maree", has been adopted as a teaching "tool" by the Modern & Classical Languages Department at Georgia State University in Atlanta.

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WHISPERING TIDES

by

Guido Mattioni

SMASHWORDS EDITIONS

**************

PUBLISHED BY:

Guido Mattioni on Smashwords

Whispering Tides

Copyright © 2011 by Guido Mattioni

ISBN (eBook Edition): 978-1-4657-1367-4

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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**************

Some of the characters in this book are totally invented, some are somewhat real and the rest are in fact totally real, even if I have used pseudonyms for all of them in order to protect their

privacy. However, I swear all of them are really deep in my heart as is the city of Savannah itself.

To Paola, the endless light of my Yesterday.

To Maria Rosa, the warm sun of Today. And to Vicki,

my beloved American Kiwi sister, because

without her this story would never have been written

Translation by William Marino and Daniela Zoppini

Amniotic fluid

The air told me and the azaleas confirmed it: it was the end of March in Savannah.

I was inhaling, breathing, and becoming intoxicated. Yet it was not perfume. It was an antique, ancestral odor, it was the humid scent flowing every six hours from sticky coats of mud left after each tide by the tireless embrace between earth and water. It was the primitive and stagnant essence the lagoon spreads on its banks with the selfless generosity that belongs only to Nature. It is like the thick scent of an excited woman in love, it’s sweet and sour at the same time.

I was breathing in again and I recognized it.

Now I understood the sincere sensation that I had experienced the very first time I had arrived here and immediately felt this place hidden deeply inside something already familiar that belonged to me. It was almost as if that water and that mud, so remote from the places where I was born and had lived, were in reality elements that had always been known to me, so much so that from then on I felt as if I was immersed, secure and at ease in an amniotic liquid.

I’m not crazy. The truth is that I fell madly in love one day with this part of the Georgian coast, with this humid and harsh land of perennially nomadic waters that at certain times disappear, but then always come back. And I was also in love with these sometimes little crazy people as well as with the always profoundly wise animals that live here. Since then the city of Savannah has become something intimate, an inseparable part of me, like a vital organ or my second skin.

After that first time I fell prisoner to that blind confusion that a human being can experience not only for another person, but also for a place, that I would return to as soon as I could. There was something inside of me that I cannot explain, but I would never investigate, something that even now I find hard to describe fully in words, something that kept telling me that I had to make that trip, a sort of a sentimental pilgrimage, at least once a year. And I have obeyed and often exceeded those annual orders.

I have done it regularly for years. At least every six months I’ve shouldered the boredom of the hours needed to fly over the Atlantic. But this has been done while passing time awaiting to return - always made even more agonizing by the nostalgic suffering from previous departures - that I have come to the point of no longer even feeling those long hours as they have been devoured by anxiety over each upcoming arrival.

Meanwhile I learned to bear coming back with a smile to the unchanging bureaucracy and predictable questions of U.S. Immigration officers. Those who want to know every time from me - but they should know every detail of me by now, since it’s all there in their computer terminals, from fingerprints to eye scans - whether I bring seeds or missile launchers, both options contained in the scope of an identical box to tick, as if the two things may have the same potential danger.

The consequence of my love affair was, until yesterday - because yesterday my life changed forever - a back and forth experience between Italy and America to the point that I did not know how many times I had landed at Atlanta airport and ran a race in order to not miss my connecting flight at the gate, pacing around and waiting for the amplified voice, Savannah, Delta flight number...

Then, another seat belt to buckle, another taxi down the runway, another attempt to fly with that lovely sensation of weightlessness that leaves a gap between the ground and the air and takes away the breath for quick and exciting moments.

So on, again into the heavens, always hoping in my heart that there will not be a lot of clouds. This is not for fear of turbulence, but because when the sky is clear I can follow mile after mile as everything is passing before my eyes, giving me the illusion of shortening time. With eyes glued to the window in an unnatural position that makes for a sore neck, I devour every minute and mile and turn my eyes down, to scroll past houses and bridges, rivers and roads in a Lilliputian world that has come to be quite familiar. Forward and onward, until the long-awaited moment when the plane reduces engine power to create the sensation of wanting to drop down. At that point my anxiety goes up to the limit and the forces within me are restrained only by the safety belt.

All this happened to me again just yesterday.

Certainly, Mr. Landi, we will do our best to please you... Let’s see... On our deals from Atlanta to Savannah there is still one seat available numbered 11 F, if that is OK with you...

Of course it was OK and everything went well from then on.

Back in Milan, at the check-in counter, I had asked for my usual, a window seat, but not too far forward. I did not want to find myself with the wing of a Boeing 737 somewhere between me and the landscape below, despite the fact that I was already very familiar with it. It was worth seeing over and over again or even just imagining it, if any part of it were hidden by clouds. I could rebuild it by using my visual memory or simply by engaging in an innocent exercise of reasonable imagination.

I admit that I always have a desire to look downwards when in flight and this could be seen as an almost infantile weakness considering I am more than half a century old and my youthful thick hair has worryingly turned white. Furthermore, I admit that it could be considered a strange obsession after a career in journalism that flew me all over the world. Yet this seemingly neophyte weakness has never disturbed me during flights, nor wrought me any embarrassment.

Is this your first time here?, asked the massive man with a big smile sitting next to me shortly after takeoff, Sam Pinker… - …field or fold, or something like that. He presented himself by shaking my hand with his large right hand, just a little oily from the mouthful of peanuts that he had just swallowed. I work in the field of catheters and my company services hospitals, clinics and universities all over Georgia, he added proudly without me even giving him the least inclination of wanting to know about his line of work. But I held back my smile while instinctively thinking how he might look while speaking to physicians and praising the quality and size of his most extensive catheter by sliding it between his big fingers, as round as hot dogs.

No, I think this must be the twenty-third time that I have come to Savannah..., I threw out there without even thinking.

Sam Pinker… - …field, or fold, or whatever the hell his name was, rubbed his eyes in disbelief. He already knew my name and what part of Italy I came from. My travel documents had been lying on the folding table in front of me just inches from his eyes for more than a few minutes while I had been trying to clean and tidy my pockets. I was amused to think that this large man had read through the transparency of my gin and tonic on the rocks that was splashing around in the plastic cup I had used as a makeshift paperweight. But I considered it to be on par with innocent curiosity and my strange habit of always wanting to look down during flights.

Twenty-three times in Savannah? An Italian? Excuse me if I ask, mister Landi: but why? Sure, the city is beautiful, but what is an Italian doing in Savannah for twenty three times?

I responded by making a gesture with my hand asking him to wait for a moment while I rummaged through the side pockets of my old kaki colored cargo pants that I always use for travel. As I had learned from my trips made for work, they help me keep everything under control.

No, Alberto, in the pocket there, I almost said aloud. Ah, yes, here it is...

The picture I had been looking for was in the pocket of my blue Oxford button-down cotton shirt, another piece that was an indispensable part of my usual traveling outfit.

In the color photo shot, there I was with Nina and the mayor of Savannah, standing behind a lecture podium.

You see, this is me and this is my wife, who unfortunately passed away a few years ago...

My God, I’m so sorry, you must have suffered a lot. And if you allow me, my God, she was really beautiful, interrupted Sam Pinker… - ..field, or fold, or whatever the hell he was called.

...That’s life, I said hanging my head down towards my shoulders, unable to find anything better to say on the thirteenth hour of my journey.

However, in the photo we are in Savannah at a ceremony where we were awarded honorary citizenship, few years ago. Do you see the key to the city that the mayor is handing to me? That’s why I go back and forth so many times. Because it is a place I love and where I am loved a lot.

At that point Sam Pinker… - …field or fold, or whatever the hell he was called, certainly wanted to ask many more questions, such as, why all the honors, who did I know in town, or in which hotel would I be staying. I realized that he was ready.

When...

Ladies and gentlemen, the captain would like to announce that we will be landing in Savannah in a few minutes, please fasten your seat belts, place the tray in front of you in an upright position and...

They were very welcome words and they were sufficient enough to lessen my neighbor’s curiosity. I went back to looking down - avidly - through the window.

Yes, I was seeing what I had waited for thirteen hours to see once more.

Finally, beneath my eyes was the green of the impenetrable foliage from the trees that over time have become my friends, if not brothers, as well as the Savannah River along with its tributaries - the Herb, the Moon, the Vernon and the Skidaway - in whose waters wooden walkways leading to piers stretch out like long legs of locusts, frail and trembling. Further down in altitude is the twisty maze of tidal creeks, the shallower and narrower canals that do not even have the right to have their own name. They are perfectly visible and submitted every six hours to the comings and goings of the tides that make them look from time to time snake-like in the brown mud of shallow water when they are dry and like liquid tinsel squiggles illuminated by reflections of silver hue when the waters have invaded them.

Now, ever faster and closer, I saw coming towards me roofs, steeples, blue eyed waters of swimming pools, cars, and finally - more and more quickly - power and telephone lines along a runway with other aircraft already landed just moments before. Then, underneath me, I felt the soft bounce and great screeching from the tires of the plane on the sun warmed tarmac, the roar of the open flaps down against the air resistance and finally the weight of my body pushed forward while the brakes screamed and velocity decreased until everything came to a halt.

It had all happened to me again like it was just yesterday. The difference being that this time and from here on after, I would not depart again.

The steel beast had completed its prance up to the gate and finally stopped with a slight shudder. While waiting for the other passengers to get up, gather their belongings, lineup in the corridor and head for the exit, I remained seated without feeling the consuming anxiety that usually affects me.

At that moment, as in all previous trips, Milan had magically become a vague contaminated memory. I had left the Malpensa airport there in the hope of not having to return to that dot on the world map, thirteen hours of flight and five thousand miles away, far away now somewhere far to the east, across the Atlantic. Because of time zones when I left Milan, America had turned to ‘this morning’ which was part of a ‘today’ that was not yet complete. In Milan it had been just another day for me, a past tense forgotten from on high with the first touch to my eyes of the Ocean surf crashing onto ‘this’ side that thirteen hours before was still ‘the other’ and that from now on it would have been really and forever only ‘this’ side. My side.

The rest was like drinking a glass of water. The baggage claim, done with two hurried signatures on the forms for the Hertz rental car already there, waiting for me in the lot, with that magic air which surrounds this piece of Georgia when the day decides that maybe it’s time to fold and let the night start. Albeit taking it slow, as happens with all the things done here, when there is already a warmth in the early spring air that is subtropical and a bit heavy with moisture, but always politely breezy.

Once behind the wheel I adjusted the seat and started the engine. I didn’t even need the free map that had been left for me. I could follow the route with eyes closed, as if dictated to while following the advice of a navigation system: ...pass the buildings of the Gulfstream company, turn right on State Road 21 and after having reached the Hunter military airport turn right again onto Waters Avenue, which becomes Whitefield. Proceed to the junction with the Diamond Causeway and turn right onto Ferguson...

Yes, I could have closed my eyes and reopened them already knowing where I was, what there was to my right as well as my left. I recognized that colorful America with the same strip malls everywhere, that standardized American limbo which also here, in the old South, is no longer the city but not yet the suburbs. I saw seemingly empty offices and always full supermarkets, service stations that sell all kinds of good chemical products for your automobile next to drive thru fast food restaurants which are instead hazardous and dangerous for your body, chiropractic clinics to treat your bones and churches of any faith, even the most bizarre, where they promise to somehow save your soul, fragrant hedges of azaleas in full bloom and garlands of shiny foil banners that advertise great bargains: No money down, folks!

Then, when all the signs began to disappear and the houses were literally swallowed by dense vegetation as the azaleas finally triumphed over all, I knew then that I was there, or almost.

Here was the low road running onto slabs of concrete that are almost in the water and echo like great soundboards amplifying the rumbling of the tires on the rough surface. Here, from left to right, was the flat expanse of marshes and navigable canals where a shrimp-boat anchored behind a house was waiting to leave for another night of work. It seemed to be sprouting up from the grass with its long arms full of heavy closed netting. Here the white herons and their cousins, the egrets with their thin jerky legs, were exploring the muddy bottoms in search of something to eat for dinner.

And here, finally, was the protective shadow of Burnside Island, wild and sweet, mother and lover, mysterious yet soothing, distant and yet familiar. Above all, for me it was a refuge for my heart and soul, a refuge that I had loved so much with Nina in my first life, in that happy season when by calling her name I would hear her answer and by turning around I could see her appear.

Since fate had taken her away from me and left only the faint consolation of dreaming, I found myself fighting the fatigue of unnaturally living alone. It was a chore that sent me into confusion and disrupted the pieces of my memory. So for this reason too, it was necessary to return and reconstruct in my mind a serene image, a mirage that too often proved elusive and evanescent.

Burnside would surely give me a hand, Burnside along with Liz.

I was very close to Rio Vista, my destination. My heart was beating faster than usual and my eyes were already swelling with emotion but I could not do anything to stop those tears. Yet another small bridge, the view of an almost dry secondary canal, the last curve to the right, a hedge of red azaleas positioned in the background, the gate that is always open and... My beloved American sister from New Zealand was already there, waiting for me at the foot of the stairway of stone steps leading to the entrance of her large Georgian house, to me a refuge of feelings painted in pale yellow.

More than mine, Liz’s eyes were swollen with tears, her voice was perhaps even more feeble than usual, but her twitchy embrace was extraordinarily strong and vigorous. I cannot say for how long, but we stood there still in the tight grip of a pervasive mutual affection and love for someone who had been snatched so suddenly from our arms. Together, slowly swallowed by the darkness that was now engulfing the trees, bushes and other living beings hidden there in the middle of nature, we both cried out for Nina.

Together we called her name.

Everything around us spoke about her and how happy she had been there. The majestic oaks spoke about her as well as did the blooming azaleas, the teasing squirrels, the thieving raccoons and the always chatting red cardinals and blue jays. Together, Liz and I imagined Nina - furthermore we even saw her - how many times we had admired her at that time of day there on the pier, with her elegant and slender little figure that stood out against the last glows of sunset.

Oh God, what anger! Oh, God how happy I had been!

A little later, inside the house, there would be more hugs from so many dear friends who had gathered together to wait for me and hug me. And there were certainly more tears. Then too came endless joyful toasts to try to stun the pain and drink away the sadness. Toasts dedicated to ourselves and to those we love, to those we had loved and even to those who were yet unknown to us, but certainly alive and well somewhere else, who in a day perhaps not too far away we would learn to love.

Then it arrived, the real darkness of Burnside, so quiet that it could arouse the horror of void in a New Yorker, a Milanese, or any other citizen from any other metropolitan city. On the other hand, by cupping your hands over your ears you can become part of Nature - over the banal people that we are - listening to a silence that leaves space for a concert which is about to start and is made up of leaves blowing in the wind, along the lapping of the Moon River with its marbled silver reflections splashing down by the Moon together with a thousand other subdued sounds. It is the same silence and the same rhythm that put to sleep or prompted making love to the native Americans centuries ago, the peaceful Yamakraw who were the original inhabitants of these banks.

Here was a darkness I had learned to love and that didn’t scare me. It was a real darkness, unpolluted by artificial lights because it was punctured only by the stars. It was a darkness that I could smell, full of fresh memories and warm hopes for tomorrow. In fact, I just put my head down and fell asleep.

Then it was morning and now I was already there on the river bank ready to inhale, to breathe and inebriate.

It coincides with dawn, the magic moment of the Low Country - as the long coastline of the southeastern United States from Georgia to Carolinas is called - a fertile soil surrounded by a sea that seethes with beautiful, fat and yummy shrimp.

It is a memorable moment when the first rays of the sun, straight as trails of glitter, ingratiate themselves into the branches of the oaks or filter through garlands of Spanish moss transforming them into imponderable and fluttering lit lanterns. Spanish moss is an intangible fabric that Nature has chosen to be her charming decor and flowing tapestry. Native American legend says that those weightless veils hanging from the branches are what remains of the beard of an old Spanish soldier who got trapped in the limbs of an oak tree and died in a vain attempt at