The sun was rising over Livorno, a city devastated by the war. The fishermen emerged from their houses armed with nets and buckets. The town was in the midst of being rebuilt, and they stepped over the debris of bombed-out houses as they made their way to the harbour. The fishermen whistled sea shanties as they walked, their melodies passed down from generation to generation; prayers for a calm sea and a bountiful catch. Among the fishermen were the father and son of the Toledoni family, known as the harmonica men who would sometimes play tunes for the other sailors. They came to their gozzo, the little Neapolitan fishing boats, whose sterns were decorated with eyes to watch over those who sailed in them. The boy had named the boat after his mother: Nina. Out on the water, day had broken and the coastline was out of sight. But a mass of cloud was coming their way, about to ensnare the man and his boy.
“We have to get back!” ordered the father.
The mist thickened. They heard the wind howling as the boat rocked dangerously. The clouds gobbled up the last of the sunlight. The wind’s fierce shrieking deafened the boy as he watched his father, rowing like a man possessed back towards the coast. A whirlwind was blowing the feeble little boat into a pocket where the father would be unable to protect his son. His oars failed to find the water. The waves were rising higher and higher. The thunder groaned and shook the boat’s hull. The terrified boy gripped his harmonica in his hand. Flashes of blinding light illuminated the boy’s face as he gazed at the old sailor’s efforts, willing him on. The brave sailor fought with all his might to steer the boat away from the storm, but his efforts were for nought, and so he lay down in the bottom of the boat to wait it out. The child nestled his head against his father’s shoulder.
Nina was happy at her work, taking a package of marinated anchovies and a bunch of parsley from her basket. She opened up the little fish and spread them on a towel to soak up the liquid; the spiced oil formed a reddish halo around each one as she chopped the herbs into fine slivers using the edge of her knife. She liked to cook and knew she was good at it. In the kitchen she was an alchemist, patiently transforming and elevating the simple ingredients provided to her. Tonight she was preparing cacciucco for supper. It was peasant food, but poverty had honed this skill of hers: rich people didn’t know how to create, because they didn’t know the value of things. They had things handed to them. There was no joy in that; to truly savour something you had to make it yourself. Her two men would be home soon. They’d be tired and hungry, and the comforting aroma of the cacciucco would greet them like a warm embrace. To an outsider her life might seem like mindless routine, but it was a life woven of comforting habits that held her family together and kept their love intact. Nina never got bored; she always put her heart into her work, and it was a heart filled with both courage and tenderness.
The storm died down; the wind was silenced. The clouds had moved off towards the horizon. The father gripped the oars and glided the boat over the restful sea. The rowboat cut through the waves with a rustling shimmer. Relieved, the father asked his son to play him a tune on the harmonica. They came back to the harbour with not a fish between them.
Along the quays of Livorno harbour, children scampered and splashed in the water, their small feet slipping over cobblestones worn smooth by the tide and polished with seaweed. The bambinos flitted back and forth like baitfish, returning to seek warmth in the arms of their mamme, who wrapped them in soft, warm, white towels. Far off, the dock workers were stacking barrels of fuel oil near the portside cafés. Ignoring the nauseating odour of the oil, the old men drank their coffee at the Aragosta, sheltered from the sun by a broad awning of red canvas. Earlier in the day, these vecchio had settled in to discuss the rebuilding of the town. Their precious Livorno may have been torn up by American air raids, but the place was too old and too stubborn to disappear. It was being rebuilt stronger than ever. The port’s lamplighter chuckled to himself as he listened to the ramblings of the vecchio. He lit the gas lamps that illuminated the café’s terrace, casting a purplish hue over the windows and cobblestones. Sitting around small tables covered with chequered cloths, some played at dice while others were lost in thought, watching the surf gather on the surface of the water or the sailors loading and unloading their boats.
When he got home, young Toledoni headed straight for his worried mother’s arms. He told her all about the storm and held out his empty basket apologetically. Caressing her son’s cheek tenderly, the mother told him a legend of Livorno: “Once, a fisherman from Livorno went out in his boat but got caught up in a storm and drowned. His wife and three children were left in ruin. They were so hungry that one day, the children went to the fishermen who’d known their father to beg for some scraps of food. Everyone gave them something: a piece of octopus, a flat lobster, a mullet or a squid. Their mother made a hot meal with what the children brought back. She gathered some herbs and some tomatoes from her garden and made a sauce with some olive oil and leftover fish. She put some slices of stale bread in a tureen and poured the soup over the top. The dish was like a gift from heaven, and its aroma wafted all throughout the neighbourhood until a crowd of curious onlookers came, astonished to learn that the delicious smell was coming from the poor family’s table. And that’s how we got cacciucco!”
Alan Alfredo Geday