“Nonna will appreciate it.” Anina patted her grandfather on the back.
“It wasn’t for her.” Olimpio stood. “It was for Domenica. Your grandmother was never the same after we lost the baby. It was a sadness that she carried with her until the end.”
Anina followed her grandfather outside.
The Italian Cloister Garden was placed inside a stone wall next to the cathedral. The iron gate to the garden was propped open.
Olimpio stood at the entrance and read aloud from his phone. “The garden was designed by a Roman architect. Giulia Chiarini.” He put the phone in his pocket, clasped his hands behind his back, and walked among the mirrored glass sculptures in the center of the outdoor space. “We’ve come all the way to Scotland to see the work of an Italian.”
A stream of rushing crystal water ran through a silver trough that cut through the tall shards of glass etched with wisdom from philosophers and poets and saints. Anina explored the space until she found the plinth of names of the Italians and crew who died on the Arandora Star.
“Nonno, come over here.”
Olimpio joined her at the wall and peered up at the names. “That’s him.” Olimpio was emotional. “That was Matelda’s father.” It would have meant the world to his wife to have seen proof that John Lawrie McVicars had lived and died, and had been honored for his service, in this Italian garden in Scotland. “I should have brought her here,” Olimpio said with regret.
“You can’t do everything you want to do in one lifetime,” Anina said, sounding a lot like Matelda. She unrolled the tracing paper and placed it on the plaque. She pulled a pencil from behind her ear and rubbed over the letters. Soon, her Scottish great-grandfather’s name emerged in blocks of gray on the field of white paper, as though McVicars himself was coming through the gray clouds to greet them.
“Anina Tizzi!”
“Yes, Nonno?” Anina continued to stencil her great-grandfather’s name.
“Is that a tattoo on your arm?”
Anina’s sleeve had revealed the new tattoo as she stretched to stencil the McVicars name. “Don’t look.”
“Your grandmother hated them.”
“She might have liked this one.”
Anina slipped the pencil behind her ear, rolled up her sleeve, and showed her grandfather the tasteful tattoo. Matelda was drawn in a delicate swirl of India ink on the underside of her arm between her elbow and her hand.
“How did they do that?” Olimpio was intrigued.
“They’re artists. I had them copy Nonna’s signature from a check she sent me on my last birthday. I never cashed it. I had a plan all along, I guess. Do you like it?”
“I think I do.” Olimpio was surprised at his reaction.
“I’m glad. I’m a wee bit Scottish after all, you know. A bit of a rebel.”
The sky opened up without warning, as it did in Scotland. Rain poured down from the heavens above on the Italian tourists with a particular intention.
Anina shoved the tracing paper under her jacket to protect it.
Olimpio buttoned his coat and looked up.
“Come on, Nonno. Run!”
EPILOGUE
Karur, India
NOW
Aslender boy of eleven kneels in a pit in the red earth. He digs in the dirt, going deeper with his hands, where he has made a trench over the course of a few months. It’s his trench—he dug it alone. It’s about two feet wide and five feet deep. His T-shirt is tied around his head because he hasn’t got a hat to wear in the hot sun. He gets some relief when the pink clouds cover the sun in the lapis sky. He is barefoot and shirtless, and his shorts, which are too large, are knotted at the waist to hold them up. Embroidered in large letters around the leg of the shorts, it reads, Nike.
An empty basket rests on the ground in the hole next to him. He picks up a stone shaped like an arrowhead and taps against a vein of rock in the open hole. He lowers his head to the ground. About twenty feet away, his brother digs in a similar fashion. He is ten feet below ground, but he is older and more experienced in aboveground mining, so he’s faster. Scattered across the immense field are more boys from their village, doing the same work, using the rock-on-rock technique, seeking the same result. They are listening for a hollow sound, where rock has turned to ruby.
The boy softens the earth around the rock. The ground is wet, which means snakes, or an underground stream. The Amaravati River is close by. After the spring rains, there is mud as the water retrenches underground, with fingers of streams that reach for miles. There’s an ancient story about an elephant that died on the banks of the river, after saving a haul from a mine in a mountain, and now, centuries later, lush greens grow where she perished. They’re called elephant’s ears in her honor.