Chapter 8: In Memory of Viola

At dawn I told Santo I was breaking rule one.

He was at the stove frying eggs, and he did not turn around.

"Who was in the cage before me?" I asked. "You said Dario used it before."

"A harbor pilot who refused to sign for his boats."

"Dario's men put him in that same bay, and the coast was told his boat sank."

"Nobody looked for him."

"Is he alive?"

"I do not know yet. That is why I need what is on that phone."

"The newspapers say Dario is holding a memorial regatta for you at noon. Forty boats and a priest, right over the Christ."

"I know."

"You said rule two was that I stop being dead in front of everyone."

"I did."

"That is everyone."

He put the eggs on a plate and set it in front of me.

"Eat first."

"Is that a yes?"

"It is a yes with eggs."

I ate, and I did not taste any of it.

By eleven we were out in the bay on Santo's grey dive boat, in the shadow of the point, with the old man at the wheel.

Santo had copied the recording to three phones and a speaker that dive guides use to shout at tourists.

He had it wired to the boat's loudspeaker by the stern.

The tank with the drilled seal stood on the deck in a bucket, wrapped in a dry cloth.

"One shot," he said. "Be loud, be plain, and don't cry."

"I will not cry."

"Then you will be the first person on this coast who has not."

The bay was full.

Dario's boats stood in a wide ring above the statue, with black ribbons on every rail.

Press launches rode at the edge.

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