Somehow, I find my voice. It comes out as squeaking and raspy as the rusted wheel of the corpse cart.
“Cristiano!” I clear my throat and try again.
His face. Suddenly it is there below me. He turns toward my voice. I grasp the parapet with both hands and pull myself up. I see his eyes grow wide, and his hands clasp his linen shirt in a ball around his heart. I lean over the parapet.
“Dio Mio! You are sick! No!” he exclaims.
“Yes,” I say. “I went home. I was looking for you… But then I fell ill. I do not know how I got here.”
Cristiano has broken from the mash of ferry passengers now, and pushes his way through the crowd toward the staircase. “Maria! Listen to me. There is nothing but death here. You must leave this God-forsaken place. Come with us! Get on the ferry! I will help you.” He presses toward me.
“Stilda!” One of the corpse-bearers presses his palm against Cristiano’s chest. “Have you lost your senses? She will only bring death to everyone else. Do you not want to live, man? Get on that boat, for the love of God!” He pushes Cristiano roughly back toward the crowd, and I watch him stumble backward into the wall of people waiting to board the ferry.
As much as I want to rush down the stairs into his arms, I know that my legs will not have the strength to take me. I lean over the parapet for support. “Please! Cristiano, you must save yourself. I will only drag you into the grave.” I feel tears begin to spill onto my cheeks.
“You are strong,” he says to me, pushing forward again, and I see his eyes glaze with tears, too. “You must fight!” He starts for the stairs, but this time two large men place their bodies in front of him at the bottom of the treads. He grasps the brick railing and pushes his body forward, but they push back, and I see that he is too weakened to overcome them. One of the men grasps Cristiano’s arm and holds him tight.
I do not try to stop the tears. “Cristiano,” I say pulling myself along the parapet to the top of the stairs. “We have a child. A son. Your son… I tried my best to tell you, but I could not find you. I could not get through the barriers. Now he is in the convent orphanage at Santa Maria delle Vergini. Please, save yourself. Go find him. My father’s sister is cloistered there. You can trust her. She will help you, I am sure of it.”
“Maria,” he presses forward again, against the two men blocking the staircase. One of the men places both hands on Cristiano’s shoulders and pushes him backward. Beyond, I see the last passengers boarding the ferry for Lazzaretto Nuovo, and only Cristiano remains in the courtyard.
“Amigón,” the man says to Cristiano, “unless you want to stay on this island for all eternity, you had better get yourself onto that boat before they close the gates! There will not be another boat for thirty days.”
I grasp the railing at the top of the staircase and lock eyes with Cristiano.
“Giuseppe,” I say. “Your son. He carries the same name as my father. He... he is beautiful.”
Cristiano looks at me again for a long moment. “Maria,” he says, stumbling under the pull of the two men, who are now trying to drag him toward the iron gates. “If we have a son then he is no doubt waiting for you out there,” he says, gesturing toward the gates. “I am waiting for you!” He pounds his open palm against his heart. “For the love of God,” he commands, “get yourself out of this place and return to your father’s house!”
He shakes off the men’s grasp and turns toward the pesthouse ferry. The men follow closely behind, shoving him through the gates and sending him stumbling forward onto the dock. They close them behind him with a loud clang.
Then my knees buckle and I feel the cool brick floor under my cheek.