by Rosanna Ley
She paused by the window of his studio. The serpent was glittering demonically at the centre of his display. She wanted to ask him about the story it came from, but Tonino was wearing a face mask and cutting some stone, particles of dust and grit flying in the air around him, so she walked on by.
Next time she came here, she thought, walking down to the water’s edge and letting the tiny waves at the shoreline lap around her toes, she would bring her diving equipment and explore properly. Which for her meant underwater. And she would get to talk with Santina. Alone.
Tess closed her eyes. She would miss the tranquillity of this place, not to mention the warmth. In England it would still be chilly; here, Sicily’s springtime was opening up into summertime. Already the sky was becoming listless and hazy with heat. She lingered for a while, simply enjoying the feel of the sun on her skin.
‘Ciao.’
She swung around. Tonino stood there regarding her intently. He had changed into shorts and his usual flipflops and was still wearing the white T-shirt, open at the neck.
‘Ciao. Bon g …’ She felt herself stumbling over the words of greeting. Why oh why, she thought for the umpteenth time, had her mother not spoken Sicilian – or even Italian – to her as a child? By now she would be fluent – bilingual even. But she knew the answer to that question. Sicily was off-limits. It was OK to eat its food – even Muma hadn’t been able to wean herself away from that. But everything else was no grata. ‘I was just absorbing the peace.’
He nodded. ‘It is peaceful here, yes. You like our village, I see that.’
‘Do you think you will always live here?’ Tess swirled her foot in the water. She imagined he and his family had been here for ever.
‘It has everything I need.’ And yet, even as he said this, he stared out to sea again, and Tess saw it once more – that sadness. He loved the place, he loved the sea. But it was more complicated than that. He was more complicated than that.
‘And your family?’ she asked. ‘What about them?’
He blinked and turned back to her. ‘My grandfather was Alberto Amato,’ he said.
Tess raised an eyebrow as if she’d never heard the name before.
‘He was a spear-fisherman. A legend. He could hold his breath for over four minutes when he was free-diving, and he could dive down to sixty metres.’
She nodded. That was pretty impressive. ‘And your father?’
‘He was a fisherman too. He went out in his boat. In May and June he took part in the Mattanza. They all did.’
‘Mattanza?’
‘The ritual of the blue-fin tuna fishing.’ He pointed to the buildings which stood back from the bay, the warehouse with three big arches, and the faded tunnery itself, now disused and abandoned. ‘They worked in a team. Many men in small boats.’
‘What was it like?’ she wondered aloud.
‘It was once a thriving business,’ he said. ‘But a bloodthirsty one. Another word for mattanza is massacre. But … ’ He shrugged. ‘They say Cetaria owes its name to the plenty of fish in the sea. Literally, it means “earth of the tunnys” in Greek.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Still, the tuna slaughter – it was not pretty to watch. And it was hard for the men who had to do it.’
Tess shivered. She understood how hard it must have been to make a living. But she was glad that tuna was no longer caught and killed that way.
‘They kept the boats in there.’ He pointed to the warehouses. ‘They say that the boathouses still echo to the Cialoma.’
Tess listened. She couldn’t hear anything, unless it was an echo of emptiness. ‘Which is what exactly?’
‘A song,’ he said. The fishermen sang it to find strength to haul in the nets.
‘And yet now it seems so tranquil.’ The buildings were at rest; for them, time had stood still. The fig tree and the oleander stood in front of the rusting anchors as if to symbolise their new-found repose.
He shrugged. ‘If you wish for complete tranquillity,’ he said, ‘you must visit Segesta.’
‘Segesta?’ She had seen it on the map. But sightseeing had not been her priority when she came here. She had preferred to explore her mother’s village, look for information and chill out in the villa and in the sea. She had needed to think – what should she do about Villa Sirena and what should she do about Robin?
He rubbed at the scar on his cheek. ‘But of course. You cannot come to Cetaria and not visit Segesta.’
Tess smiled. ‘I’d like to. But I’m going back tomorrow.’
He lifted an eyebrow. ‘You have today.’
‘I suppose.’ She was reluctant. She had half-thought that she would try Santina again – only she didn’t want Giovanni to get any wrong ideas. ‘What is there to see there?’
He brushed back his hair with the back of his hand. There was a faint dust – from the stones, she supposed – coating the skin of his face; almost a glitter. ‘A temple,’ he said. ‘An amphitheatre.’
‘Really?’ It sounded impressive, she had to admit. You didn’t get to see temples and amphitheatres every day of the week. Especially in Pridehaven.
‘I could take you.’ He was staring at her as if he could see out the other side.
‘But your work … ’
‘It will wait. Unless … ’ He bent his little finger. ‘You have other plans?’
‘No.’ She spoke quickly. No doubt he had seen her with Giovanni. She didn’t want him to think that she and Giovanni … Because it wasn’t true, and it would only annoy him if he disliked the Sciarras as much as Giovanni disliked him. ‘I’d love to come.’ She looked around the baglio. ‘Do you have a car? Because … ’ She was about to say that she could drive them in her hire car – she hadn’t made much use of it so far.
He grinned. ‘Better than that,’ he said.
‘Oh?’
‘Meet me here in an hour.’ There was a spark – maybe of danger – in his dark eyes.
Tess didn’t hesitate. ‘I’ll be here,’ she said.
When Tess came down the stone steps an hour later, he was waiting for her.
‘Ciao.’ He handed her a crash helmet. Right. Lucky she’d opted for the blue linen shorts then rather than the short denim skirt. His scooter, a Lambretta, which looked stylish rather than powerful, was parked by the entrance to the baglio.
She climbed on behind him. ‘Hold on tight!’ he yelled, and they were off.
They drove out of the village and along a road lined by bamboo, cacti and olive trees, heading towards the soft green slopes of the mountains whose high granite crop-tops were half-hidden today by wispy cloud. Tess felt the exhilaration race through her as she clung to his waist. Well, there was nowhere else to hold on to … at any rate, no place she felt safe. Not that they were going fast; they couldn’t, the scooter didn’t have the power. But the wind in her hair and on her face felt good. She felt good. She couldn’t remember feeling this good for a long time.
The noise of a shot rang out, echoing around the hills. Jesus … ‘Mafia?’ yelled Tess.
He just laughed.
They rode under a viaduct past tall cypress trees, between vineyards to their left and eucalyptus trees to their right. Beyond, lay silver olive groves and fields of yellow wheat and grassland interlaced with scarlet poppies, white daisies and spiny yellow thistle. They slowed at a crossing and Tess saw a lizard dart across a rock by the roadside. Green with orange markings. She thought of Tonino’s serpent and the fish. About her mother’s girlhood. And about a life here which was so different from the one she knew in England.
It was a bumpy road, pitted with holes and deep ruts that had Tess bouncing on the pillion seat.
Tonino slowed down. ‘Segesta,’ he announced.
An old man was standing by a tourist bus collecting tickets from a queue of people. Tess waited for Tonino to stop, so that they could park and join the queue, but instead he sped past the old man with a cheery wave, and they rode on up the winding road. It was steep though, and the Lambretta began to s
low down until it was barely chugging along.
At the bend, Tonino stopped and pointed back the way they’d come. ‘The Hellenic temple,’ he said.
Tess turned. The honey-coloured temple stood serene, dominating the landscape, and she could see this was the perfect way to first view it. It looked as if it had been deposited there by some beatific God above.
They got off the scooter. The air was perfectly still and heavy. All Tess could hear was the occasional birdsong and the hum of insects – crickets or cicadas maybe.
Tonino looked up. ‘The swallows are back from North Africa,’ he said.
Surrounding the lonely temple were the green and red plains, and the mountain thicketed with oak and laurel. At the bottom of the slopes was a dried-up river bed, a deep gorge. It was hypnotic, Tess thought. The land seemed to throb like some giant magnet. The power of the temple or the power of the land? Or both?
Some minutes elapsed before Tonino motioned for her to get back on the scooter behind him and they rode slowly up to the theatre, at the very top of the hill.
They must have been between busloads of people, for they were alone.
‘It’s amazing,’ she murmured, almost afraid to speak too loudly. The ancient theatre was huge and deep, the semi-circle of rugged white stone rows dropping down towards the area of the stage. Behind the stage, she could see trees, mountains, valleys; in the distance, the glint of the sea.
‘Come.’ Tonino led her down the cobbled steps into the front of the theatre, where she sat on the pitted stone ledge – rounded and worn over the centuries.
He walked to the centre of the stage, grinned, flung out his arms to the sky, and to her utter amazement, began to sing – in Italian, in a beautiful rich tenor. Tess was transfixed. She vaguely recognised the aria – from some Italian opera, by Puccini maybe. But she had never heard it like this before – in a Greek stone amphitheatre, under a Sicilian sky, sung by the most enigmatic man she had met in her life.
When the last note had echoed and died, he bowed low and she clapped. ‘Amazing!’
‘Can you imagine …? ’ He sat beside her on the white stone. ‘What it must have been like here in Greek times? The stage of mud and rock, the stars above you?’
‘Mmm.’ Tess hugged her knees. She was beginning to.
‘A hot, still night. The mountains. A darkening sky … ’
He was quite a poet. She smiled.
‘At festival times, the place is floodlit,’ he said. ‘People come in the evenings with a bottle of Prosecco and a cushion.’
‘It must be magical.’ She couldn’t help the note of wistfulness that crept into her voice. Once again, she thought, I don’t want to leave this place … She felt as if the gift that Edward Westerman had bestowed on her was about to be snatched away.
‘And sometimes they come to watch sunrise.’ He was doing that intense looking thing again, as if he were gauging her reaction, testing her in some way.
Tess nodded. She was unwilling to say anything to break the spell.
‘They stay for breakfast, and someone comes in a van to sell Sicilian sausages and buns.’
She had to laugh at the incongruity of this.
‘What?’
‘A hot dog van always gets to the unspoilt locations sooner or later.’
‘Hot dog?’ He frowned.
‘Sausage in a bun.’ And no, she didn’t know why they were called hot dogs either.
A busload of people had arrived in the car park below them and was now moving in convoy towards the theatre where they sat. ‘Time to go,’ said Tonino.
They jumped on to the scooter and rode down the winding road towards the solitary temple. They parked the Lambretta, climbed a path bordered by agave and myrtle trees. And there it was. Even bigger than she’d realised. Even older and even more beautiful. The honeycombed stone was weathered and wild flowers were growing in the nooks and crannies of the giant pillars.
‘The swallows nest here now,’ Tonino said. As he spoke some goat bells chimed in the distance.
‘How old is it?’ she asked him.
‘Fifth century BC. They say it was never desecrated because it was never finished. It is still waiting for its roof, you see?’
‘Mmm.’ She could see. And now it would have to wait for ever …
He smiled at her. ‘It is peaceful, yes?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘Thank you.’
‘For bringing you?’ He shrugged. ‘It was nothing. When you live in a place … It is good to remind yourself of what is there sometimes.’
‘For not letting me miss it,’ she said.
He acknowledged this with a small nod and gestured her towards a wooden bench by a fig tree.
She sat. It was a sheltered spot, but she was still surprised to see him pluck two plump green figs from the tree.
He passed one to her. ‘An early crop,’ he said. ‘It has been a good spring. This is San Pietro. Normally she must be ready for the feast day at the end of June.’
She bit into the velvet skin; felt the red pulp inside – grainy, sweet and indiscreet on her tongue.
‘Still, the first of the season, I think,’ he said.
Tess thought of how different these two men were – Tonino Amato and Giovanni Sciarra. Giovanni a businessman; Tonino an artist. Giovanni taking her to restaurants where he could be assured of the best food and service; Tonino bringing her to a ruined temple, singing to her and feeding her ripe figs fresh from the tree. Very different …
‘Why does Giovanni Sciarra hate you so much?’ she asked, before she could stop herself.
His expression changed, a deep frown furrowing his brow. He muttered something that sounded like ‘bastardo …’ ‘It is an old quarrel,’ he said, his fingertips just touching his scar. ‘And we are not the first. Why do you concern yourself with it, Tess?’ His voice was cold. ‘What is it to you?’
She got to her feet to stand beside him. ‘I’m just curious.’ And she still was … How could she know who to trust when she hadn’t even heard his side of the story? ‘Giovanni told me some of it …’
Again he swore under his breath. ‘Long ago they took our land. They knew who to serve and who to punish. That is one thing. But murder,’ he growled, ‘that is another.’
‘Murder?’ Tess stared at him. ‘Not Giovanni …? ’
‘No, not him.’ He turned away from her. ‘His family, the Sciarras. They caused my uncle’s death. They have no scruples. They will stop at nothing.’ Again, he traced the line of his scar with his forefinger.
‘But what happened?’ Tess couldn’t leave it there. ‘What about the police? Wasn’t there an enquiry? Why would they—’
She stopped short because Tonino was laughing, harshly, without humour. ‘This is Sicily, Tess,’ he said. ‘We are talking about the Sciarras.’
‘But—’
She got no further. He had taken a step closer and held her by the shoulders. ‘Leave it, Tess.’
She turned her face and his mouth seemed to brush against her hair. There was something about the curve of his jaw that was familiar to her. It reminded her of something – or someone. He smelt of wild mint and lemons. Tess touched the scar on his face and felt him flinch. ‘This scar …’ she said. Suddenly she knew.
‘Yes.’ He bent his head. ‘When we were teenagers. We always fought. It was in our blood; our forefathers were the same.’
She traced the length of it. Giovanni. But why had this uncle been murdered and how had the Sciarras got away with it? Who did they serve and who did they punish? It was all too confusing. A debt, a theft, a betrayal – and now this. Murder …?
She let her hand move to his shoulder. She wanted to put it on the nape of his neck where the dark hair curled enticing and warm. But … It was this place, she supposed. It must be this place.
‘You haven’t yet,’ she reminded him softly, ‘told me the story of the mermaid.’
Their faces were only inches apart. ‘But I will do,’ he said.
He bent slightly and she felt just the briefest touch of his lips on hers. He tasted sweet, of ripe figs and musk. ‘You will come back to Sicily, I think,’ he said. ‘You will come back here to Cetaria, yes?’
‘Yes.’ The nape of his neck was as warm as she had expected it to be. For a moment, she didn’t think of Robin, Ginny or Muma and Dad. She thought of nothing, not the Sciarras, the Amatos and the Farros of Sicily, not Villa Sirena nor the secrets it held. She didn’t even think about her mother’s story. She didn’t know when, but, ‘I’ll come back,’ she said. ‘I promise.’
CHAPTER 22
A table without bread, they say, is a day without sunshine. Bread, the Sicilian staple. Fresh and golden, thick and chewy on the tongue. Religion and ritual. Plaited loaves, crossed loaves, upside down loaves; black bread, nutty bread, unleavened bread, seed bread. Cooked in brick ovens fired by olive wood.
As far as Flavia knew, the tradition of decorative ‘votive’ bread had been popular in Sicily for centuries. Paschal (Easter) bread and other religious feasts gave Sicily’s more creative bakers a chance to reveal their sculpturing talent. There was the ferro di cavallo or horseshoe, the pesce or fish, and the mafalda, twisted in form.
It is not simple … The right amount of yeast must be used to make the bread expand perfectly while baking.
Would Tess ever bake her own bread? Probably not, Flavia had to admit. Nevertheless the art would not be forgotten, not while she had breath in her body and strength in her hands. Flavia began to write down the recipe; her recipe, handed down from Mama and from her mother before her.
Bread, the symbol of all that continues. Bread, the staff of life …
Tending to the airman brought a sense of purpose to Flavia’s existence. She became more disciplined, more selfless. She no longer tried to avoid chores or daydreamed the hours away. She worked hard in the house and in the fields, so that she could run back to nurse him. She knew that she surprised them – Mama, Papa and Maria – with her vigilance. But, after all, he had fallen from the sky, and she had found him.