The Villa

by Rosanna Ley

  On the other side of the market square in a side street she hadn’t walked down before, Tess noticed a hotel. Hotel Faraglione. Hotel of the Rocks. It was quite small; pale mauve and stuccoed with mint-green shutters at the windows. Sweet. And yes, from the balconies you’d get a good view of the rocks.

  The garden looked pretty, with a palm tree and bougainvillea in deep purple and orange flower, so Tess wandered closer to take a look, still swinging her carrier bag containing her market purchases from her hand.

  What did it matter if Tonino had seen them? But – he would have, some voice whispered. And, it did.

  The front door of the hotel was wide open, white muslin blowing at the windows and inside, someone was sitting at a reception desk writing busily. The woman from the market. Pixie face. Friendly smile. Red lipstick.

  Tess watched her for a moment. She’d guessed she’d turn up again – Cetaria was too small for her not to.

  As she lingered, drinking in the scents from the garden and suddenly realising that she was starving and should get herself some food as it was way past lunchtime, the woman looked up.

  Surprise registered briefly on her face, and then she gave a half wave, turned to speak to someone behind her, stood up and came to the doorway.

  ‘Tess isn’t it?’ she asked in perfect English.

  ‘Er … Yes.’ The place was obviously even smaller than she’d thought. Everyone knew everyone who as much as set foot in the village. ‘You’re English?’ She walked towards her.

  ‘I am. A Londoner originally. Nowadays trying my best to be Sicilian, of course.’ She laughed. ‘I’m Millie. Millie Zambito. My husband Pierro and I run this hotel.’

  ‘He’s Sicilian? Tess shook her hand, which was tiny and small-boned, her fingernails also painted bright red, she noticed. Tess relaxed. It was such a relief to speak to someone English here in Cetaria. Giovanni and Tonino spoke the language well enough, but it wasn’t the same. And there were complications. Wasn’t it always the way …?

  ‘Yes, he is.’ Millie looked back towards reception. ‘Would you like a glass of wine or some juice? Most people are having their siesta around now. I can take a break.’

  And before Tess knew it, she was sitting in Millie’s private garden in a canvas deckchair, eating fruit and wafer thin biscuits drizzled with olive oil. Millie had put her carrier bag in the hotel kitchen larder and had already regaled her with the story of how she and Pierro had met at a party in London when he tripped over her as she was sitting on a cushion on the floor, apologised profusely and ended up taking her out to dinner.

  ‘Typical Sicilian,’ Millie remarked, lighting a cigarette. ‘An apology is never enough. They always go OTT.’

  Tess laughed. ‘I shouldn’t say this,’ she said – Millie’s husband was Sicilian after all, and so was her own mother – ‘but I do find them difficult to understand at times.’

  Millie shot her a searching gaze. ‘You’ve met Tonino Amato,’ she said. ‘The guy who does the mosaics in the baglio?’

  Tess nodded. ‘He’s a bit … well, dark.’ And that was putting it mildly.

  Millie smiled an enigmatic smile and drew in deeply on her cigarette. ‘That’s the Sicilian inheritance,’ she said. ‘Dark, grim, but very interesting … ’

  Well, he was certainly that.

  ‘Do you like him?’ Millie leaned forwards, a curious glimmer in her eye, but Tess was hesitant. She didn’t know her quite well enough – yet. And besides, it wasn’t easy to explain. Feelings never were.

  ‘I’d like to know more about him,’ she compromised.

  Millie’s lips compressed. ‘Wouldn’t we all,’ she said. She sipped her juice. ‘And you’ve met Giovanni Sciarra?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Millie seemed to be waiting for more, but once again she didn’t elaborate. It was a pretty effective grapevine they had going in their village – she didn’t want to fuel it more than necessary.

  ‘He hasn’t made a pass at you, has he?’ Millie poured more juice. ‘Some people think he’s a bit of a troublemaker.’

  Tess decided not to go there. ‘His family were holding the key to my villa,’ she told her. ‘I don’t know him well, but he’s been very helpful.’

  Millie laughed. ‘I’m sure he has,’ she said. ‘And you’re wise to be diplomatic. Giovanni’s family has lived in Cetaria for ever. So has Tonino’s, of course. Pierro’s new in town – only twenty years.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘And of course I’m way too foreign to be accepted. But … ’ She gave Tess another look. ‘When you learn the language and when you live here, you start to realise – gradually – what they’re all about.’ She stubbed the cigarette out in an ashtray.

  ‘Where does Pierro come from originally?’ Tess asked, tucking into another savoury biscuit. She reckoned it would take her a whole lifetime to find out what they were all about.

  ‘Catania.’ Millie stretched out in her chair. She was small, almost doll-like in her figure; her legs were bare and she had kicked off her shoes. She looked as if she were on holiday herself rather than running her own hotel. ‘Sicily’s been taken over so many times,’ she said. ‘You’ll find in the east there’s more of a Greek influence – democracy and harmony – while here they’re more kind of sultry and brooding.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Tess thought of Tonino. Sultry and brooding indeed.

  ‘They say it’s the shadow of Africa.’ Millie plucked a grape from the plate.

  Sun and shadow. Oppression. Tess thought of the baglio. ‘The place is very Arabic,’ she said. ‘Moorish.’ Yes, in more ways than one.

  ‘Exactly.’ Millie crossed her legs. ‘And the Arabs didn’t bring only couscous and citrus fruit to Sicily,’ she said. ‘They even brought spaghetti.’ She laughed. ‘Before that, they all ate potato dumplings!’

  ‘Really?’ So many times Tess had watched her mother, tipping flour into a heap on the kitchen table, adding the eggs, olive oil and water, and mixing with her fingers into a smooth paste. She never measured the ingredients – she just knew the right amounts by feel.

  There were, she realised, so many memories of Muma in their kitchen at home that were integral to her childhood. Perhaps that was why every fragrance of this place seemed familiar to her. It was the dough, the tomatoes, the herbs and spices she’d grown up with, ingrained into her senses just as surely as they were ingrained into Muma’s. They might as well, she thought, have grown up in Sicily – they had certainly taken its food with them. And she wished she had taken more notice, learnt more from her mother in the kitchen.

  ‘This village was where my mother grew up,’ she told Millie, and found herself explaining Muma’s reticence about Sicily, about how they’d never been back. She decided not to mention Santina Sciarra.

  ‘And she never told you anything about those times?’ Millie looked sceptical. ‘But why ever not?’

  Tess shook her head. ‘I have no idea.’ Even when her Sicilian grandparents died – Tess was twelve – her grandmother outliving her grandfather by only six months, her mother had not gone back. She remembered the pacing of the kitchen, the weeping, the row between her parents. Her father saying, ‘You’ll always regret it if you don’t go.’ Her mother’s voice rising in desperation. ‘I will not go back, Lenny. I cannot.’ Her father retreating to the shed to smoke his pipe, before at last he emerged and took Muma in his arms and held her. ‘There, my pet. There … Don’t you worry now.’

  And gradually things had drifted back to normal. Muma’s eyes became less red as every day went by.

  Tess rarely thought of her grandparents. She’d never known them after all. And there were so many other things to think about – like swimming and music and boys …

  ‘Come to dinner with us on Friday,’ Millie said, when she’d finished the story. ‘Pierro would love to meet you. And it’s such a relief to speak English for a change.’ She glanced at her watch and Tess took the hint.

  ‘That would be lovely,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

  And she walked bac
k to the villa with her carrier bag full of market produce, feeling almost light-headed. Millie was self-confident, glamorous and fun. A friend – maybe. Why not? The idea of finding a friend in Cetaria gave her a good feeling.

  She walked through the baglio. But what about her mother? What about Santina’s story about the injured pilot and her mother’s broken heart? Tess stared out towards the navy ocean she loved so much. She had wanted to find out her mother’s story, but was she ready to hear it?

  CHAPTER 35

  It was the end of a summer that had continued into October with an outrageous white heat that left Flavia sapped to the bones.

  They had made the traditional salsa – to eat in winter to remember the summer, as Mama used to say – and half the village had come to the terraces surrounding Villa Sirena to eat and dance into the night. It had been a good year for tomatoes – especially the pizzutelli, the dark-red, thick-skinned cherry tomatoes that made the best sauce. The cauldron of salsa had cooked continuously for two days, bubbling red lava, the tomatoes and basil stirred and squashed by neighbours and family alike, decanted after hours of simmering into sterilised empty beer bottles. And now? They all longed for rain to break the unbearable pressure.

  One morning Papa and Mama were whispering together, but they stopped abruptly when Flavia entered la cucina.

  ‘What?’ she asked.

  ‘We are planning a lunch,’ Papa said, ‘for All Souls’ day. You will cook, sì?’

  ‘For how many?’

  Flavia didn’t mind. She enjoyed preparing food and the more she was catering for, the better she liked it. Planning the menu – with their limited resources – distracted her, while the washing and peeling and chopping of vegetables, or the rhythmic rolling of the dough for pasta sent her into a hypnotic state that allowed her to dream. She liked to dream.

  Flavia put more coffee on the stove. She still dreamed of Peter. Something told her that he would still come for her – even though it was almost six years since his promise and she had heard nothing. She sensed that he was her only hope of escape. And since he had not come, then she was sure there must be a very good reason. But how could she find out what the reason might be? How could she decide the next step?

  ‘There will be five of us,’ Papa said. There was a strange glint in his eye.

  ‘Just five?’ Flavia was disappointed. All Souls’ Day, or the Feast of the Dead was important to Sicilians. Il giorno dei morti. Traditionally, it was a day of celebration; one on which to pray, go to the cemetery and remember family and friends who had passed away. But there was only one man Flavia would be remembering. She would never forget him.

  ‘And we want something special,’ Papa went on.

  Flavia’s ears pricked. ‘Who is coming?’ She was already planning. Perhaps they would start with melanzane and peppers – she had a special way of preparing these with a dash of balsamic and olive oil that was rich and would lift the melanzane. And at summer’s end they had a glut of both vegetables; Flavia’s mother’s thriftiness had worked its way down to her – it had to, times had remained hard and much food remained unavailable.

  ‘Enzo,’ Papa said. ‘With his nephew Rodrigo. Ettore’s boy.’

  ‘Enzo?’ Flavia was surprised. She fetched the small white cups for espresso. Enzo wasn’t special. Papa saw Enzo most days. Since the big falling out between Papa and Alberto Amato, Enzo Sciarra had become his closest crony, but Flavia still didn’t like or trust him. As for the drama concerning Alberto … The village had never recovered from the shock. And poor Alberto – well, Flavia couldn’t believe that he had done what they accused him of. He had always been kind and gentle with her. Enzo though … He rarely came to the house. He and Flavia would always be awkward with one another, despite her friendship with Santina.

  Mama nodded. ‘We have much to thank Enzo for,’ she said.

  ‘Oh?’ But Flavia understood. Every family must have their alliances. Every family must be protected. Flavia worried over it, but Papa was only looking after his own. ‘And is Santina not coming for the lunch?’

  Papa looked shifty. ‘Santina has other family business to attend to,’ he said. ‘Sadly she cannot join us.’

  That was a shame. Flavia still loved her childhood friend. It was just that Santina was content with the old ways; Flavia was not.

  Perhaps they would follow with pasta con le sarde with pine nuts and raisins, a sweet–sour taste of the sea. Sardines were always plentiful. And only yesterday Papa had been given a parcel by one of his contacts, containing lots of good things for the kitchen – dried fruit, chickpeas, lentils and nuts. Had Papa had to give anything in exchange? Flavia hoped not. There would be olives too, already being harvested from trees heavy with fruit.

  For dolce perhaps cassata – dense with candied fruit, the lightest ricotta. And on the terrace were some ripe zibibbo grapes – palest green and sweet as honey. She would serve them with coffee and some of Papa’s liqueur. It was traditional too to make biscotti, flavoured with cloves and called the bones of the dead. Children would receive such goodies – prepared for them by I morti during the night. Flavia smiled to herself. An unpretentious lunch. But special enough. She nodded to herself. Special enough.

  At the market Flavia bought herself a lemon ice from the ice-man to quench her thirst. She’d come to buy ingredients, and these days there was more food available; the scent of suckling goat and chickpea fritters frying hung greasily in the air. Big-eyed cats wound their tails around table-legs as they hung around hoping for scraps. She finished up the last of the yellow ice chips from the pot. It was still warm, but soon it would be winter. Another winter.

  She nodded at the fishmonger loudly proclaiming the freshness of his swordfish, red mullet and octopus, and chose from the blue sardines laid out on a marble slab. She smiled and greeted her acquaintances – the women hunched in their black dresses and shawls, the men in black berets and baggy trousers. Everyone was thin, after the war. Everyone looked weary, still.

  As Flavia prepared the lunch she began to formulate a plan. For some time now, she had been doing tasks for Signor Westerman – mostly secretarial jobs like writing and posting letters, but also fetching shopping and often cooking for him when he had visitors. He always paid her well and she had been saving this money.

  ‘For your bottom drawer,’ Mama said. But Flavia had other ideas. If Peter Rutherford would not come to her, then she, Flavia Farro, would go to him.

  She could still picture Peter’s face – and especially how he looked that day when she had found him in the valley, his glider crashed into pieces around him, bits of fabric stuck on the jagged metal and billowing in the faint breeze coming from the mountains. His white face, the way he bit his lip. And his eyes … She could still see his eyes. In her head. In her heart. Always.

  She sliced the aubergines, getting into a good rhythm with her favourite knife. Its serrated edge dealt neatly with the glossy purple skin and carved through the spongy centre of the vegetable without mess.

  As she worked, she let her thoughts drift to what Peter had told her about his life in England. For Flavia it had become a litany – a way of remembering; she would not lose these nuggets of Peter, no matter what happened and no matter how much time passed.

  Peter had told her about the place his family lived – Exeter, in the south-west of England. It sounded pretty – there was a river and a cathedral, trees and small thatched cottages, and it was close to the sea.

  She turned her attention to the red peppers. His family probably had less money than Signor Westerman, but they were not poor; she knew this. Flavia was certain that England could not be as poor as Sicily. And they had won the war. So why shouldn’t Flavia leave Sicily and go to get a job there, in England? She could read and write – English too. She could cook – ‘like an angel’, Signor Westerman said, and she was quick-witted – too clever for her own good, Papa often remarked. Flavia assembled ingredients and began to make the vinegar.

  Peter’s
father worked in a bank, he had said, which sounded grand, and his mother looked after the house. No, he had told her with a laugh, they didn’t have servants, just a daily woman who came to do the cleaning. Well, that was a servant, wasn’t it? Peter had one sister who was called Lynette and one brother called William. He was the youngest, the baby of the family.

  Flavia cleaned her knife and washed her hands. So far, so good.

  It was surprising, Flavia thought now, that these memories of a distant past could be so clear in the mind – clearer sometimes than what had happened yesterday. She put down her pen for a moment and sighed. When she emerged from her writing, she was almost surprised to see them – Lenny and Ginny, chatting together or poring over the computer. It took her a moment to adjust, to come back to the present. To remember who they were – and who Flavia was too. It was as if her young life had been so rich, so vibrant, that it was ingrained into her very soul. And the food of her country echoed this.

  The picking and preserving of tomatoes had coloured and punctuated Flavia’s childhood and adolescence. The pungent scent of fresh tomatoes in the sun, the cauldron of bubbling fruit to make the bottled salsa … But could she transfer it to paper and make it live …?

  In Sicily after the salsa, there is the strattu – the paste that is laid out on wooden boards to harden and darken like blood under the burning sun. It is a concentration, an aftermath of the salsa, a purée that becomes like putty before it is kneaded and packed into glass jars and covered with olive oil.

  It is no coincidence that red is the colour of blood and also the colour of passion. In Sicily it is also the colour of the earth and it is the colour of the setting sun. Salsa is the life-blood of Sicily.