The Villa

by Rosanna Ley

  ‘Do you think I want you?’ he muttered. ‘After that bastard has been there?’

  And he pushed her away, so hard that she stumbled and almost fell. She grabbed the back of a chair. ‘Give me the key, Giovanni,’ she said.

  He was already at the door. He turned for a moment, plucked the key from his shirt pocket and threw it on the floor between them. It landed on the flagstones with a dull, metallic ring. ‘Take it,’ he said. ‘It makes no difference.’

  He opened the door.

  ‘And don’t come here again,’ Tess yelled at his retreating back. ‘Or … Or … ’

  But she was wasting her breath. He was gone.

  CHAPTER 65

  Yes, thought Flavia. Sicilian food embraced contrast and discord – it had always been so. Sweet and sour, hard and soft, sweet and salty, hot and cold …

  In cassata, for example, there was the hard density of the candied fruit, the sweetness of the icing over rich, cheesy ricotta. A cake as well as an ice cream. By 1300, Arab Sicily was a thing of the past, and cassata became an aristocratic dessert, its recipes jealously guarded by monastic nuns or the chefs of the aristocracy. Even today, she knew, not many people outside the culinary profession were ambitious enough to make it at home.

  However, cassata was a speciality of Flavia’s home village. And it would not do to let traditions and recipes die out. It was part of her story for her daughter.

  The candied fruit should be stored in a cool place in a covered jar. The true flavour of the fruit is preserved underneath the sugar coating.

  She began to write the recipe in the back of the book.

  Just so …

  He undressed slowly, as if every movement was an effort; tugging off his sweater, pulling at his shirt, looking at her all the while. A sad look, a look of love. Were those looks so different, Flavia thought?

  She lay there under the crisp white sheets, trying to control the trembling of her body. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t anxiety. It wasn’t even desire. It was just emotion, she realised. The emotion she had once invested in this man bubbling up again like lava inside her.

  And then he was naked, standing next to her by the bed. ‘We wasted so much time, Flavia,’ he said.

  His body hair was a fair down – thicker than she remembered, but golden and hardly visible on his shoulders and, as he half-turned – on the small of his back. He was too thin – that was the disease, she realised. There was already a wasted look about him and his skin was too yellow-pale, glistening with a light sweat.

  She pushed back the sheet and coverlet. ‘Come here,’ she said.

  He bent towards her, climbed into the bed, and opened his arms and she lay inside the circlet he had made, her head in the hollow between his chest and shoulder, her arm around his back as he turned to face her.

  They were silent. Two separate hearts beating. She could feel the pulse of him, thumping against her skin. For a moment, her thoughts flitted to Lenny. He was a different shape – a stockier, shorter man, with dark hair on his chest and legs, but also with a pale skin; not honey-pale like Peter’s but white–pink pale like the blush on an apple. She had become used to Lenny’s shape, Lenny’s body and it felt strange to be in anyone else’s arms – even Peter’s. But … ‘So good,’ she murmured.

  Because they fit. They breathed in the same rhythm. The hollow between his chest and shoulder was the exact right shape for her head, and her hip fitted neatly into the curve of his waist and groin.

  And, as he held her, he stroked her hair and began to murmur, ‘Flavia, Flavia … I have never stopped loving you.’

  ‘Nor I you, my love,’ she said.

  And she relaxed; until the trembling stopped and she slipped into a peaceful semi-hypnotic state that was almost sleep …

  For how long they lay there, holding one another, she had no idea.

  Afterwards, when she had left him and was waiting for the bus that would take her home, she thought about it. She could still feel his skin against hers; still smell the scent of him – tobacco-woody mixed with something slightly chemical. Had he started chemotherapy? She hadn’t even asked.

  But she didn’t feel guilty – about Lenny. This was separate from Lenny, something that would not affect him. She would not allow it to.

  And she realised that she did know Peter after all – it was in him and in her and in the fit of them. It was in the love between them that they had never lost. In the way he held her and the way she felt in his arms.

  CHAPTER 66

  Tess was still numb with anger as she gathered the gear together for her dive. She knew perfectly well that she was not in the right emotional state to go diving – it was important to be calm and use minimum energy to conserve air and deal with the whole underwater experience.

  But she was not going to let Giovanni Sciarra spoil her day. She’d planned this dive, looked forward to it, checked the tide times, everything. So she would go ahead. And if he – or any of his bloody brotherhood – were watching her, they would see how much she cared.

  Tess put on her bikini and wetsuit, leaving the top half unzipped for now as it was still pretty hot and she had to get all her stuff down to the water’s edge. She had thought she was coming to Sicily to discover her mother’s story and she had uncovered so much more … She put on her weight belt, picked up her mask, her fins, her torch and her little diver’s knife.

  All the time, during her preparations, a small part of her was thinking – was it hidden here in Villa Sirena? Il Tesoro? Had it been here all the time? Tucked away behind the old stone fireplace perhaps, hidden in the ancient well, buried in the terraced garden: five paces from the dwarf palm, three from the purple hibiscus, X marks the spot …?

  Down in the bay, there was a sense that everything had been rinsed clean by the rain and the storm – even by the earthquake perhaps. The air was clear and the aquamarine water beckoned. Come on, Tess. Feel me, touch me, taste me …

  Down the steps, a quick look around, but no one was taking any notice of a woman in a wetsuit with a scuba tank strapped on her back. Across to the stone jetty; Tonino’s door flung wide open, but no Tonino. (And what could he do? What would he do? Nothing, that’s what).

  Tess shook her head. No. She had to deal with it herself: Giovanni for one, and the villa, her gorgeous pink villa, which seemed now to hold only a legacy of betrayal. And maybe Il Tesoro …

  The sun was hot on her head and on her shoulders; she was overheating in the wetsuit, with the weight on her back and round her waist. She couldn’t wait to get in that water. She did the usual checks and waded in, feeling the sweet relief of the cool liquid, a body-quencher; an increasing weightlessness as she relaxed into the waves. She knew already that she didn’t have far to swim from the shore before she would find those amazing rock formations, coral, sponges and underwater life. So she felt safe. You could dive without a boat and you could dive without a buddy. Just stay safe …

  She knew exactly where she was heading. In the near distance were the rocks, il faraglione, rust and cream, with bits of moss, earth and algae stuck to their jagged surfaces.

  She slipped under. The water was still slightly murky after the storm. The seabed had been stirred up, hadn’t yet entirely settled down from all the disruption. A bit like her, Tess thought, trying to still herself, to reach that point of calm, to get into the rhythm, her rhythm that was also the pulse of the tide.

  The rocks, when she got there, seemed unchanged at first, but there were more fish than usual – maybe because of the storm. She saw salps, bream and parrotfish, plus a few she didn’t recognise and would have to look up later. She used a gloved hand to etch a line along a crack that seemed fresh … as if recently disturbed.

  Something was different, as if some of the rocks had shifted, or been dislodged somehow. And there was a hole, a gap, where before …

  Tess examined the rocks more closely. Where there had before just been rock, boulders, piled together, there was now an opening. She looked m
ore closely. More than an opening, more than a hole. An entrance – easily wide enough to take a human being. Wide enough for her.

  She shone her torch, directing the beam through the opening. The area on the other side seemed bigger, and the water was a distinct, bright turquoise, as if illuminated by more than the beam of her torchlight.

  Once an explorer … She didn’t really have to think about it. She eased herself through the gap and found herself in a natural tunnel of rock.

  Oh my God, she thought. This hadn’t been here before. Surely? She couldn’t have missed that hole; wouldn’t have swum right past it … The water was turquoise, because of a thin shaft of light, she realised. And as she kicked herself gently forward, the tunnel of rock widened out. Some shrimps and small weed particles scampered past her in the water. And after a few moments … She broke surface.

  She was in a cave. An underwater cave. God … And although it was quite dark, that thin shaft of light was shining down on the water. There must be a narrow chimney letting in sunlight from above. Too narrow, presumably, for access from the surface. So the only way in was the way she had come … Underwater.

  Tess took the valve out of her mouth. Because there was air. A little stale. But nevertheless, breathable air. She took off her mask too, so she could see more clearly.

  The cavern was deep and the rock shelved on various levels, forming platforms going up to the ceiling of the cave. She could make out the water level from the dark colour of the rock, and could see that high tide would leave the top section of the cave dry.

  Jesus … Slowly, she swam across the surface. She could hear an interminable drip drip drip, and every ripple of the water with every stroke she made seemed to echo around the stone. It was eerie. Scary. And … why hadn’t she found this before?

  Simple. She paused at the other side of the pool. The earth tremor. The one that had seemed to shake the cobblestones of the baglio as she stood there with Tonino two days ago. The day of the storm. That was why she hadn’t seen the entrance to the cave on her previous dive. Because it hadn’t been there before. The cave had been there – but there hadn’t been a hole to swim through; there hadn’t been access. The opening had been created somehow by the tremor. A fissure in the rock may have been forced open, a rock or two could have shifted. What had Tonino said? Rocks are always moving here in Sicily; they may be solid, but they don’t always stay in one place.

  She breathed in deeply and coughed, the sound reverberating around the cavern. The air was breathable, yes, but dank and musty, the atmosphere chill. Tess directed the beam of the torch around. The rocks near the surface of the water were slimy with green moss, and from the torchlight she could see mineral deposits on the rocky platforms and calcified growth coming down from the ceiling – stalactites – and … Jesus! she jumped as something fluttered and flapped overhead. Something dark with broad webbed wings. A bat.

  That was it. She was getting out of here. She groped her way amongst the rocks near the water’s surface and saw some black crabs scuttling for cover. Black as death, she found herself thinking. Stop it, Tess …

  Wait till she told Tonino about this place … Whatever had happened between them, she had to tell Tonino about this.

  She was just about to put away her torch and put her mask back on, when she glimpsed something on a high platformed ledge above her. It looked like some sort of old earthenware pot … Which was weird. And then something else caught her attention – something white and gleaming that seemed to catch in the light. Like a pile of … It couldn’t be, could it? Tess didn’t want to look again, but she had to.

  Bones. A human skull and white human bones. A skeleton.

  Bloody hell. She didn’t want to be here a second longer. Tess didn’t know what had happened here, but she knew she’d had enough.

  Quickly, she shoved the demand valve back in her mouth and pulled her face mask back on. Cave diving was potentially hazardous and she didn’t have the necessary training. She shouldn’t really be here – especially not on her own. But, it was too late for that now, so – slowly, take it slowly, Tess – she moved back towards the tunnel. Towards the tunnel of rock and the opening. Towards the sea. There was no need to panic. She must get a grip.

  Someone had died in there. A long, long time ago. It happened. So … As she’d suspected, the underwater cave had always been there. But the entrance had got closed up – by an earlier tremor perhaps. Some rocks could have fallen from above and sealed the entrance. And now it had reopened, thanks to the recent tremor. The rocks had moved again.

  She was close to the opening now. She shone her torch. She could see it in front of her, just where the rocks were overhanging from above, just where the tunnel was at its most narrow.

  Her theory was possible, even probable here in Sicily. After all … She reached out her gloved hand. This looked like some sort of fault-line and …

  It happened so quickly. One minute she was edging towards the opening, still examining the rocks in the tunnel as she went, her brain speeding while she kept her rhythm slow.

  The next minute there was a sound and a sensation from just behind her, a kind of shiver in the rock and a dull, heavy, splashy kind of a thud.

  And then she couldn’t move at all.

  She felt no pain, which was confusing. But as she twisted round as far as she could, she saw that a boulder – still unstable from the quake perhaps – had fallen, become displaced. And somehow, she wasn’t sure how, it had trapped her leg.

  But … She could feel her leg; it hadn’t done any damage. So she mustn’t panic. All she had to do was ease her leg out from under it. It shouldn’t be too difficult.

  She tried. She could move her leg an inch or so to either side, but she couldn’t get it out from under the rock. Shit. Don’t panic, Tess.

  She couldn’t help glancing at her air gauge. Fifteen bars of air left. OK. Fifteen minutes. No problem.

  She twisted the top half of her body again, pushed ineffectually at the boulder. It was bloody heavy. She pushed and pushed, but it was hard to twist far enough round to get the angle right, to get any kind of a grip. She couldn’t shift it.

  Bugger. Fuck. Don’t panic, Tess.

  She tried to move her leg again. Nothing. She could feel the boulder pressing against it now, but her leg was actually trapped against the side of the rocky tunnel, she realised that now. Nothing was broken. She was pretty sure that nothing was broken. But … What use was that if she couldn’t move?

  She thought of Tonino. The story about his diving buddy getting trapped in a torn fishing net and no one being there to help him. Tonino not being there to help him. Don’t dive alone, Tess. It’s not good practice. It’s …

  Bloody stupid, she thought. No one was here. No one could help her. She was on her own. So there was no point conserving her air supply. She had to go for it. She had to move the rock or her leg.

  She thought of Ginny. And she thought of her mother’s journey to England, her own journey to Sicily.

  She had twelve minutes left to get out.

  CHAPTER 67

  She had been short-sighted, Flavia thought now. Shortsighted to imagine that Lenny wouldn’t know, wouldn’t guess, wouldn’t sense something. And short-sighted not to realise how he felt – how he had always felt. She had thought that her feelings for Peter were nothing to do with him. But they were. He was her husband.

  ‘You know I love you,’ she had told him when he came out of hospital. ‘You know how much you mean to me?’ It felt odd even saying such things after all they’d been through together. Flavia had never felt the need before, never realised there was a need. But now she knew she had to. Sometimes, emotions should be voiced. Misunderstandings, apparently, could last a lifetime, and they could be fed and nurtured without a woman being any the wiser.

  ‘You’ve stuck by me, Flavia my darling,’ he said. ‘That’s all I could have asked.’

  She held his good hand. It felt limp and helpless. She hated to see him th
is way; her strength, her rock, Lenny …

  ‘You read the letters,’ she said, watching his face. ‘You know we wrote to one other.’

  He hesitated. Nodded.

  ‘He came here, you see.’ She told him about the first visit. ‘And I met up with him one day, when I knew he was very ill.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Lenny.

  ‘For what?’ Flavia was confused.

  ‘For not leaving me, of course. For not going off with him.’

  She was about to protest, about to say, how could I leave you when I loved you …? But she realised that he was right. That it wasn’t that simple. That when Peter first came to see her, she had loved them both. So she could have gone to him, it wouldn’t have been hard; the right look, the right touch, the right time.

  ‘I know how you felt about him,’ Lenny said. ‘I saw you, don’t forget. In Exeter. I saw how much you cared for him.’

  ‘It is true,’ Flavia said. ‘But I have also cared for you.’ She put her hand to his cheek. He hadn’t shaved for a couple of days and there was a rash of coarse grey stubble on his jaw. She would do that for him later. She wanted to do things for him, to make him see … ‘We made our life together,’ she said. ‘You and I. I loved you. I still do.’

  ‘And Peter?’ His face twisted.

  It was funny, she thought. When you were seventeen, you thought love was reserved for the young. But when you grew old, it still mattered just as much. It mattered, even though Peter had died so many years ago.

  ‘Oh, Lenny,’ she said. ‘What matters is what we have, you and I.’

  ‘Yes?’ He seemed to be hanging on to her every word.

  ‘Because what love really is, is caring for another human being, living with them through the good and the bad, working with them, wanting to grow old with them. That is true love. Not hearts and flowers and romantic dreams. Love is what we have, you and I. It is not second best. It is the real thing.’ Perhaps, she thought, you could fit in different ways with different people. Perhaps there was no one and only, just different possibilities. Or perhaps …