17
In the cool and quiet of the monolocale, Ric does sleep; even the dripping of the tap downstairs in the kitchen doesn’t bother him. And when, eventually, he does wake, the sun has not waited for him.
He searches through the few of his belongings he has brought with him, but cannot find the keys to the Mara.
Ric swears in frustration and dashes out into the shaded maze of alleys. Once out in the stark light of the Via Garibaldi, he notices the neon sign above the doorway of the pharmacy flashing 12.00, and then 35 degrees. And, by the time he’s taken the steps outside the Chiesa di San Giuseppe two at a time and hurried up the Maddalena, Ric can almost hear Marcello ribbing him for being late.
When he slows to negotiate the steep lane that runs down into the bay at Portinente, he glances seaward and is surprised to see the Mara several hundred metres out in open water, Salvo at the helm.
Marcello is walking up the Maddalena towards him, smoking a cigar. He looks serious. “Time is money,” he says, but his expression cracks and he winks playfully.
“Sorry, Marcello,” Ric replies, “no excuses; I overslept.”
“Yes, tiredness will drive a man to sleep, but a woman… she will drive a man to drink.” Marcello chuckles and raises an eyebrow. He puffs on his cigar, examines it, and adds, “Not my wife, eh, you understand. She drives me to work.” He laughs out loud, a short staccato laugh, part grappa, part tobacco.
Not having met Marcello’s wife, Ric doesn’t laugh quite so readily. “How did you get her off the mooring? The keys, I mean?”
“It is not a problem, my friend. Your friend,” Marcello nods out towards the Mara gliding serenely across the bay, “Salvo asks La Strega if she has the keys. She had them, so she gave them to him. She hopes you will not mind. The day is growing short, eh? I looked briefly at the stern tube; you were lucky she did not let the sea in on your way here. Do you know when she was last out of the water?”
“No, sorry. Camille didn’t tell me and I didn’t ask.”
Marcello frowns, “You did not have a survey?”
Ric shakes his head and replies, “No. It wasn’t that kind of transaction.” But he’s not inclined to let on what kind of a deal it was that he struck with the old man in Corsica, so he bridles his mouth and pulls a face that suggests he wishes he had.
“Va bene, it is not a problem.” But Marcello is studying Ric again as if he is weighing whether his new client will be good for the money the repairs are going to cost. He decides. “It is okay, we can fix her. Come to my place tomorrow and we can discuss what there is to do. The monolocale is comfortable?”
“Sure, it’ll do just fine. I’m obliged,” Ric says, once more wondering exactly what his obligation might be.
“Okay,” Marcello flicks the ash off his cigar and starts up the rise. “You will find my work place behind Canneto,” he shouts over his shoulder, “on the road to the left after the tunnel. See you, but do not expect too much too quickly, we are very busy preparing many boats.”
He hesitates and turns back, “Oh, hey, Ric! You like to fish? Perhaps we can go tomorrow evening. I will find you.” Then he is off, marching up the Maddalena at a steady pace.
It is only when Ric has reached the bottom of the alley that he remembers he has left the plastic bags with the passports and the gun in the stowage compartment on the Mara.
18
Valeria is out, sitting on her patio when Ric strolls down the zigzag lane to La Casa dei Sconosciuti. “I hope you did not mind, I gave permission for Salvatore to take your boat?”
“Not at all. Seeing as he stopped the Mara from sinking, I guess he’s entitled. But where did he get the keys, I can’t seem to find them.”
“You left them here with your things. I gave them to him.” She motions him to sit down. “I have your washing inside, not yet ironed of course.” Valeria sips her coffee, slowly, and then says, “Now, there is a man you must talk with. His name is Nino.”
“Old Nino? Tall, thin fellow, dark glasses?”
“Yes, you have seen him in Marina Corta? He is there most evenings.”
Ric nods, “Marcello pointed him out to me; told me he knows as much about the island as there is to know.”
Valeria smiles, “What Il Velaccino says is true. Nino knows much, but his memory is not constant. If you can talk to him on a good day, you might find out some information about your great-grandfather. And have you been to the cemetery above Marina Lunga? This would be another place to look; I am sure you will find more than one grave with the name Sciacchitano. Perhaps it would be worth your time to speak with Nino. We can go tomorrow. Nino speaks good English, but it will be better if I come with you. I can take you to Quattropani; it is where he lives, on the north-west of the island.”
“I don’t have a car,” Ric says. “I could rent a scooter in town, but I’m not sure you…”
“No, we will go by bus. It will not take long; the island is only thirty-five kilometres around. I will meet you in the Corso Emmanuelle before the sun is too high.”
“Thank you, Valeria; that is good of you.”
“Oh, don’t thank me, Ric. I have little to do here but see what Aeolus promises me in the way of weather. And besides, there is no guarantee that Nino will be enjoying one of his more lucid episodes.”
19
The afternoon beckons and Ric wanders back into town. He isn’t sure if he will offend the patron with the pinched face and hard eyes if he chooses an alternative café from the one in which he and Marcello sat the evening before, so, not risking it, he takes a chair and orders a beer. Giuliana is not on duty and Sandro is busy having his picture taken with a gaggle of tourists.
The Marina Corta is father to two humble harbours, divided by a short spit. A modest church with a pointed campanile graces the sea wall in the centre. In one half, fishing smacks, nets suspended from their frames, wait patiently for the sun to go down. In the other, a row of shiny, white rental dorys laze at their moorings. One boat, moored up by the fishing boats, stands out of place with the rest: it is a sizeable, blue police launch with a policeman standing guard.
When Sandro notices Ric staring at the police launch, he attracts Ric’s attention with a sharp, flat wave of his hand as though the launch is to be ignored.
Ric looks about the square and notices sharply dressed policemen standing sentry at the three exits of the Corta. They are not the local police. They are not hanging about to make conversation with the shopkeepers and the passers-by, and though he is not inclined to think they may be looking for him, the possibility sits uneasily. The muscles in his legs tense and start to ache, and again he realises he has taken no exercise since leaving Sardinia.
But, as he wonders if there lies an exit through the back of the café, he hears a commotion from somewhere round the corner. Ric looks across the square at Sandro, who he sees watching him back, frowning with concern.
Sandro makes a second flat, fingers splayed signal as if telling Ric to stay put, and then touches the corner of his eye.
The disturbance, which grows in volume, is coming from the Via Roma, to his right.
Two policemen appear, hustling a kid towards the launch. Ric recognises the policeman’s captive as the scrawny-looking youth who was thrown out of the café the evening before.
Clearly, the youth is trying his best to explain that he has been mistaken for some other felon and that he is not guilty of whatever it is he has been charged. But, the policemen are deaf to his appeals and haul him roughly across the Corta, down to the launch. No one intervenes on his behalf; the onlookers simply sit in mute observance, as though watching a scene from a movie.
The rest of the policeman, who have been guarding the entrances to the square, stride purposefully to the quay and clamber on board. The large blue and white launch coughs out a cloud of diesel fumes, rasps angrily and motors out of the harbour. The pilot feigns a casual indifference to the disruption his wake causes the dozen or so fishing boats bobbing up and
down on their moorings.
“You don’t like the police, eh, Ric?” Sandro murmurs.
Ric has not noticed him wander up. “No more than anybody. They put on a good show though.”
“It is meant to be so; a jolly good show, as you would say. And that, my friend, is all it is: a show.” Sandro sits down and sighs as though the police have just arrested his favourite nephew.
“What was that all about?” Ric asks.
“La Polizia. From Milazzo. This kid,” Sandro nods in the direction of the departing launch, “drugs; small drugs. They never take the big dealers; they have too much protection. It is easier for them to arrest the small fishes. But we say, when the little fish is caught, the big fish is in trouble. So this show means that one of the dealers has upset another dealer who enjoys more influence. But, also, La Polizia likes to do this thing at the beginning of the summer; it makes the people think they are working. Also, they send a message to the dealers that they must show more respect and not be so public with their dealing.”
Ric asks the waitress for a beer for Sandro. “You sure they’re not pulling him in simply because he’s committing an offence selling drugs.”
“No, this is not how it works, my friend. This is Italy, not Europe: we are closer to Tunis than we are to Brussels and a very long way from London. If they wanted to remove this young kid from the street, they would have the local Carabinieri take care of him. This was for show.”
“Some show,” Ric offers.
Sandro ponders his own explanation for a moment, his mouth turned down as though he is considering whether the arrest was for something more than just show. “Perhaps they wanted to make an example of this boy, I don’t know. We have a politician from Partito Politica Riconquista coming tomorrow evening to spread his poison. No doubt he will make a grand speech about how important we are, how our vote matters to his heart and soul, and how he is going to pay particular attention to our needs, because we are so unique.” Sandro scoffs, theatrically, his voice rising as though he is delivering a monologue from a soapbox.
“I understand this politician will tell us we can create a geothermal power plant in the sea between here and Panarea; a power plant which will give us free electricity and enough electricity for us to sell what we don’t need to the mainland. Maybe it will make us all rich? Maybe we will become part of a new age: the poor, rich relations of Aeolus?”
The gaggle of tourists to whom Sandro has been selling tickets for day trips, and for whom he has just posed for photographs, have gathered to listen to his sermon.
“This new benevolence may be good for Il Cavaliere and those footballers from Turin who own houses on Panarea, but for us? Pah! Perhaps the money will help Dolce and Gabbana pay the 500 million euros in tax the government say they should pay. But, I say again, for us? Do you seriously think they will give us this money from the electricity or do you think the money will go to those who have the power to decide where it will go?” He scoffs again, holding up his arms to appeal to the heavens. “I think I have more chance of winning the Superenalotto.”
The tourists laugh and egg Sandro on to further theatrics.
But Ric is not keen for the escurzionista to draw attention his way. So he says, hoping to calm Sandro’s desire for oratorio: “A geothermal power plant seems a pretty logical idea, what with all these volcanoes on your doorstep.”
“I tell you Ric, it may be logical and, yes, natural also, but this thing will cause much trouble. There are those who have much to gain, but many others who have more to lose. This is what money does; it divides and ultimately it conquers.”
Ric is reminded of the Armenian he tangled with in Corsica. “I can think of a few that hasn’t worked for.”
“I will tell you a little story about Lipari,” Sandro continues. “You see the citadel up here?” he points over his shoulder at the great lump of rock that is home to the cathedral and which overshadows the Corta.
“Hard to miss it,” Ric replies.
“Maurolico tells us that before the Spanish came to make better the fortifications of the Castello, there came a devil, Khayr ad-Din; a corsair known by the name of Barbarossa. You have heard of him?”
“Sure,” Ric replies. “Red Beard the Pirate, a sort of Muslim corporate raider, if you can call a Byzantine Pasha with 30,000 men under his command a pirate.”
Sandro smiles, pleased he doesn’t have to provide too much of a history lesson. “Good, okay. In 1544 he comes to Lipari; he lands at Portinente and tries to storm the Castello.” He puffs out his chest. “But the cannons of the Castello are too strong for him and he has to camp out at Capistello. So he surrounds the Castello and makes a siege to starve the people inside out. When, eventually, they run out of food, twenty-six of the most powerful families – de Franco, Russo, Voi, Cremonese, and di Blasi – decide to send an emissary to Barbarossa to tell him that if he will leave them in peace, they will surrender the Castello and he can keep the weaker people as slaves. They ask to keep their freedom and their possessions and offer him twenty scudi for every one of them he does not kill.
“He agrees to their demands and they open the gates.” Sandro smiles and makes flamboyant, sweeping, welcoming movements with his arms. Then he frowns: “But, Barbarossa is not a fool. Once the gates are open, he enters the Castello, burns the churches and steals whatever he wants, including the possessions of the twenty-six families. The families are upset. They say, “Hey, Barbarossa, you agree to let us go and keep our possessions.” Barbarossa laughs and he says, “I am a pirate. Why do you think I will let you keep what is already mine?” Then he takes the whole population of Lipari – more than 8,000 people including the wealthy families – to be his slaves and to sell in the market place in Messina. As a result, in 1544 there is not one person left alive on the island; not one person, no one, nessuno!” Sandro hunches his shoulders, raises his arms and presents his palms to the sky. “An intelligent man, eh?” He slaps the table and sits back.
The crowd have been enjoying Sandro’s performance and one or two clap and turn aside to nod in appreciation.
Ric ponders for a moment before saying, “Either that or the families were not very smart.”
Sandro leans across the table, “And, my friend, this is where you are so correct. It was ridiculous of them to believe Barbarossa would let them go: their thinking was influenced by their greed. The wealthy families believed they would be allowed to keep their money at the expense of the liberty of the poor families. Nuts, eh? So, you see, this is an example of how money divides and conquers. And this is why, if the politicians sell us the idea of this free electricity, there will be trouble. Who will control it? The wealthy families? And who will make the most from it: those who already have more than enough money? It is possible that there will be free electricity and from it maybe comes a little money. But, I tell you, this money will divide the people.”
20
The next day, Ric meets Valeria at La Precchia, the café halfway down the Corso Vittorio. He watches her stroll down the cobbled street towards him, greeting and exchanging pleasantries with the shopkeepers and pausing now and again to pore over the fruit stall and the night’s catch of fish displayed on Alfredo’s three-wheeled Ape.
“Salve, Ric. You have not ordered?”
They dip slices of sweet, ring-shaped Ciambella Della Nonna breakfast cake in cappuccino and talk about the weather.
Valeria says, “Cielo a pecorelle, acqua a catanelle: when we have clouds that look like lambs, then we will have rain.” She smokes her long, thin Vogue cigarettes and tells the waiter it is high time they visited the Sorgente Termale – the mud baths – in Vulcano. Though she must be three times his age, he responds to her enthusiasm as though they share many intimate delights.
Just before ten, they walk the last fifty metres down to the bus station at the Marina Lunga and wait for the small bus.
White-haired old ladies scowl, talk to themselves and examine their shopping as though they are certain
they have forgotten some vital ingredient for i Purpetta. Short, dark, round-headed men of Sikelian extraction and taller, more slender, fair-haired and fair-skinned descendants of Normans, seek out the shade and roll their own cigarettes.
When, finally, the minibus has fought its way through the melee of vehicles filing up to the petrol station in the centre of the little roundabout, the old women grumble as a callow youth forces his way on board before them.
“It is the way of things,” Valeria says in a voice just loud enough that the youth will hear her. “Coatti – the young ruffians – they no longer respect age. Even those as young as twenty-five now think the Coatti are too disrespectful.”
The seats in the Ursobus are hard, the windows fixed and opaque with age, and it rattles and clonks over the many drain holes.
Valeria busies herself massaging cream into her hands. She chuckles when she notices him appraising the minibus: “We could have taken one of the more modern buses, but they travel too fast and a pulmino like this is slower and gives one time to admire the scenery.”
The road winds up out of town and over the saddle between the hills to Quattrocchi on the western side of the island. Occasional white lambs of cloud graze in a cerulean pasture, casting dark shadows on a flat sea. They pause in the settlement of Pianoconte to exchange passengers, skirt the flanks of Monte Sant’Angelo through Castellaro, and then, twenty minutes later arrive above Quattropani. Valeria asks the driver to let them out at a bend just before the descent into the village.
“Four Eyes and Four Breads,” Ric says as they alight, “all a little quaint.”
Valeria chuckles, “Yes. They say Four Eyes because you need an extra pair of eyes to appreciate the view, and Four Breads because that is how much food you will need if you walk here over Monte Sant’Angelo. But I suspect nobody really knows.” She shoulders her leather tote bag. “Come, we have to walk up; Nino lives in a small house near the Chiesa Vecchia.”
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