Ric swims ashore and lies down on a blanket of warm pumice. There is heat in the sun, but he feels chilled; the image of the body is printed hard in his mind.
An hour later he walks back down the beach. Luciano’s taxi mare potters into the bay of smooth stones and the driver waves him aboard.
34
In Lipari, the bus station at the pier for the Aliscafo is seething with people. One of the hydrofoils is just pulling out, a huge plume of black fumes bursting from its twin funnels. Carabinieri are still checking identity papers, taxis come and go, and the queue for the petrol station snakes round the corner and up the hill by the cemetery wall.
Ric notices Valeria is making her way down the pier amidst the throng of arrivals. The bags she carries suggest she has been shopping for clothes.
When she stops at the alimentari at the bottom of the Corso, he walks over. “Hi, Valeria. You look particularly radiant this afternoon.”
She turns as she is taking a brown paper bag full of grapes from the gravel-voiced woman behind the counter. “Hello, my young friend! It is so nice to see you.” She smiles, studying him for a second. “I don’t mean to be rude, but you look like a man who’s making hard work of doing nothing. How is your face? How is the Mara?” She looks somehow younger; gone are the dark rings around her eyes and her skin glows.
“Could be worse; could be better.” He fingers the abrasion at his temple. “Marcello and Salvo are taking the engine out today; should have the work done in a few days. Can I carry your bags for you?”
They stroll up the Corso together.
“It is hot here today. Messina was cooler,” she says by way of conversation. The mood in the Corso is sleepy; people have finished lunch and are sipping espresso and limoncello in the shade.
“You’ve been shopping, I see.”
“Yes,” she grins, “a little retail therapy can be very restorative. What have you been up to that makes you look so…”
“That bad, huh?”
“Well, perhaps a little earthy. You look like a becchino.”
“Becchino?”
“Yes, a man who digs graves.”
Ric balks at her reference. He has not realised he looks so shabby. “Thank you for telling me, Valeria.” He glances at her as they walk and realises how good she looks for her age. He wonders what treatments – as Old Nino put it – she is having that they can lend her such radiance.
As the Corso narrows at the top of the slope, he wishes her a good afternoon and thanks her again for putting him up that first night and for attending to his washing.
“Oh, Ric,” she says as they are about to part, “if you have no other plans, do me the kindness of coming for dinner this evening: about eight?”
“Plans?” His shoulder and his ribs remind him it might be in his better interest to give the café in the Marina Corta a miss. “No, I have no other plans. Thank you for the offer, I’d be happy to: about eight, then. Ciao.”
35
Sandro, camouflaged in a tatty straw hat, striped shirt and a pair of tennis shorts so tight they went out of fashion in the 80s, is tracking some victims up the Garibaldi towards the bottom of the Via del Concordato. When he sees them hesitate at the bottom of the broad steps, he pounces.
“Ah, my friends! It is good to see you.” He spreads his long arms as though he has been searching for his goslings all day and is extremely relieved to find them. He points up towards the citadel. “This is the way up to the jewel of Lipari: the Cathedral of San Bartolo. These steps were built as part of the Spanish fortifications after the pirate Barbarossa ravaged the island in 1544…”
Ric waits across the road until the escurzionista has finished his turn at the pump and has handed out his flyers for the boat trip to Stromboli.
“Yes, tomorrow, just before midday, on the quay by the Chiesa delle Anime Purgatorio. Bring swimming costumes, cameras and a hat for the sun, oh, and something warm for the evening.”
The gaggle of tourists – Empire shorts, long socks and sandals – nod, cluck their approval and set off up the steps.
“If the fat one makes it to the top without a heart attack,” Sandro mutters as he crosses the cobbled street, “I will eat my hat.”
“Looks as though you’ve had a go at it already,” Ric points out.
Sandro removes his Panama and examines it. He grimaces, “You know, it is not wise to criticize a man’s sense of dress, eh? You might offend someone and we Latin types are easily offended.” He grins in case Ric should mistake his self-deprecation.
Ric chuckles, “It’s a good hat, Sandro. It sends the right message; like you’re doing alright, but not exactly creaming it. Do you have a minute?”
“For you, always, my friend.”
Ric hates to think how the escurzionista must treat his enemies and supposes they must all be victims, just like the gaggle of goslings hauling themselves up the hill. He glances briefly up and down the street, but outside of a few tourists and the old women who sit outside their shops, hoping beyond hope for some business to break the monotony of their day, the cobbled street is empty.
Sandro begins to shepherd him towards the Marina Corta, “Come, let us go and take a Birra Messina in the Corta.”
Ric, remembering the beating he was subjected to the evening before, holds fast and raises an eyebrow.
“Okay,” says Sandro, a knowing look to his face, “I understand. Let us walk up the città too. Only a fool would walk up these steps in this heat and the Liparoti are not fools. Well, not all of them.”
They turn in through the entrance to the Concordato. The steps, though broad and set several strides apart, are tall, as though they have been cut to suit coffin bearers. From the enormous flower pots set on each and every step, coconut palm fronds lean leaf-tips down, like mourners.
“What can I do for you that we need to be so secret?” Sandro asks, quietly.
“I need to know, strictly between you and me,” Ric turns and looks hard at the escurzionista, wanting him to be in no doubt that he needs to trust him, “whether anyone has gone missing in the last few days; someone you would normally see about the place who isn’t around?”
Sandro snorts, dismissively. “This is a small island, my friend. Everyone knows everyone and if someone is missing, word gets round pretty fast. But what do you know about this person? Is this a man or a woman we are talking about?”
“A man: medium height, medium weight.”
He scoffs and replies, “This could be half the men in Lipari. Is there anything else you know about this man?”
“No, not much.” Ric thinks hard, recalling the rictus grin on the face of the corpse. “Oh, he is bald and has a beard, a short beard. And he wears a brown t-shirt with the word Lipari stitched in yellow on the shirt chest.”
Sandro scratches his head, “These shirts are available everywhere; they are common. But a beard, you say. Not so many people here have beards; it is the heat, it does not suit men to grow beards.” He rubs at the stubble on his cheeks. “Yes, I know I have this, but it is because I am lazy and do not like to shave. A beard, eh? I will think for you. Anything else?”
“No, I didn’t get a chance to look at the man for too long. If anyone comes to mind or if you hear of anyone missing, perhaps you’d let me know.” Ric stares at him, holding his gaze: “But, between you and me, if you get my meaning?”
“Sure, my friend. I get your meaning.” Sandro smiles; a look that holds promise, but not in so much quantity that Ric is adequately reassured. “Maybe you would answer a question for me, eh?”
“Fire away.”
“I have heard it said that this policeman, the one who is making investigations into the murder of Girolamo Candela, came to see you this morning. Is it true?”
“Word does get about,” Ric muses.
Sandro shrugs, “Yes, of course. It is as I said: this is a small island. When a Commissario from La Polizia comes to Lipari, a lantern is lighted and people whisper beneath it. And when this
Commissario and one of La Polizia are seen coming out of your monolocale, this makes the flames of the lantern grow so bright that people no longer whisper; they talk openly. And now you ask me questions about a man with a beard who you say is missing. Whatever it is that you are up to, Gallese, I would tell you it is time for you to be careful.”
“I think it may be too late for being careful, Sandro. But, thanks for the advice: I’ll take it on board.”
“No, I mean this,” Sandro takes his arm to make sure he has Ric’s full attention. “This type of policeman is not like the English Bobby; they are tricky, eh? They make their rules up as they go along.”
Ric knows he has heard this before, something Valeria told him not long after he arrived, “they play by different rules”.
He reaches for the escurzionista’s hand and shakes it gently and slowly, but applying just enough pressure in his grip that his appreciation cannot be misconstrued. “Thanks, Sandro. I get the picture. I’ll see you later,” but adds as an afterthought, “my friend” and smiles warmly. Ric turns and strolls off down the steps towards the Garibaldi.
36
Valeria is at her stove when he arrives; the fragrance of capers and basil fill the air.
“Swordfish,” she tells him as he hands her a bottle of Caravaglio. “Ah, my favourite wine! You learn fast, Ric. Thank you.” She pulls an opener from a drawer and hands it to him.
There is much he needs to ask her, but he knows a frontal assault is only likely to make her suspicious.
“I see the injury to your face is healing well.”
“It’s getting there, thank you. The girl at the café did a good job.”
Valeria is mixing pumpkin flowers with rocket, basil and mint. She chuckles, “This girl, Giuliana, she has eyes for you.”
Ric reddens and busies himself opening the wine.
“It is better to be careful with this one,” she says. “She is like the oleander the Berber call oualilt; a beautiful white, red and pink flower which looks good enough to eat, except that it is very poisonous. The smallest taste can provoke an irregular heartbeat and in some cases heart failure. It can make life very complicated when a girl like this has eyes for a man.”
“So it would seem,” he replies, flexing his shoulders and stretching his back.
Valeria frowns. “Oh, I see you have already got too close to this flower. Try to keep your distance; pretty though she is, Giuliana will be bad for your health.”
“I hate to think.” He pours the wine and hands her a glass.
“She comes from Rome, so she is not so shy of boys. And she is staying with her uncle, which means he will not permit any harm to come to her while she is in his care. Take my advice, stay away from her.”
“Maybe someone should tell her that,” he replies, remembering how Giuliana turned up outside his digs two nights before.
“There would be little point in saying this to her,” Valeria suggests. “When a woman decides she wants a man, telling her she cannot have him only makes her want him more.”
“You’ll excuse me for saying, but that sounded like it came from one who knows.” Ric sips his wine, watching her at the stove.
Valeria pauses as she cuts swordfish into small chunks. “Yes, perhaps.”
“But, if you’ll forgive me bringing age into the equation, she’s a little young for me.”
Valeria glances at him the way he imagines her glancing at a dancing partner who has trodden on her toes: “And what has age to do with passion?”
Though her tone is argumentative, Ric feels as though he has opened a door. “I guess you must have had quite a hard time avoiding the amorous attentions of all those movie stars?”
She glows briefly, but only briefly.
“How did you get into the movie business, Valeria?”
“Oh, as most in those days.” She is peeling and de-seeding small tomatoes. “After the end of the war, during what people call the Italian Spring,” she bridles, a shade theatrically, “like the Arabs and their Spring, eh? My friend, Rosaria entered a beauty pageant in our village. But she suffered from a blood disorder, Thalassemia which, because good food was hard to come by, was common in those days. The day before the pageant Rosaria was not well, so I took her place. I was too young really, but I won and the Borgomastro – the mayor – he sent me to Palermo for a much grander pageant, which I won also; in this, there was much prestige for our village.”
Valeria splashes white wine into the pan of frying swordfish; it sizzles and steams. “But in Palermo I was introduced to a talent scout from Rome; a very charismatic and powerful man. He knew Visconti, Gallone, De Sica, Rossellini, all the studio heads. He paid for me to go to the Accademia Nazionale, the acting school in Rome.”
Ric is listening, casually, but he is also poring over a bookcase by the kitchen table: Benacqista, Varesi and Camilleri.
“You like Camilleri?” she asks when she looks up to check her conversation is holding his attention.
“Detective novels?”
Valeria beams, “Yes, Camilleri studied at the Nazionale too.”
“Must have been a wild time,” Ric says to encourage her to keep talking.
She pauses and leans against the wooden island of the kitchen, dreaming, “Yes, it was. But I was young and very naïve and I looked upon my benefactor as the father I never knew, until…”
“Until?” he asks.
The wine is boiling in the pan and she moves it to the side of the stove, dropping cherry tomatoes into it one by one.
“Until this man began to ask me to accompany other men to parties: political men, men of influence and importance, ambitious men with unusual and often unpleasant appetites. This type of man, I had not expected to meet. You know, it was not always easy to be a young hopeful in the world of cinema in Italy.” She stirs the sauce in her pan, tasting and seasoning.
“Guess that’s the movie business all over.”
“Oh, don’t think I was that naïve, Ric. I soon found out my favours were a currency which returned great dividends. But, too late I found out that this man who I had come to love – a man who I thought believed in my ability – also enjoyed the affection of many other women. Stupidly, I thought for him I was exclusive. One night I discovered I wasn’t.”
“That must have been a tough lesson?”
“Yes, it was.” She forks macaroni into the pan with the sauce and the fish, stirring the contents and covering the pan with a lid. “One can break a bone and it will mend stronger than before; but a broken heart never mends.”
“Amen to that,” Ric whispers.
“Bring the plates and the cutlery, please,” Valeria says, as she unties her apron.
They sit outside the little house and eat; the sharp flavour of the olives a contrast to the sweet tomatoes; the sauce and the soft chunks of swordfish a complement to the al dente macaroni. Away around the cliffs to their right, herring gulls wheel and glide and lament the passing of the day. An Aliscafo hurries across the bay.
Though the sun has slipped below the hills behind them, they are warm and the atmosphere is balmy. Tall anvils of thunderclouds are gathering above an early evening haze, which veils the Sicilian coast like the hijabs of the Muslim women in the Garibaldi.
“Yes,” she says, “there will be a storm soon.”
“You said you never knew your father. Was he killed in the war?”
“No,” she replies, very casually. When she has finished her food, she pushes her plate away and sits back. “I never knew him because I never met him.” Valeria glances at Ric to see if he reacts to her confession and when he doesn’t, she carries on, “My mother would never speak about my father. By the time I was old enough to understand that the man my mother was married to was not my father, she had erased my true father from her memory.”
“How did you find out, if that isn’t a rude question?”
“Why, Ric? Does it matter?” she asks, permitting herself a wry amusement at his impertinence.
“I apologise.”
“No, I am kidding.” She smiles. “You know, the Pope, Alexander VI, fathered not only Lucrezia and Cesare Borgia, but also many other illegitimate children. The only shame in illegitimacy is the hypocrisy that defines it.” Valeria shakes her head, dismissively, and as she does so her hair falls across her face. Ric is taken with thinking how beautiful she must have been in her youth.
“My mother,” she continues as he lights one of her long, slim white cigarettes for her, “married a man in a town near Palermo. She ran away from home not only because of the humiliation of her pregnancy, but also because her priority would have been to find a husband who would support her and her child to be, me. My mother had three more children by him; they were all short and dark-skinned and ugly, so I soon realised he could not be my true father. He was not a bad man, though; a little narrow in his outlook perhaps, occasionally short-tempered, but in essence not an unkind man. It was better to have his name, Vaccariello, than no name at all.”
“Valeria Vaccariello,” Ric repeats, “seems a pretty catchy stage name to me.”
“Yes, it worked well for me. But, as I told you, when I lost the part in Luchino’s film to that young girl with the fierce eyes, I also lost the nerve to act; I could no longer find the self-assurance I needed to produce such good performances. Fortunately, my second husband had more money than I could burn and, after he died, I came here and found La Casa dei Sconosciuti. The first time I set eyes on this house, I knew I belonged here.”
“And this is where you met Marcello and Salvo?”
“Yes, I have known Marcello since he was a boy. Salvo is some years older than him; he used to work for Marcello’s father, Onofrio. Now he works for Marcello.” Valeria chuckles, “But Salvo has had eyes for me ever since he saw me in an old movie they showed up in the amphitheatre in the citadel. He labours under the false impression I am some sort of screen goddess. If I ever need anything, Salvo supplies it: restorations for the house, a lift into town, he goes to the bank for me and comes to check on me during the winter storms.”
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