Ontreto

by Peter Crawley

  Sandro shakes his head, slowly. “Gallese, you go too fast; this is Sicily we are talking about, not one of those black and white London gangster movies which is over when the eye blinks.” He drains his glass.

  “The last time the Mafia try in 2010, La Polizia are suspicious that someone in the Assemblea Regionale is supplying the Mafia with information about Crocetta’s movements.”

  “And you think Candela was involved?”

  “Mmm, it’s very possible. Candela was elected to the assembly in 2008.”

  Ric chuckles, “But that’s a bit like suggesting anyone who joined the U.S. Senate from 1963 onwards was in on John F. Kennedy’s assassination.”

  Sandro nods and grins, “Well, most of them were, weren’t they?”

  “But you think that’s why Commissario Talaia was shadowing Candela?”

  At this, Sandro sits bolt upright, eyebrows raised, “You know this man, the Commissario?”

  Ric remains silent. If he has been seen with Talaia, a lie would only make life worse for him.

  But Sandro is suspicious, “You know his name?” he asks again.

  “Guess I must have heard it in the café.”

  But, Sandro isn’t sold. He studies Ric, eyes wide. “So is it true, this Commissario did come to see you yesterday morning?” He pauses, thinking something over. “I tell you this Gallese. Sometimes I think you know much that I don’t, and Sandro likes to know everything.”

  “Another glass of wine?” Ric offers, getting to his feet. “I’m really sorry about your neck. I hope the bruise around your throat doesn’t keep you from sleeping.”

  Sandro is beginning to look decidedly nervous, glancing about the room as though in mentioning the Commissario Ric has intoned the devil. He stands abruptly, leaves his wine glass unfinished and turns for the door, “Yes, I hope it will not stop me from sleeping.” And, as he is about to shut the door behind him, Sandro hesitates, “Gallese, you ask me to find out if there is any person missing: a man of medium height, weight, short brown hair and brown t-shirt with the island name stitched here.” He indicates his heart.

  “I did.”

  “This description fits many people and many people come and go on the Aliscafo everyday–”

  “But,” Ric interrupts, “I thought you said not many men here have beards–”

  “And this t-shirt,” Sandro comes back quickly, “as I have said, is very common. I know of no one like this who is missing right now. Ciao.”

  Ric watches the black mop of curls slope off into the darkness of the alley, aware that Sandro may have been about to tell him who was missing, but because of his meeting with the Commissario, he no longer trusts him.

  40

  The next morning Ric wakes to a head full with questions. He is at a loss as to what to do about the detective, Talaia, the missing Beretta, the Mara, Marcello, Valeria and lastly Sandro, whose toast he has very evidently browned.

  In not being straight with Sandro, he has abused the escurzionista’s confidence and pricked the masculinity with which his self-respect is so delicately intertwined. Ric is painfully aware that even if Sandro does know who around town is missing, he is now unlikely to pass the information along.

  Expecting an early morning visit from the policeman, Ric wastes no time in getting downstairs and preparing for the day.

  On cue, there is a knock at his door.

  But it isn’t the diminutive Commissario who stands outside, it is the short, gentle faced Ariana, the young girl who cares for Old Nino.

  “Per favore,” she says, blushing and handing him a note.

  Before he has a chance to read it, she turns to go.

  The handwriting is raw and child-like, and the scrawl reads, Per favore visitare Nino oggi.

  By the time he understands the brief message, Ariana has turned the corner.

  Sandro is on station, handing out leaflets at the bottom of the Corso Vittorio. He ignores Ric when he enters first the giornalaio to buy a map and second the supermercato for a bottle of water.

  Ric takes the bus out to Canneto, asking the driver to let him off just through the tunnel.

  The Cantiere Nautico Maggiore is deserted but for the dog, which lunges at him, barking wildly.

  Marcello is making progress: the engine of the Mara sits naked and disassembled on a bench beneath a lean-to, its innards exposed for all to see. He studies the various organs for a while, picking up the pistons, the rings and the crank, and examining them for signs of wear.

  What he has come for, though, are his walking boots.

  The Mara looks naked and embarrassed, stood up on her blocks, no screw at her stern and a gaping void in the floor of the cockpit. He checks the stow-hole just in case some angel of mercy has decided to take pity on him and return the Beretta. But, San Bartolo is watching over others elsewhere and the gun has not reappeared.

  Once he has slipped on the boots, Ric takes a moment in the shade to pore over a relief map he has bought. The simplest way to get out to Old Nino’s is to take the bus, but he fancies a day away from inquisitive glances and idle talk.

  He pats Mara’s hull. “Get well soon, please.”

  From Marcello’s yard the road winds in a series of tight hairpins up to the little village of Pirrera, where he stops to drink water.

  Low white houses, their square walls white-washed in lime and volcanic sand, their round pillars and perfect arches supporting first floor terraces, their pergolas graced with bougainvillea and grape vines, stand dotted about the hillside as though God has shaken a handful of dice and dropped them haphazardly about the hill. Colourful mosaics decorate tiled steps up to wrought iron gates, behind which stonewall benches sit vacant beside equally vacant, dome-shaped bread ovens. A wrinkled old man watches him pass and raises his hand. And whenever Ric looks up at the blue heavens, a buzzard circles lazily on the thermals, tracking his progress.

  At the back of the village, Ric studies the map before turning up the dusty track to Colle Sant’Elmo. Higher up the slope, the path steepens and he can feel the sun at his back. Tree heath and broom line the track, and imperial crows hop about, nervous of and inquisitive at his passing.

  The better part of an hour later he reaches the summit of Sant’Elmo and pauses to take in the view: Vulcano to the south, its flattened ashen dome rising from the sea like a vast mollusc, and Salina to the north-west, its rich slopes shining like polished greenstone. Ric drinks the last of the water in his backpack. The buzzard still circles high above him, watching and waiting.

  Old Nino’s house lies between Sant’Elmo and the coast in the direction of Salina. The map tells him he can follow the road up to Monte Chirica and cut down towards Castellaro or head across country to the settlement at Quattropani and hope to pick up the track to Old Nino’s which he took with Valeria.

  As he walks, he remembers Valeria telling him about the two deportees who escaped from the citadel and hid in the hills until their hunger got the better of them. Apart from the small red berries of the occasional wild strawberry bush and the odd stunted chestnut, Ric sees nothing in the maquis that might sustain a man for long.

  An hour and a half later and cooled by the breeze blowing in from the purple sea, Ric rounds the curve in the track and comes upon the bald ridge which sweeps down towards the small white dome of the Chiesa Vecchia.

  He pushes back the gate. It grates noisily on its hinges. He knocks on the door.

  “Yes, I am here. Please come,” the old man calls from his terrace.

  “Salve, Nino,” Ric greets him.

  “Salve, Ric. I am glad you got my note. I was afraid that young girl would forget to deliver it. Thank you for coming. Please,” he raises his arm and invites Ric to sit.

  They shake; the old man feeling rather than squeezing Ric’s outstretched hand.

  Nino inclines his head towards his guest, “The sweat is cool on your palm; you did not take the bus, eh?”

  “No, I needed some exercise.”

  “Also,
you wanted to get to know the island. Did you come by Monte Sant’Angelo or Pianoconte?”

  “Pirrera and the Colle Sant’Elmo.”

  “Ah, you came by Poggio dei Funghi, the hill of mushrooms below Cugno di Mandra. It was beautiful, no? I used to pick the mushrooms for my mother; she made good zuppa from them. Perhaps you are a little early for them; they are better after the late summer rain.”

  Old Nino stares through his sunglasses in the direction of Salina. Wind squalls darken, dance and whirl across the purple sea which separates the islands, and small, white-sailed yachts pitch and yaw. An Aliscafo sprints towards Santa Marina like a busy water-boatman.

  “There is a bottle of legbi on the kitchen table,” Nino says. “And bring two glasses and some cool water from the fridge. Also, Ariana has left us a plate of prosciutto and pomodori and melanzane. Bring it also.”

  Ric sets the glasses of palm wine and the prosciutto on the table, trying his best to set the tray before the old man in exactly the same way the young girl Ariana had that first time he visited.

  “Please, eat. We will talk when our stomachs are silent.”

  The tomatoes are soft and juicy, the dry-cured ham sweet and the aubergine bake rich and sumptuous. Ric notices how deft and delicate the blind man is with his hands.

  When they have finished, they lean back and allow a few minutes for their food to settle.

  “Now we can hear ourselves talk without fear of interruption from our hunger,” Nino promises.

  “You’ve remembered something about the date I mentioned?” Ric asks.

  “Perhaps.” Judging by the slight tilt of his head, Nino is trawling his memory. He waits for a moment before continuing, “If I recall rightly, you said you found a grave for a respected individual who went by the name of Antonio Sciacchitano and that the date of death on his headstone reads that he passed in July of 1930?”

  “Correct, Nino.”

  “I have been thinking about this time when I was ten years old.”

  Ric thinks quickly.

  Nino pauses. “Ah, yes. You are impressed I am still here at ninety-three years. I am not sure why, but it is only of importance to me. Now, where was I?

  “Ah, I have it. In those days I lived with my family in Canneto. My father was a fisherman and my mother, and my brothers and sisters and I, worked the pomice. The summer days were long and dusty and hot, and the winters were always difficult. We would leave very early every day to walk to the warehouses at the beach of smooth stones. There we would pass the days grading and drying the pomice. The work was hard, but La Cava was not a bad employer; we had a roof over our heads and, what with the fish my father caught, we were fed better than most.”

  Nino’s throat dries as he talks and he coughs as he tries to raise the saliva in his mouth.

  Ric passes him a glass of water.

  “As you can imagine, I could not wait to gain enough years to leave my mother’s side and go with my father on his fishing boat. But the first night I was to go with him – and I believe this is why I remember the time so clearly – a man and a young woman came to our house and my father took me to one side and told me I would have to wait for another evening before I was to go fishing with him.

  “I was very upset. I cried and shouted at him that he was a liar for breaking his promise to me, that I would never believe what he told me ever again and that I would rather work in the warehouse than take to the sea with him.

  “My father should have hit me I was so disrespectful to him. But he did not. I remember him looking down at me with tears in his eyes and begging me to forgive him; telling me he would prefer not to be leaving me behind, but that he had important business to attend to and that even though the sea was not rough, it would be too dangerous for me to go with him.”

  Nino wets his whistle a second time and follows his water with a sip of his palm wine.

  “Ric, think of how I felt? I knew the other boys would believe he had not allowed me to go with him because he thought I was not capable of doing the hard night’s work of a fisherman. Sure, it was not easy, but most of my friends had been fishing with their father’s since they were nine or younger. I knew why he did not take me before, because he wanted me to look after my mother during the day and at night I would be too tired. But he had promised me that on my tenth birthday, I would go with him. So, I cried and beat the door to our house and shouted at him as he walked away to the beach.

  “Now, you may know that at this time we had many political people living here in Lipari.”

  “Political deportees, exiles.”

  “Si, deportati. They were very poor individuals; some had money, but not all of them. My father would sell them fish when they could afford it, but to others he gave the fish if they promised to pay him later.

  “One night, three of these deportees tried to escape. It had been done successfully a year or so before.”

  “Valeria told me,” Ric interrupts. “Nitti, Lussu and Roselli.”

  “Yes, those were the gentlemen. Valeria does well to remember their names. Three more tried to escape by the same method; a fast boat was to come and take them to Tunis. I can’t remember their names. Ah, Drago was one.”

  “Farinelli and Tamboia were the others, or so Valeria said,” Ric offers.

  “Yes, of course she is right. Farinelli and Tamboia were the others. But the plans of their escape were passed to the Fascists and they were intercepted and shot, along with the people who came to liberate them. This night on which they were killed in the bay at Punta San Giuseppe, was two nights before my father was supposed to take me fishing for the first time. It was a coincidence, no?”

  Ric glances at the old man and sees the lines of blue veins standing proud on his slender hands and forearms.

  “Oh, don’t be surprised that I remember so much. Eighty-three years ago is simple; last week is not so easy, eh?”

  “But why is this so important to me, Nino?”

  “All in good time, young man. One door leads to another; this is how it must be.”

  Nino scratches at a red mark on his neck and Ric is minded to pull his hand away just as Valeria had done. But he doesn’t. Instead he refills Nino’s glass with more legbi and passes it to his hand.

  “Thank you.” He wipes a dribble of wine away from the corner of his mouth. “The night my father would not take me fishing, he did so for two reasons. The first was that the Carabinieri had told everyone that if they were caught out in the water this night, their boats would be confiscated: they were patrolling in their launches with powerful lamps.

  “The second was that a man came to our door and begged my father to smuggle him and a young woman to Baarìa in Sicily. He said that he did not expect my father to take him because if he was caught, he would probably be shot. All this I did not know until my mother, seeing that I was inconsolable at the wrong my father had done me, decided to tell me during the night. She did not want me to hate this mild-mannered, hard-working man who was my father. But other than that, all I knew was that these two were not deportati. My mother would not tell me who they were or why it was that they were fugitives.

  “Of course, I understood then that my father was a hero, even if I felt a little aggrieved that I missed out on the opportunity to be the same.” Nino quiets for a minute and sips his wine, staring out into the sea as if he can still see his father’s fishing boat dodging the line squalls racing through the Canale di Salina.

  “Did your father return from his trip?”

  “He did. But he was gone for three days and the Carabinieri were our constant visitors through that time. When eventually he returned, they questioned him and he told them a story about his engine having a problem and how he had to wait in the islands over there while it was mended.” He points towards the horizon where Ric can just make out the hazy profiles of the little twins, Filicudi and Alicudi.

  “What is most important, though, is that many years later my father told me that the man he took across to
Sicily that night was Antonio Sciacchitano, the man whose grave contains no corpse.”

  41

  Ric feels a little dizzy. Perhaps it is the heat or the palm wine, or perhaps it is that he feels cheated. He isn’t sure which. But he is also taken with the idea that every time he thinks he is getting close to finding out about his forebears, instead of being content with the information he receives, he is left with the impression that there are yet more questions he needs to find answers to.

  “Well, Nino,” he says after this new piece of news has been allowed sufficient time to sink in, “that is a tale and a half. So, you mean to tell me that I’ve come all this way to find an empty grave?”

  The old man grins, mischievously. “It would seem that way, my young friend. For eighty years that grave has been empty and no one has thought to question why.”

  Ric knows he is being led, but is more than happy to be if by doing so he will be afforded more information. He smiles, perfectly sure that the old man can feel him do so.

  “So, why, Nino? Why has Antonio Sciacchitano’s grave sat empty all these years?”

  “Mmm, I will tell you. And I can tell you this now because all the players in this opera are all long passed and it can no longer put anyone in danger. But first, a little coffee, which you will have to make. Oh, and bring some of the biscuits, please. That girl is more careful with her rations than a field kitchen.”

  As Ric gets up to begin clearing the table, Nino reaches out and grasps his forearm. The old man does this so speedily and accurately that Ric is wont to question his lack of sight. He waits.

  “My friend, Ariana only allows me one teaspoon of coffee in the caffettiera. Perhaps, as she is not here, we can spoil ourselves and have two each.” He touches briefly the rim of his dark glasses and whispers, “What the eye does not see; the head will not worry over, eh?” He chuckles.

  “Seems like a good idea to me, Nino.”

  When Ric returns with the tray of coffee and biscuits, Nino has fallen asleep, so he places the tray as gently as he can on the table. The old man’s posture suggests he is still awake; his head is upright, his back is straight and his arms are folded across his chest. But there is tranquility and serenity to his form and Ric wonders for a moment if he might, like the players in his opera, have passed on.