Caterina steels herself.
“–when we spoke last week, it would’ve been only fair for you to tell me you were no longer in Taormina. Strange as it may seem, mum, I do worry about you.” She pauses for a second. “Or would it sound better to you, if I said I love you and care about you and that’s why I worry.”
The winds of anger having spilled from Lucy’s sail; her raw emotion, her acute articulation of her emotions, catches Caterina off balance.
“Just as I worry about you. And I do care about you and love you; it’s just that… Look, what have you been up to? Plenty of summer parties at home while you’ve had the house to yourself? It’s been very hot here, though I understand you’ve had a fair bit of rain. Still, the garden must be looking wonderful. The cosmos should be out by now and–”
“Don’t change the subject, mum; we were talking about you not me. Why do you always have to do that? The moment anyone asks about you, you flip the conversation on its head and start talking about them.” Her tone is now soft, worn down, a shade pleading, as though Lucy is no longer content to engage in her mother’s preferred ping–pong dialogue. “So please, mum, where are you? And I don’t care if you’re staying in the most expensive or, come to think of it, the cheapest B&B in Sicily but, for my sake, for my peace of mind, please mum, please tell me where the bloody hell you’ve got to?”
Another silence, one more heavily pregnant.
Caterina clears her throat and assumes her most reasoning tone. “Lucy, what I am going to say, it’s not easy for me but I’ve thought about it a lot. Actually, I’ve thought about it, strange as it may sound, very deeply and… I don’t want you to jump at what I’m going to say, so… please hear me through, that’s all. Listen until I’ve finished and then you can tell me I’m being stupid, or that I’m still trapped in one of those stages of grief all my friends seem to be so keen on telling me about, but…
“Look, I found I’d had enough of being on my own in Taormina. I was beginning to find my own company rather boring, and everywhere I went, in the reflection from every shop window, in the bathroom mirror, in every empty chair in every restaurant and café I sat down in, I saw your father. Even though I’d gone there to remember our wonderful holiday together, you know, that last wonderful holiday before he was… was diagnosed… Well, instead of helping, I found it all rather depressing.”
She pauses, expecting Lucy to interrupt. When she doesn’t, she asks, “Are you there, darling?”
“Yes, mum.” She replies, her voice brittle.
“I know this is hard, darling. Believe me, I’m sorry, I know it’s hard; I’ve had plenty of time to think about it, perhaps too long, I don’t know.”
“It’s okay, mum, go on.”
“Do you remember that chum of your father’s… Oh, what was his name? Saul or Simon or something. The one who became an alcoholic… about eight or nine years ago… your father helped get him into that clinic, do you remember?”
“Stephen,” Lucy corrects, then sniffs.
“Yes, quite right, it was Stephen. Anyway, after he came out of the clinic, Stephen came to dinner with us and he talked about all he’d been through. I remember he said to us that an alcoholic on his own is an alcoholic in the worst possible company. At the time, it struck me as the strangest thing to say, as I’d always assumed that the worst place for an alcoholic to be was in the company of another alcoholic. But he was right, he’d learned what we all learn and that is that when you are on your own, your problem – alcohol or drugs or depression, or whatever – becomes your only companion and the two of you become co–dependent and before you know it, inseparable.”
Lucy blows her nose. Her mother waits.
“You see, that’s what coming here has made me realise,” she continues. “It wasn’t the fault of my being in Taormina and yet in a curious way, it was. I thought by going there I might understand why I’ve been so depressed, when all along it was, in some part, that last holiday with your father which was making me feel so… so… so perfectly wretched. I thought I wanted to remember the good times, when all the time it was the memories that were making me miss what I have lost… what we have lost. I hope I’m making sense, Lucy, am I? Please tell me I am?”
A sniff, a half–stifled or at least a barely–concealed snivel. “Yes, mum. Yes, you are making complete sense. In fact, that’s the most sense you have made in a very long time. Trouble is, I don’t like to think you’ve been through all that on your own: it seems like an awful lot of pain for you to endure all by yourself.”
“Yes, darling, it was; except I wasn’t on my own, was I? I had you and your father with me all the time. Just because you’re not here, doesn’t mean to say I don’t carry you with me wherever I go. Same thing with your father: he may be gone and I miss him so much it hurts like hell, but I haven’t forgotten him, I never will.”
“Mum,” Lucy says, a note of both query and gentle empathy in her tone, “you sound different.”
“In what way different, darling?”
“I don’t know, just different. You sound like you’re in a good place, like you’ve found something.” She pauses, clearly trying to place what or where that something is. “You haven’t gone and joined some happy–clappy cult, have you?” She laughs, nervous of her mother’s response.
“No, darling. I’ve simply met some very nice people who would appear to be happy to have me as their houseguest. I can’t stay forever, naturally, so I’ll be back soon.”
“When though, mum? When will you be back?”
“Oh, I’m not sure. I haven’t thought about when. I guess I’ll know in the next couple of days. And I mustn’t outstay my welcome; fish and houseguests and all that.”
“Fish and what?”
“Yes, darling, fish: they’re like houseguests; if you have them in the house too long, they go off – and it is pretty hot here. So, as I said, I won’t be outstaying my welcome.”
“Mum?”
“Yes, darling.”
“This is the most I can ever remember you using the word I; it’s like you’ve woken up and remembered that you do really exist. Are you sure you’re not at some kind of funny farm?”
“Yes, darling Lucy, perfectly sure. By the way, I meant to ask how Rob is; last time you sounded a bit down about him. You said he might come and stay while I was away. Don’t worry, I don’t mind him being with you in the house; as I said, you two have been together for quite a while now.”
“Three years last weekend.”
“That long? Congratulations, darling. Do give him my best.”
“Your best,” she repeats as though her best is not by any means adequate and her love would have been more appropriate. “One last thing, mum.”
“Go on, what have or haven’t I done now?”
“It’s not you, mum; it’s me. I’ve got some news.”
“News? Well, good news, I hope. House in one piece, is it?”
“Of course.”
“You’re not–”
“Mum!”
“Sorry. Silly of me. Go on then.”
Lucy huffs down the phone. “No, mother. I’d rather tell you in person. It’ll wait until you get back.”
“Oh, don’t be a spoilsport. What is it, please, darling? What news?”
Whatever the carrot she dangled; Lucy quickly removes it. “Mum, these people you’re staying with, what’s their name?”
Now it is Caterina’s turn to huff. “You’re not going to tell me your news, are you? Oh, you are so like your father.” She looks at her free hand, noticing that without thinking she is gesticulating with it, waving it around in appeal in exactly the same manner as those she’d seen on their phones last night at the festival and before that on the beach and in the cafés. Caterina grins, blushes and drops her hand to her lap. “Still, no reason why you shouldn’t be like him and in the long ru
n no bad thing.
“So, if you must know, Lucy, I’m staying with Signor and Signora Lazzarotto in a small village just to the north of Messina called Ganzirri. I haven’t committed myself to some ultra–religious, navel–gazing, colonic irrigation glorying, twenty–four–seven chanting, idol–worshipping sect; I’m simply spending a few days with a couple of charmingly generous people, who would appear to enjoy, or more accurately suffer, my company. Is that so hard to believe?”
*
Angelica smiles. “Good morning, Caterina, I hope you slept well.”
“I did, thank you. I had hoped to go for the day on the feluca, but I overslept. First time I’ve done that in ages.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry. The sleep has done you good and I doubt they will be out for long. Here, a coffee. And I have made bread.” She nods at the counter. “Mafalda with sesame seeds. I hoped the smell would tempt you from your room.”
“It did, and I’d have been down sooner, only I was speaking to my daughter. Why won’t they be out for long?”
Angelica purses her lips and frowns a little disconsolately. “Oh, today we will have rain and for the fish, the noise of rain on the surface is like the banging of a drum; it frightens them and they go to the bottom. How was your daughter?”
“Lucy?” she asks, as though she has a bagful of daughters one of whom happens to be called by that name. “Oh, she was okay. I woke her up; clean forgot there’s an hour’s time difference and that she’s twenty–five and home alone.” Caterina pauses in lifting the small cup to her lips. “Or probably not, as it happens.”
“A boyfriend?”
“Yes. Do you know, I can’t work out whether he’s highly intelligent or not all there.”
Angelica hesitates. “Not all there?”
“Yes. You know, one olive short of a pizza.”
“Ah, yes, I understand. Perhaps it is better for her if he isn’t so smart.”
Caterina chuckles. “No, I was being facetious; he’s very bright really. And very nice. It’s more that I was wondering what he sees in Lucy.”
“Mothers and daughters! Now you know why I had sons, eh.” Angelica grins. “Their women can only be more intelligent than they are and it helps to understand the beast in them. So, how is she, your daughter? Is she missing her mother?”
The coffee is strong; her senses blossom. “Mm, judging by the number of times she says she’s tried to call me, the novelty of having the house to herself is wearing off and as she hadn’t heard from me, she was concerned I might have gone off and joined the Hare Krishna. I can’t say I haven’t thought about it once or twice; they always seem so blissfully happy.”
“If it looks too good to be true…” Angelica begins.
“It usually is. Yes, I know.” Caterina finishes her coffee, leans her elbow on the table and plants her chin on the edge of her palm. Her eyes glaze over and thoughtfully, and with a certain reluctant and yet inevitable tone, she says, “That was one of my…”
“What was his name, your husband?”
“Charles, though he hated being called that: I suppose that’s a bit like Lucy calling me mother rather than mum. When she uses mother, it means I’m bound to have done something she doesn’t like. That was the way I was with Charlie. Always Charlie: only Charles when he’d done something to annoy me – which he rarely did.” She glances at Angelica.
“Yes, I am listening. Please, go on.”
“What was he like? That’s what you want to know, isn’t it?”
Angelica smiles. “Yes, good. Now you are beginning to think for yourself; I am pleased. So, what was your Charlie like?”
Caterina smiles in return and the look on her face tells a plain and pleasant story, that of a soul who, for the first time in a very long time, is remembering how to smile.
“Oh, he was as good a husband as a woman could ask for, Angelica. He was that and so much more.”
Chapter 13
“It is very good of you to come and collect me, Enzo.”
“This is my very great pleasure, Signora Caterina. My father said you would know where he lives, but the rain…” He raises his hand at the grey, drizzling sky as if it is to blame for all the ills inflicted on the village over the last three thousand years.
“Well, thank you. I don’t suppose your father would have appreciated it if I’d turned up looking like a drowned rat.”
He glances at her hair and shrugs. “The weather shows no respect, eh, and your hair looks very nice.”
She had been to a hairdresser in the village. Angelica had suggested it and Caterina had told her in no uncertain terms that she felt more than a little silly having her hair done when all she was doing was going to Antonio’s house for something to eat. “And don’t tell me you and Alberto wouldn’t like an evening to yourself?” she had suggested.
Angelica, however, had ignored her and insisted. “It is about time you spent some money on yourself.”
Had Lucy not said something similar only a few hours before?
“You will feel good, too.” And because Angelica had gone with her and sat in the background and dictated the styling, Caterina did feel good about herself. Good if not better than good; for although her hair was now longer than it had been for a few years, she could never have imagined that it would cascade around her shoulders in such languid, lengthy curls.
“Thank you, Enzo, that is very charming of you.”
“It is true, eh?”
“You are eating with us, aren’t you?” she asks.
“No, I am going out with Paola; we are going to see friends in Milazzo. My father said I could have the car if I came to pick you up.”
“Ah, I see,” she says, vaguely offended.
He glances at her once more as he spins the steering wheel first left and then right. “No, you don’t.” He grins. “That was simply my humour.”
When he parks outside the house, Enzo asks her to wait while he retrieves his umbrella from the back seat and rushes round to open her door.
“Quite the gentleman,” she notes.
“Quite the lady. Enjoy your evening.”
She expects him to wink or leave her with some knowing look, but he doesn’t; he simply knocks on the door, waits until his father opens it and then jumps back in the car and speeds off.
“He really is a credit to you. You’ve taught him well.”
“Not me. And not his mother. Paola perhaps. Come in.” Antonio stands back and cannot hide his surprise at how she looks. “You look… different.”
“According to my daughter, I sound different, too. Anyway, I’ll take the fact that you think I look different as a compliment; though I guess that means I must have looked something less than that last night.”
“No, that was not what I meant. Last night you looked–”
“Thank you, Antonio. Go easy on me, please. Compliments from both father and son and I might not know which to choose.”
“Oh, I see.” His face darkens in a frown.
“No, you don’t. That is simply my humour. Come on, let’s not stand on ceremony.”
“No, of course.” Yet he fails to move.
“Well, I don’t have a coat or a handbag, so I can’t give you either of those.” She looks him up and down, and waits. “Antonio, why don’t we have a drink, then you can tell me about your day and I’ll tell you about mine?”
His stupor, her thrall over him or possibly the novelty of introducing someone completely new, and a woman at that, to his house, eventually wears off. “Yes, I have some almond wine, Il Blandanino, Riserva Speciale. Have you tried it before? It is from Castelmola.”
“No, I don’t believe I have. Sounds lovely.”
The living room is not exactly expansive: another three of Antonio’s build, either seated or standing, and there would be no space left for either Enzo or the tort
oiseshell cat, which studiously ignores her. However, there is a distinct lack of clutter such as she would expect to see in a modest house lived in by two men; a house which some might label a bachelor pad. There are none of yesterday’s papers, no casually–tossed clothes or shoes, and nothing that one might expect to see in the home of a fisherman either; no coils of line, no netting, no boxes of hooks or harpoons, and no sea shells decorating the walls. Instead, and much to her surprise, the room is painted a light pastel cream and the floors carpeted in a similar shade; a deep–red sofa and two fabric easy chairs dominate, a music system and a rack of cds stands in one corner, and the most glaringly obvious, and to her mind fabulous, omission is that of a television.
Caterina slips off her shoes.
“There’s no need to…”
“Oh, but there is,” she says.
*
The almond wine is both rich and bitter, suffused with herbs and yet sharp with citrus.
“What are we eating?” she asks, sipping, following him into the kitchen.
“I will give you three guesses, though I think you will only need one.”
“Fish of the day?”
“Exactly.”
“Angelica thought you might not catch anything today. She said the rain would drive the fish to the bottom.”
Antonio unwraps a parcel of brown wax paper. “And she is right: when the rains come, the fish go. This one we caught before the rain.”
In the now unfolded paper lie two thick swordfish steaks.
“And you kept some for yourself.”
“Of course . As you saw on Saturday, when we have caught the swordfish a man comes to meet us with his dinghy and he takes it ashore. From there it goes either to the market or directly to the fishmonger; which one depends on the price offered. Also as you saw, because I am up above the fish when I throw, the lance drives into the back of the fish and this part is always removed and given back to us. It is another of our old traditions, a measure of respect and one that ensures the fisherman does not go hungry for his effort.”
Constant Tides Page 48