The Fires of Torretta

by Iris Danbury

  As he spoke, one of the mothers threw a handful of corn over the couple, then the other mother offered a spoonful of honey, which the two shared.

  “That means eternal prosperity and a lifetime of sweet happiness,” whispered Brent in Rosamund’s ear.

  “I hope so.” She had caught the slightly jeering note in his voice.

  The procession had started off again. “Apparently the bride’s house is not large enough for the wedding breakfast, so here we go again.”

  “But we’re not invited, are we?” she queried.

  “Of course. All the village is invited and whoever likes to share it.”

  The banquet, for that was what it turned out to be, was held in a large open space behind the inn. Long tables were set out in the shade of trees or awnings. Those who were lucky secured chairs, those who were not helped themselves to plates of food and had their glasses filled with wine in the most lavish manner.

  Rosamund noticed that there was apparently no wedding cake, but soon she was given a handful of small sweets covered in white sugar.

  “They’re comfits,” Brent told her. “Originals of our confetti.”

  Rosamund munched these little almonds and caraway seeds and even found some coffee berries disguised in white.

  “I shall never be able to join in the dancing after all this food and drink,” she observed to Brent. Erica and Adriana had now joined them.

  “Nonsense! You’ve eaten very little. What about you, Erica?”

  “I think the wine must be extra strong. I feel giggly.”

  “That’s the fire of Sicily. It gets into the wine.”

  Some time later Rosamund was content to watch the dancers. They performed intricate steps which were not familiar to her, but she noticed that Adriana danced a great deal with Brent, showing him the steps, guiding him in the twists and changes of partners. Lucia, too, was enjoying herself. Her usually pale face was rosy with the heat and excitement. Of Erica there was no sign, but no doubt she was not moping alone.

  In due course, the dancing was halted, the procession reformed for the march to the bridal couple’s new house.

  When Rosamund saw the little house, one of several in a small courtyard, accessible by an outside stairway, she was filled with compassion. Here was no modern villa, but perhaps at most two or three rooms out of which the girl would contrive a home for her husband and in due course her family. The elaborate ceremonies were over, the banquet finished, the gala dress would be put away and in a few days there would be cooking and sweeping to do, endless years of household chores. But today would be remembered. In her heart, Rosamund sent a fleeting wish to this unknown girl, a wish for good luck and lasting happiness that would make her look back on this wedding day with pride and affection.

  After the couple had entered their house alone, the escort sang a serenade under the windows, then disbanded to wander around the village or return to the dancing which would go on for several hours yet.

  “I’d like to start for home fairly soon,” Brent told Rosamund as they walked along a narrow street. “My little horse must be looked after. It’s bad enough in the daytime with cars and Italian drivers roaring away everywhere, but at night, it’s worse with all those glaring headlights and I can’t avoid the main road for part of the way. Do you want to stay?”

  She hesitated for a moment. She was not eager to grab at every opportunity to be in his company. “I think I’ve had enough of this wild gaiety,” she said. “I’ll come.” After a minute or two she asked, “What was the alternative? I don’t relish walking home.”

  “Who expected you to walk?” he demanded harshly. “You could come home with Maria and Tomaso. Would you prefer that?”

  “No. I’ll ride in the Sicilian cart.”

  He did not speak again until they reached the place where the carts were parked and then it was to the horse, whispering, caressing him, stroking his nose and taking off the large straw hat that fitted over the horse’s ears to protect his head from the fierce afternoon sun.

  “Was there a cart rally?” she asked. “I must have missed the one in Taormina.”

  “Yes, there was a minor one here. I didn’t win a prize, but Annibale earned a ‘Highly Commended’.”

  “Annibale? The horse?”

  “Annibale. Hannibal to you.” The horse, hearing its name in Italian, tossed his head and set the plumes quivering.

  Rosamund looked around for the other girls. “Erica and Adriana? Aren’t they coming, too?”

  “No, they want to stay longer, but Maria will round them up when it’s time to leave and they can all pile in the taxi.”

  “I see. No trio this time with you.”

  He grinned as he helped her to clamber up into the, cart, settled himself and joggled the reins.

  The band of mixed instruments had settled down to an evening’s entertainment and plenty of dancing was going on. Later, when it was dark, so she had heard, there would be lanterns to stab the shadows and fireworks to sparkle in the sky.

  The music with its accompaniment of laughter and chatter followed Brent and Rosamund for some way. Then it gradually died away until only the slight breeze bore an occasional snatch of time.

  As Brent allowed the horse to jog along at an easy pace, Rosamund was asking herself if Erica had known clearly that she was to be left behind without Brent’s company. All that he needed was at least one companion to alleviate the monotony of driving alone and probably he was indifferent as to which one.

  “I notice that Adriana has livened up considerably since I’ve known her,” began Rosamund, believing that to be a fairly safe topic.

  “With good reason,” he said. “I flatter myself that some of the change has been due to me.”

  “Yes? Tell me—in your most modest manner.”

  He gave her a quick oblique glance that dared her to poke fun at him. “Why should I bother if you’re going to take that attitude?”

  “Very well. Let’s both remain silent. You can always talk to Annibale.”

  “Fine. He’s a more receptive audience than you are.” Now he began to talk mockingly in Italian to Annibale, complaining that women were all alike, that you took them out for a day’s pleasure and on the homeward journey, they railed and grumbled and gave you no peace. Thus far Rosamund could understand the gist of his Italian, but then he muttered more quickly and she caught only a word or two, but among them she heard phrases about “capelli rossi”—red hair”.

  “My hair’s not really red;” she said, laughing. “So you can stop confiding your troubles to Annibale and tell me about Adriana.”

  He turned his head towards her and his eyes held a challenge. Or was it the effect of the slanting rays of the setting sun? Then his face became serious.

  “That girl has suffered quite a lot,” he began quietly. “She was in love with an Air Force pilot, but the Mandelli parents thought her too young to make a decision. After a few storms and upsets, she agreed to wait a year. Then her father said that if she still wanted to marry the man, he would give his consent. That’s what he told Adriana, but she believes that the young man was rejected completely by her father and not told about the year’s delay. So he rejoined his unit and in due course he was killed in a crash.”

  “Oh! Poor Adriana!” murmured Rosamund.

  “She blamed her father for sending him away and vowed that she would go into a convent and disengage herself from the world.”

  “But now she seems to have changed her mind. Is that your doing?”

  A faint smile passed over his face. “I’d like to think so, if I were vain enough. We’ve had many talks and she has written me long letters. I hope I’ve finally persuaded her not to enter a convent for the wrong reasons, but to look forward to a happy life outside.”

  “Adriana is so lovely. It would be a desolation if she shut herself away because of an unhappy love affair.”

  “At the moment I’m quite popular with the Mandelli parents, but whether I shall blot my copybo
ok I’ve no idea.”

  Rosamund was quietly reflecting the significance of this disclosure. So he corresponded with Adriana and no doubt learned all the news of happenings at the Villa Delfino and Stephen’s household. Was Brent now trying to tell Rosamund that his affections were definitely engaged with Adriana Mandelli and that no other girl need apply? She regretted now that she had introduced the subject of Adriana, yet he had seemed eager enough to reveal what he knew of the girl’s past history and her more recent change of attitude. Yet on the other hand perhaps it was better to know definitely where she stood even though the situation would be one of utter desolation.

  “Look, there’s Etna again,” he pointed out. “My home town.”

  In the deepening dusk the volcano appeared dark purple lightening to pale mauve and only a comparatively small pointed cap of white, for much of the snow on the lower slopes had melted during the spring and early summer months.

  “Don’t you feel apprehensive sometimes living actually on a volcano?”

  He gave a short laugh. “I’m in company with many thousands of others. Most of the time the inhabitants forget their fears until an eruption. What we’re trying to do is know the symptoms in advance so that people can be warned. Even then, we can’t save the vineyards planted high up if the lava chooses to come down that way.”

  “But people continue to plant in spite of eruptions.”

  “Naturally. They know that the best wine grows on lava slopes. When I was here during the eruption two years ago, it was heartbreaking to see a mass of flames and molten lava slowly devour one row of vines after another. People we can save, but not their houses or the fruit of their labours.”

  “At the time I read about a village that was threatened and the priest led the villagers out and prayed that the village would be spared,” she said.

  “And it was. That was partly faith and the fact that the particular lava stream was deflected by dynamiting a kind of trench in its path and turning it along a different slope where it would do less harm.”

  “Were you up there when the eruption was taking place?” “Part of the time. I was working on Vesuvius when I was sent here by my chief. It was no picnic either. We were bathed in steam and choked with sulphur fumes and sometimes rained on by pieces of pumice. We had protective clothing, of course, but the conditions were not exactly comfortable.”

  After a few moments she asked, “Why did you take up your kind of career?”

  “I trained as a geologist because I’ve always been fascinated by the structure of the earth. New theories develop all the time and then I became more of a specialist in earthquakes and volcanoes. We begin to know something of what causes earthquakes and volcanic eruptions, even if we can’t predict when they will happen. Some other time, I must tell you about the new scientific methods, but just now Annibale is impatient for home. He belongs to someone just along this road, so he scents the end of his journey almost.”

  The horse had put on a spurt and by the time Brent had turned off the main road and down towards the Villa Delfino, the cart was rocking from side to side like a Roman chariot.

  “Hang on!” instructed Brent, as Rosamund clung to the side. He reined in the mettlesome Annibale as he approached the villa gates and now the horse trotted soberly around the paved courtyard towards the stables.

  “That was a good turn of speed!” observed Brent as he dismounted and backed the cart into a stable. “You all right?” he queried with a glance at Rosamund.

  “I believe so. I may have cracked a rib or two, but nothing serious.”

  He lifted her down from the cart and held her for a moment, his hands about her waist and his warm clasp delighted her. “What a grumbler! Lackaday me! You’re still in one piece.”

  “Only just.”

  Annibale was stamping impatiently and Brent released Rosamund and hastened to unharness the horse, removing all the plumes and trappings, the saddle cloths and the anklets tied with gay ribbons above the hooves.

  “Poor little horse,” murmured Rosamund as she watched Brent lead Annibale out of the shafts and guide him to a neighbouring stable where a comfortable straw bed had been laid. “I should think he’s glad to get rid of his finery.”

  “Tomaso will return him in the morning.”

  “And the cart?”

  “I don’t know when I shall need that again. In the meantime Tomaso can use it when he wants to. It might be useful to him for carting his vegetables about. He can always borrow a mule or donkey locally.”

  “I’d better go in,” said Rosamund. “Thank you for a delightful day.”

  “Have you a key? Maria and Tomaso are not yet back.”

  “No. I haven’t a key. I’ve never needed one here.”

  “And Stephen is sure to be up at the Mandellis’, so you’d better come into my cottage, shack or hermitage, whichever you like to call it and I’ll give you a glass of wine while you wait to be let into the villa.”

  There was a curious eagerness about his manner, as though he had planned this téte-a-téte, but she had little choice unless she wanted to appear ridiculous and sit on the front doorstep of the villa. Besides, she found she was thrilled with pleasure that he was willing to sit with her in the twilight.

  He opened the cottage and set a chair for her just outside the doorway. After a few moments he brought her a large glass filled with white wine, one for himself, then dragged another chair close to hers.

  “I’m giving up the tenancy of this place,” he said after a pause. “It would be up next month anyway—end of August, unless I renewed it, and that would depend on Stephen. He might not want to let it again.”

  “Oh, I think he might be glad to,” she declared quickly, remembering Stephen’s long-term plans for Erica, plans that included Brent whether the latter knew it or not.

  “Maybe,” returned Brent, “but I’m going away for quite a while.”

  Her pleasure in this twilight gossip was immediately quenched.

  “From Sicily, you mean?” Her throat was dry and the words no more than a whisper.

  “Not entirely. I’m going back to Stromboli where the crater erupts all the time, then to some of the other islands, Lipari, Ustica, Vulcano. Everyone of them is interesting in a geological context, apart from volcanoes. Then I might go on to visit the fragments of Thera, the old Atlantis.”

  “So we shan’t be seeing you.” After a pause she added, “Adriana will miss you.”

  “Possibly. But not you?”

  It was dark now, but not so impenetrable that she could not see the outlines of his face, his dark hair and the flicker of his eyes. “Naturally we shall all miss you,” she replied evenly, but a long slow grief was taking possession of her.

  For a time he was silent. Then he said in a low, thoughtful voice, “There comes a time when one has to step away from the everyday surroundings and put the important matters into some kind of perspective. I feel I’ve been drifting about for too long and now I must achieve some shape to my life. I have to decide whether I’m going to continue as part of a geological team or eventually strike out on my own and see where it leads me.”

  “And you need to be free to do that.” She could see his drift, she supposed. He wanted to develop his professional skills and not be hampered by attachments, especially those in Torretta.

  “Freedom is a much misused word. Few people can ever attain real freedom and when they do, or think they do, the cost is intolerable. Still, a certain amount of freedom might be an advantage for both me and—and someone else. Both of us then might have a chance to prove which is the truer saying, ‘Absence makes the heart grow fonder’ or—”

  “ ‘Out of sight, out of mind’,” she finished for him, forcing herself to sound light. So it was Adriana, after all. He was going away to give her time to make up her mind. Today he had needed Rosamund as a confidante and nothing more.

  He picked up the wine bottle from the floor and topped up her glass, refilled his own and smoked his thin dark ci
gar.

  For some minutes they were both silent. Then he said, “You must explore this island all you can. There’s so much to see. All the Greek temples at Agrigento, Segesta and Selinunte, the lovely Roman villa near Piazza Armerina.”

  She found her voice. “That’s the one with the beautiful mosaics, all kinds of pictures and the girls in their bikinis nearly three thousand years ago.” She followed his lead in talking of places rather than personal matters.

  “Syracuse has a wonderful history and full of legends and atmosphere. You went to Palermo with Niccolo. You must induce him to take you to all the other lovely parts of Sicily. Pity I can’t take you myself.”

  At those last words she gave him a quick glance. Even now it seemed that he could not avoid being equivocal. The facile phrases flowed off his tongue no matter to whom they were spoken.

  “You’ll be otherwise engaged for the next few months,” she reminded him. “No doubt Stephen will conduct Erica and me on jaunts around the island.” She was unaware that her tone had hardened. “Tell me more about your geological theories.” That was surely a safe, impersonal subject.

  “You’re really interested? Yes, I believe you are.” She felt his sidelong, appraising glance rather than saw it.

  “Well, you already know from the books you’ve been studying for Stephen that the modern view is that the earth rides about on plates. The crust isn’t one stable piece of land and water, but huge untidy sections that move in the course of millions of years. Continents split up, new oceans are formed, old ones disappear. South America once fitted against Africa, Europe and North America were joined, but split apart to make the Atlantic.”

  “How do you really know all this? Isn’t it supposition?”

  “Not entirely. Our methods of mineral research prove quite conclusively the similarities that exist between the Appalachian mountains in North America and the Alps in Europe. All once part of the same chain.”

  “In one of Signor Mandelli’s books, I read that Italy was really part of North Africa pushed into Europe until the Alps reared up.”

  “Switzerland—or what we know now as that country—really did possess a coastline once.”