by Debbie Rix
‘Over the next few days,’ Giles continued, taking up the story, ‘the rest of the inscription gradually emerged. In pace iuvenis moritur was written beneath her name.’
'What does that mean?’ asked Rachael.
‘“Berenice buried in peace,”’ said George.
‘And what of the other grave?’ asked Rachael.
‘Well indeed,’ said George. ‘That is our next task. We hope that we will discover who is buried there and why the Jewish queen is lying beneath this old church… if indeed it is the lady herself…’
As Rachael sat in the garden of the cottage later that day, playing with Angela, she mulled over what she had seen that morning. It seemed so tragic that the beautiful queen should be torn away from the man she loved. The idea that she might be buried just a few miles from their cottage seemed such a romantic notion. The high-pitched whine of a Lambretta interrupted her thoughts. As the noise grew louder, she knew, instinctively, that it was Tommaso.
He walked towards her, tall and slender, pushing his long dark hair away from his eyes. She felt a surge of physical desire. She had loved József very much but had never before experienced this overwhelming sexual chemistry. It was a mystery; how could she feel so much passion for this man standing before her, when they could scarcely communicate. And yet, they had an understanding. He had saved her child, and she loved him for it.
He kissed her lightly on each cheek and sat down at the table. Angela toddled over to him and he picked her up and sat her on his lap. He made two fists with his hands and asked her to choose one. It was a game she had played before with her grandfather, and she patted one of his large fists with her tiny hand, giggling. Tommaso opened his hand – it was empty. He made two fists again and held them out for her to choose. Once again, she chose the wrong hand. Tears came into her eyes, and she began to cry. He laughed and opened the other hand. Inside was a tiny sweet, which he put into her rosebud mouth; her tears dried instantly.
‘You are happy?’ he asked Rachael.
‘Yes… si, sono molto contenta,’ she said. She had begun to study an Italian dictionary each morning and was building up a collection of useful words and phrases. ‘Happy’ was a word she had just learned. ‘E tu?’ she asked.
‘Si, sono contento.’
There was an awkward moment, as neither knew quite what to say next. Finally, Tommaso broke the silence.
‘Vuoi venire a fare la pesca con me?’ he asked.
She looked confused. ‘Momento.’ She ran inside the house and emerged a few minutes later with her dictionary.
‘Pescare…? Fishing?’
‘Si – fishing,’ he repeated. ‘You and me…’
‘With Angela… con Angela?’ She picked the little girl up. ‘Is it safe?’
‘Si,’ he said confidently, ‘con la bambina – si. Non e pericoloso. It’s OK.’
Her head told her it was madness to take a tiny child who couldn’t swim onto a boat. But she wanted to go, and besides, she knew Angela would be safe with him.
With Rachael and Angela installed in the prow of the boat, Tommaso pushed it out to sea and leapt on board. He started up the motor and they roared out of the cove and into the open water. Rachael revelled in the wind in her hair, the salt spray splashing her face. She had her arms wrapped firmly around Angela’s waist; the child wriggled, desperate to be free. But Rachael would not release her.
When they were a few hundred metres from the shore, Tommaso took one of the rods that lay along the length of the boat. He cast it into the water and, as he waited for something to bite, took a cigarette out of his top pocket and lit it with a match he struck against the boat. Suddenly the line went taut. He clasped the cigarette between his white teeth and reeled in a large seabass, which he threw into the well of the boat. It thrashed around for a few moments until Tommaso smashed its head against the side of the boat, after which it lay prone, its pale eyes staring blankly into space. Rachael, who had never been fishing before, found the experience unsettling. The destruction of the creature which had moments before been swimming free in the deep blue waters, seemed needlessly cruel – and yet she knew she would enjoy the taste of the fish later. Angela, fascinated, wriggled free of her mother’s grasp, and knelt down by the fish, exploring the sensation of its smooth scales beneath her tiny fingers.
Soon there were six fish lying in the well of the boat; Tommaso reeled in his rod, and started up the engine.
As the sun sank over the horizon, the fishing party walked back through the copse towards the cottage, Rachael could see George and Giles sitting companionably on the veranda in the golden early evening light.
‘Ah, Rachael,’ said George. ‘We were just wondering where you had got to.’
‘Tommaso came over to get some fish…’ Rachael said, ‘and offered to take us out in his boat.’
‘Well, I’m relieved you’re back safely,’ said Giles, a hint of disapproval in his voice. ‘We were starting to worry – your father and me. It’s not for me to say, obviously, but was it such a good idea to take a baby in a fishing boat?’
Rachael flushed with a combination of embarrassment and indignation.
‘It’s not for you to say… Giles, no. Angela was perfectly safe; Tommaso would never let anything happen to her.’
Giles blushed with embarrassment at this rebuke and looked down at his boots.
‘Well,’ said George, after an awkward silence, ‘no harm has come to either of them, so all is well.’ He smiled and stood up. ‘Tommaso, please… join us; have a glass of wine.’
‘Perhaps I ought to go,’ said Giles, standing up, abruptly.
Rachael, for once, did not urge him to stay. But Tommaso sensed the prickly atmosphere and politely declined George’s invitation. Instead he laid the two largest seabass from his basket out on the table.
‘For you,’ he said, bowing respectfully to George. He then stroked Angela’s golden hair before turning to Rachael. ‘Ciao, bella,’ he said, kissing her on both cheeks. He sauntered out of the garden, climbed onto his Lambretta and roared off up the lane.
After Tommaso left, Giles hovered, uncomfortably, at the edge of the veranda, unsure whether to stay or go. Rachael, who was upset that Tommaso had felt it necessary to leave, hoped that Giles would follow suit. But, to her irritation, George invited his young student to stay and share the fish.
‘I’d love to – thank you,’ Giles said, anxiously, ‘… if you’re sure?’ He looked across the table at Rachael,
‘Yes fine,’ she replied, crisply. ‘I have enough to feed you…’ She stood up abruptly and disappeared into the kitchen.
As she gutted and de-scaled the fish, Rachael wondered why her father had placed her in such a difficult position. Had he not noticed how Giles lurked around her, insinuating himself into their lives? As her father’s student he was entitled to friendship of course, but did that mean he had to stay for supper quite so often? Slicing into the flesh of the fish, she wondered if George realised that Giles harboured feelings for her. She felt sure that if he did, he would not be quite so friendly with the young man.
As for Tommaso, George had invited him to stay for a glass of wine. Had he sensed her growing affection for the young fisherman? And would he understand why she was falling under his spell? More importantly, would he approve?
As a young widow with a small child, she was keenly aware of the need to preserve her reputation whilst she lived on this tiny island. The last thing her father needed was a scandal. And yet, she reasoned to herself, as she fried the fish on the range, she and Tommaso were both single. They were doing nothing wrong. Why should they not be allowed to find love with one another?
To her surprise, Rachael saw nothing of Tommaso for two weeks. He didn’t come to the cottage, and when she went into the village to shop at the market, or drink coffee at the cafe, he was nowhere to be seen. She began to worry; had he been offended by Giles at their last meeting, or was he ill? Had he been hurt at sea, or worse… drowned perhaps?
Unable to bear the suspense any longer, Rachael sat down at the cafe one morning and casually asked after him.
‘Suo fratello, Tommaso – sta bene?’ she asked Tomasso’s sister, Maria.
‘Si sta bene,’ the girl replied.
As Rachael left, crossing the square towards the grocery shop, she noticed Maria talking to her mother in the cafe and gesturing towards Rachael. They were obviously wondering why the foreign lady was interested in Tommaso.
The following day, Rachael was tidying the kitchen as Angela played at her feet, when she heard the familiar whine of the Lambretta. Within minutes Tommaso was in the kitchen. Rachael hurled herself at him, hugging him to her. He laughed, taking her in his arms and kissing her on both cheeks. They kissed again – this time on the mouth. She responded instinctively, pressing her body to his.
‘Hello,’ he said, at last, as he pulled away from her.
‘Hello,’ she replied.
‘Hello!’ said Angela, pulling herself up onto her feet and reaching up to her mother.
Rachael laughed and picked her child up, who clung, limpet-like, her legs wrapped round her mother’s waist.
‘I want to take you…’ he spoke slowly, anxious not to make any mistakes in his newly acquired English, ‘to watch my mother… and my sister. You come?’
Rachael looked bemused.
‘Perché?’ she asked
‘Come… come with me… I show you.’
She quickly finished her chores and, together with Angela, climbed onto the scooter. Tommaso drove the Lambretta along the coast road, away from the town. Rachael had never driven so far with him before, but she had learned to put her trust in him and wrapped her arms contentedly round his waist, Angela wedged firmly between his legs. When she had first driven with him on the bike, she had tried to lean in the opposite direction to him, fearful they were going too fast or too low around a bend.
‘No!’ he had shouted, reaching behind him, and pulling her into line with his own body. ‘With me…move with me,’ he’d explained, ‘or we crash.’
Now, as the sea lapped the shore to their right, she moulded her body against his as he cornered and swerved. It was an act of true intimacy, almost like making love; two bodies learning to work together, in synchrony.
After half an hour or so, he turned the bike down a rough track that led onto a rocky cove.
He parked the bike near the water’s edge. ‘Come, come…’ he said, beckoning to Rachael.
She followed him down to the shore, stumbling slightly over the rocks, carrying Angela in her arms. A group of women were standing near the water. One was singing a curious song.
‘Mia madre,’ Tommaso whispered.
‘Your mother?’
‘Si…’
‘What is she saying?’ Rachael quietly asked.
He frowned a little, unsure how to translate.
‘I write…’ he said, removing a scrap of paper and a stub of pencil from his pocket. As the woman sang, he wrote down the words and then handed Rachael the piece of paper. She would show her father later – he would be able to translate it.
Once their song was finished, the women, wearing simple cotton dresses, walked into the water. They swam a little way and then dived beneath the surface. Rachael gripped Tommaso’s arm.
‘What are they doing?’ she asked.
‘Wait…’ he said.
From time to time, they emerged onto the surface, before inhaling deeply and plunging back down beneath the water.
Eventually they swam back to the rocky shore and clambered out, dragging a bulging cotton bag behind them. Tommaso went over to the women and said something to his mother. She handed him the cotton bag, and he brought it over to show Rachael.
She peered inside.
‘What is it?’ she asked, picking out tufts of rough ‘hair’.
‘Byssus,’ he said.
The word struck a chord with Rachael. She remembered her father telling her a story of the grave he had uncovered all those years before in Hungary. Was byssus not the fabric he had found in the Roman grave in Aquincum? The oldest example ever discovered, he’d always told her.
The women sat on the shore and let their clothes dry in the evening sun. They chatted amongst themselves as the sun slipped below the horizon casting a rose pink glow on the surface of the water. From time to time, they looked over at Rachael with curiosity, as she played on the rocks with Angela. Eventually, their clothes dried, the water iridescent with a fiery red glow, the women were ready to leave.
Tommaso kissed his mother, and with Rachael and Angela installed on the scooter, drove back towards the town. But he didn’t go straight to the cottage. Instead he drove on, past the entrance to the lane, to a small workshop on the edge of Sant’Antioco. On a sign above the door it said: Atelier: Italo Diana.
‘Come… come with me,’ Tommaso said, pushing open the heavy wooden door.
Inside was a large workroom filled with women. Some were seated at sewing machines, stitching skirts and jackets. Others were pinning fabric to tailors’ dummies. They called out to Tommaso as he walked through the workroom.
‘Ciao, Tommaso.’
‘Come stai… Tommaso.’
He smiled, and grinned; he shook the odd hand, he kissed one or two women on the cheek, all the while checking Rachael and Angela were following him. He led them to a further room at the back, filled with looms of various kinds. Some were laced up with wool, others with cotton and linen. At the far end, a young woman was carding a pile of stiff fibres; it looked similar to the rough ‘hair’ Rachael had seen earlier at the cove. The woman held a ball of the fibre out towards Rachael, inviting her to touch it. It felt wiry. Nearby were bowls of the stuff soaking in water. From time to time, an elderly lady, seated in a gloomy corner, staggered to her feet, tipped the water away and replaced it with fresh water from a jug.
Tommaso leant over one of the bowls and sniffed deeply.
‘Here,’ he said to Rachael, ‘smell…’
Rachael breathed deeply through her nose. ‘Lemon juice?’ she suggested.
‘Si… si, limone e cedro.’
‘Cedar?’
He nodded.
The woman who had been carding the fibre now began to spin it. She attached one end of a short piece of thread to a little spinning bobbin. As it whirled round and round, she attached new threads from the pile of fibre at her side until she had yards of long thread which glinted like gold in the shafts of late afternoon sunlight. Angela stared, fascinated…
‘Vieni, vieni qui bambolina,’ the woman said to her.
The child toddled towards her and the woman picked up a little threaded bracelet that was lying on her worktable. She tied it around the child’s chubby wrist. Angela stroked the bracelet and held it up to the light, observing how the light caught the gold threads. She looked up, beaming, at the lady who had given it to her.
‘It’s good luck,’ Tommaso whispered to Rachael.
‘Grazie,’ said Rachael, bowing to the lady before kneeling down beside her daughter. ‘Angela… you’re so lucky,’ she said, ‘such a pretty bracelet. Say thank you.’
‘Thank you…’ said Angela, waving her arm around in the early evening light until the bracelet gleamed.
The women laughed amongst themselves, and Tommaso motioned towards the door.
‘Andiamo – we go now,’ he said.
The women smiled and nodded at Rachael; they cupped Angela’s little face in their hands as she walked between them. Rachael felt privileged to have been allowed to observe them at their work.
When her father came home that evening, she was bursting with the news.
‘Papa! Tommaso took us to visit the atelier in the town. And you won’t believe this but they make byssus, Papa. I watched his mother and sister fishing for the clams. They dive down and cut the filaments that hold the clams to the seabed; then bring bags of the raw material to the atelier, who makes it into thread. They made Angela a little bracelet.’
&n
bsp; ‘Byssus… here on Sant’Antioco?’
‘Yes, Papa. I knew you would be interested…’
‘Of course! How remarkable. I thought no one made it anymore…’
‘Tommaso wrote down a song they sing before they go into the water. I have it here. I thought you could translate it for me.’
Her father read aloud, translating as he did so:
‘Ponente, Levante, Maestro and Grecale,
Take my soul and cast it to the bottom of the sea
That my life may be for being, praying and weaving
For all the people that may come to me and from me depart
Timeless, nameless, colourless, limitless, penniless
In the name of the Lion of my soul and the eternal spirit, so it will be…’
‘What does it mean… Ponente, Levante, Maestro and Grecale…?’ asked Rachael. ‘What are they?’
‘They are winds, I think,’ said George. ‘She is asking the wind to throw her soul onto the seabed. It is an oath, a prayer, maybe before she gathers up the raw material to make her byssus.’
‘Do you think they have to pray first?’ asked Rachael. ‘A shepherd does not pray before he shears a sheep, does he?’
‘Maybe they do in Sardinia…’ her father said, laughing. ‘I should like to discuss it with Tommaso.’
‘Shall I ask him to come around one evening perhaps?’
‘Yes – do that. He is… someone you like?’ her father asked, casually.
‘Yes,’ said Rachael, ‘I like him very much. Do you mind?’
‘Mind? Why should I mind? He sounds very interesting.’
‘I thought… I thought you might disapprove.’
‘Rachael my darling – why would I disapprove?’
‘I don’t know… he’s not an academic. He’s just a fisherman. His mother weaves byssus…’
‘He is your friend…’ said George, taking her hand, ‘that is enough for me.’
The following day, Rachael was baking in the kitchen, Angela asleep upstairs. As she kneaded dough on the table, she heard Tommaso’s scooter in the lane. She checked her reflection in the little mirror she had hung by the back door. She was a little flushed and her hair was smeared with flour. Quickly, she washed her hands in the sink and ran them through her hair, pushing the long strands away from her face.