At some point in the night they transferred themselves to the bed, though they kept most of their clothes on. Ben could take hers off later, Ginny thought – partly in hope and partly in terror. She cuddled in close to him and they kissed – hot kisses getting steamier by the second. He was touching her, in all the right places too, sending sweet streaks of desire right through her. But just as she thought,
this is it, this is it
, he stopped, grunted, ‘Sorry. Better get some sleep then I s’pose. And turned around. Huh? By then Ginny had woken up – in more ways than one.
In the morning, Ben’s mother made her a bacon sandwich and she went home to analyse what had happened.
He hadn’t seemed up for it – not really. Could it be possible that after all, Ben was gay? It seemed unlikely. Did he just want someone to watch movies with or sleep with? Maybe. Did he not fancy her? His kissing suggested that he did. Or did he fancy her and also respect her? Er … Was he waiting – for a sign that Ginny didn’t know about – or to get to know her better, or until a decent period of time had elapsed? Skittering sea lions. Studying psychology was – as she’d suspected – absolutely useless. Because Ginny had no idea.
It was almost the end of her week and Tess woke on Tuesday morning with a sense of sadness. Tomorrow she’d be driving to Palermo and flying back to the UK. Time had gone too fast. She was looking forward to seeing her family. But Robin … She stretched out in the big chestnut bed. He’d sent her several texts and tried to call a few times, but she hadn’t replied or picked up. Cowardly, maybe, but she’d face him in due course. It was unresolved between them – she knew that – and they had to talk. But it would be in her own time and on her terms.
And she was no further in her quest for information. She had gone round to Santina and Giovanni’s house twice yesterday, knocked on the door as if she was ‘just passing’. Once there was no answer, once Santina had answered but Giovanni was around and they hadn’t had a chance to talk. It was all very well being patient, but Tess was beginning to feel as if this was a non-starter.
As usual, Tess breakfasted on the terrace where the air was still and warm. And as usual she could see Tonino in the bay, standing on the white rock by the look-out post, his face as rugged as the stone he worked in, his dark hair outlined like a raven’s wing against the pale blue of the morning sky, his
body – he was dressed in black jeans and white T-shirt today – in clear relief against the navy ocean.
Looking out to sea. The man was always looking out to sea, but she hadn’t yet seen him go in it. Well. She cleared her breakfast things and took them into the kitchen. Inside, the villa was cool and yet welcoming – completely contradicting what Giovanni had told her at dinner the other night. So … Was Giovanni Sciarra being straight with her – or did he have another agenda?
Tonino was in his studio when she got down to the bay. Since the morning he’d made her coffee, his replies to her questions had been mostly monosyllabic, his expression neither friendly nor hostile. Indifference – and it was infuriating. She had no idea what he thought of her, and for some reason that she didn’t want to acknowledge, she felt rattled by this.
She paused by the window of his studio. The serpent was glittering demonically at the centre of his display. She wanted to ask him about the story it came from, but Tonino was wearing a face mask and cutting some stone, particles of dust and grit flying in the air around him, so she walked on by.
Next time she came here, she thought, walking down to the water’s edge and letting the tiny waves at the shoreline lap around her toes, she would bring her diving equipment and explore properly. Which for her meant underwater. And she would get to talk with Santina. Alone.
Tess closed her eyes. She would miss the tranquillity of
this place, not to mention the warmth. In England it would still be chilly; here, Sicily’s springtime was opening up into summertime. Already the sky was becoming listless and hazy with heat. She lingered for a while, simply enjoying the feel of the sun on her skin.
‘
Ciao
.’
She swung around. Tonino stood there regarding her intently. He had changed into shorts and his usual flipflops and was still wearing the white T-shirt, open at the neck.
‘
Ciao. Bon g
…’ She felt herself stumbling over the words of greeting. Why oh why, she thought for the umpteenth time, had her mother not spoken Sicilian – or even Italian – to her as a child? By now she would be fluent – bilingual even. But she knew the answer to that question. Sicily was off-limits. It was OK to eat its food – even Muma hadn’t been able to wean herself away from that. But everything else was
no grata
. ‘I was just absorbing the peace.’
He nodded. ‘It is peaceful here, yes. You like our village, I see that.’
‘Do you think you will always live here?’ Tess swirled her foot in the water. She imagined he and his family had been here for ever.
‘It has everything I need.’ And yet, even as he said this, he stared out to sea again, and Tess saw it once more – that sadness. He loved the place, he loved the sea. But it was more complicated than that. He was more complicated than that.
‘And your family?’ she asked. ‘What about them?’
He blinked and turned back to her. ‘My grandfather was Alberto Amato,’ he said.
Tess raised an eyebrow as if she’d never heard the name before.
‘He was a spear-fisherman. A legend. He could hold his breath for over four minutes when he was free-diving, and he could dive down to sixty metres.’
She nodded. That was pretty impressive. ‘And your father?’
‘He was a fisherman too. He went out in his boat. In May and June he took part in the
Mattanza
. They all did.’
‘
Mattanza
?’
‘The ritual of the blue-fin tuna fishing.’ He pointed to the buildings which stood back from the bay, the warehouse with three big arches, and the faded tunnery itself, now disused and abandoned. ‘They worked in a team. Many men in small boats.’
‘What was it like?’ she wondered aloud.
‘It was once a thriving business,’ he said. ‘But a bloodthirsty one. Another word for
mattanza
is massacre. But … ’ He shrugged. ‘They say Cetaria owes its name to the plenty of fish in the sea. Literally, it means “earth of the tunnys” in Greek.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Still, the tuna slaughter – it was not pretty to watch. And it was hard for the men who had to do it.’
Tess shivered. She understood how hard it must have been to make a living. But she was glad that tuna was no longer caught and killed that way.
‘They kept the boats in there.’ He pointed to the warehouses. ‘They say that the boathouses still echo to the
Cialoma
.’
Tess listened. She couldn’t hear anything, unless it was an echo of emptiness. ‘Which is what exactly?’
‘A song,’ he said. The fishermen sang it to find strength to haul in the nets.
‘And yet now it seems so tranquil.’ The buildings were at rest; for them, time had stood still. The fig tree and the oleander stood in front of the rusting anchors as if to symbolise their new-found repose.
He shrugged. ‘If you wish for complete tranquillity,’ he said, ‘you must visit Segesta.’
‘Segesta?’ She had seen it on the map. But sightseeing had not been her priority when she came here. She had preferred to explore her mother’s village, look for information and chill out in the villa and in the sea. She had needed to think – what should she do about Villa Sirena and what should she do about Robin?
He rubbed at the scar on his cheek. ‘But of course. You cannot come to Cetaria and not visit Segesta.’
Tess smiled. ‘I’d like to. But I’m going back tomorrow.’
He lifted an eyebrow. ‘You have today.’
‘I suppose.’ She was reluctant. She had half-thought that she would try Santina again – only she didn’t want Giovanni to get any wrong ideas. ‘What is there to see there?’
He brushed back his hair with the back of his hand. There was a faint dust – from the stones, she supposed – coating the skin of his face; almost a glitter. ‘A temple,’ he said. ‘An amphitheatre.’
‘Really?’ It sounded impressive, she had to admit. You
didn’t get to see temples and amphitheatres every day of the week. Especially in Pridehaven.
‘I could take you.’ He was staring at her as if he could see out the other side.
‘But your work … ’
‘It will wait. Unless … ’ He bent his little finger. ‘You have other plans?’
‘No.’ She spoke quickly. No doubt he had seen her with Giovanni. She didn’t want him to think that she and Giovanni … Because it wasn’t true, and it would only annoy him if he disliked the Sciarras as much as Giovanni disliked him. ‘I’d love to come.’ She looked around the
baglio
. ‘Do you have a car? Because … ’ She was about to say that she could drive them in her hire car – she hadn’t made much use of it so far.
He grinned. ‘Better than that,’ he said.
‘Oh?’
‘Meet me here in an hour.’ There was a spark – maybe of danger – in his dark eyes.
Tess didn’t hesitate. ‘I’ll be here,’ she said.
When Tess came down the stone steps an hour later, he was waiting for her.
‘
Ciao
.’ He handed her a crash helmet. Right. Lucky she’d opted for the blue linen shorts then rather than the short denim skirt. His scooter, a Lambretta, which looked stylish rather than powerful, was parked by the entrance to the
baglio
.
She climbed on behind him. ‘Hold on tight!’ he yelled, and they were off.
They drove out of the village and along a road lined by bamboo, cacti and olive trees, heading towards the soft green slopes of the mountains whose high granite crop-tops were half-hidden today by wispy cloud. Tess felt the exhilaration race through her as she clung to his waist. Well, there was nowhere else to hold on to … at any rate, no place she felt safe. Not that they were going fast; they couldn’t, the scooter didn’t have the power. But the wind in her hair and on her face felt good. She felt good. She couldn’t remember feeling this good for a long time.
The noise of a shot rang out, echoing around the hills. Jesus … ‘Mafia?’ yelled Tess.
He just laughed.
They rode under a viaduct past tall cypress trees, between vineyards to their left and eucalyptus trees to their right. Beyond, lay silver olive groves and fields of yellow wheat and grassland interlaced with scarlet poppies, white daisies and spiny yellow thistle. They slowed at a crossing and Tess saw a lizard dart across a rock by the roadside. Green with orange markings. She thought of Tonino’s serpent and the fish. About her mother’s girlhood. And about a life here which was so different from the one she knew in England.
It was a bumpy road, pitted with holes and deep ruts that had Tess bouncing on the pillion seat.
Tonino slowed down. ‘Segesta,’ he announced.
An old man was standing by a tourist bus collecting tickets from a queue of people. Tess waited for Tonino to stop, so that they could park and join the queue, but instead
he sped past the old man with a cheery wave, and they rode on up the winding road. It was steep though, and the Lambretta began to slow down until it was barely chugging along.
At the bend, Tonino stopped and pointed back the way they’d come. ‘The Hellenic temple,’ he said.
Tess turned. The honey-coloured temple stood serene, dominating the landscape, and she could see this was the perfect way to first view it. It looked as if it had been deposited there by some beatific God above.
They got off the scooter. The air was perfectly still and heavy. All Tess could hear was the occasional birdsong and the hum of insects – crickets or cicadas maybe.
Tonino looked up. ‘The swallows are back from North Africa,’ he said.
Surrounding the lonely temple were the green and red plains, and the mountain thicketed with oak and laurel. At the bottom of the slopes was a dried-up river bed, a deep gorge. It was hypnotic, Tess thought. The land seemed to throb like some giant magnet. The power of the temple or the power of the land? Or both?
Some minutes elapsed before Tonino motioned for her to get back on the scooter behind him and they rode slowly up to the theatre, at the very top of the hill.
They must have been between busloads of people, for they were alone.
‘It’s amazing,’ she murmured, almost afraid to speak too loudly. The ancient theatre was huge and deep, the semi-circle
of rugged white stone rows dropping down towards the area of the stage. Behind the stage, she could see trees, mountains, valleys; in the distance, the glint of the sea.
‘Come.’ Tonino led her down the cobbled steps into the front of the theatre, where she sat on the pitted stone ledge – rounded and worn over the centuries.
He walked to the centre of the stage, grinned, flung out his arms to the sky, and to her utter amazement, began to sing – in Italian, in a beautiful rich tenor. Tess was transfixed. She vaguely recognised the aria – from some Italian opera, by Puccini maybe. But she had never heard it like this before – in a Greek stone amphitheatre, under a Sicilian sky, sung by the most enigmatic man she had met in her life.
When the last note had echoed and died, he bowed low and she clapped. ‘Amazing!’
‘Can you imagine …? ’ He sat beside her on the white stone. ‘What it must have been like here in Greek times? The stage of mud and rock, the stars above you?’
‘Mmm.’ Tess hugged her knees. She was beginning to.
‘A hot, still night. The mountains. A darkening sky … ’
He was quite a poet. She smiled.
‘At festival times, the place is floodlit,’ he said. ‘People come in the evenings with a bottle of Prosecco and a cushion.’
‘It must be magical.’ She couldn’t help the note of wistfulness that crept into her voice. Once again, she thought,
I don’t want to leave this place
… She felt as if the gift that Edward Westerman had bestowed on her was about to be snatched away.
‘And sometimes they come to watch sunrise.’ He was doing that intense looking thing again, as if he were gauging her reaction, testing her in some way.