‘Fine. I will wait for you.’
Tess glanced back at the mosaicist, but he seemed oblivious to their conversation and had turned his attention back to his work. They lived in the same village, but Giovanni hadn’t even acknowledged his presence. And just at that moment, Mosaic-man raised his dark head to glower at Giovanni with even more animosity than he’d shown towards her. He had a scar on his face, from a long time ago, it looked like. It ran from just below his left eye to just above the corner of his mouth. Tess remembered the offhand – actually quite rude – way in which Giovanni had dismissed the man’s mosaics last night. And yet they were so delicate and vibrant, each one formed with precision, creating an image of colour and light. Anyone with such creative vision must be … What? Interesting? Attractive? Or just think he could be damned unfriendly and get away with it?
‘Fine,’ she said, perversely wanting to annoy Mosaic-man who, after all, hadn’t provided her with breakfast. ‘So, where are you taking me?’
Looking back, Flavia wasn’t sure what she registered first. The mangled plane perhaps? It was a miracle it hadn’t burst into flames. The underside of its body had been ripped clean away – pieces of it were scattered on the ground and the smell of torn metal hung in the air like a broken promise. Or maybe it was the man in an unfamiliar pilot’s uniform, holding his leg at an awkward angle, vulnerable; exhaustion and pain drawn on his face. Or was it the blood – congealed and sticky in the heat? But she knew, even now, after all these years, looking back on it at last, that it wasn’t any of these things. It was his eyes.
His eyes were bluer than the Sicilian sky, bluer than the sea in summertime. She’d never seen such eyes
. O dio Beddramadre …
Holy Mother of God
.
‘Please … ’ He seemed to believe she would help him. His mouth was twisted, his palms open in supplication. ‘You have some water? Water? Yes?’
Flavia understood him. She would have understood him even if she hadn’t spent all that time listening to Signor Westerman. And she felt no fear. She didn’t think of running away.
She ran lightly down the bank towards him. What should she do?
What could she do? She looked wildly around. The land was sultry, unpeopled and silent, apart from the heavy drone of the insects. Something throbbed inside Flavia’s head. There was simply earth and sky
–
and no one
.
‘Please.’ He licked parched, cracked lips.
‘Si. ’
She unscrewed the flask, bent towards him, smelt his sweat, the blood, the male heat of him. She put the flask to his lips and gently tipped
.
He drank greedily, almost choked, the precious liquid spilling over his chin, then sighed and drank some more, this time with better control.
Flavia squatted on her haunches and waited. How badly hurt was he? She would have to get help. This was more than she could deal with herself. But who
…? ‘Inglesi?
’ she whispered
.
He nodded.
She got to her feet and made a stepping motion, one foot in front of the other. She pointed at the man. ‘
Sì?’
He shook his head, let out a low, hoarse chuckle. ‘No. Absolutely no chance, I’m afraid. I’ve tried.’
Flavia screwed back the lid of the flask and put it down next to him. If he couldn’t walk …?
‘Do you know what happened last night?’ he asked, shifting himself awkwardly into a more comfortable position. He gestured towards the sky.
She shook her head. But she remembered the noises she had heard. And the searchlights drowning out the three-quarter moon. How she had hoped for a sign, for something to change. And she remembered the little she had overheard when she’d stood outside the
caffé
listening to
Papa and the other men of the village this morning. What had it been? An air raid?
‘You understand English, don’t you?’
‘Sì.’
She nodded. ‘A little.’ But she hardly dared speak it. She hadn’t practised. She would get it wrong and he would laugh at her
.
‘There’s a bridge near Syracuse … ’ He sighed, seeming unable to say more.
She must do something, say something. She mustn’t just stand there like an idiot girl.
‘We lost sight of the coast, went badly off course.’ He spoke with obvious difficulty. ‘Hadn’t had a chance to study the maps of the area. No ground lights to guide us in. Couldn’t see a damn thing.’
She nodded to show she understood, though she didn’t, not really. Could she risk fetching Papa? He was sympathetic to the English; look how loyal he’d been to Signor Westerman. He would guard the villa and its contents with his life, if needed.
‘Can you bring food?’ the pilot asked. His voice seemed to be getting fainter. ‘I’d be awfully grateful.’
‘Sì.
’ But before she did that … She pointed. ‘Your leg?’
He grimaced. ‘I think it has a pretty bad gash. Some fuselage came down on it – bloody hard.’
Flavia frowned. ‘Broken?’ she asked. She made a gesture to clarify her meaning and he winced.
‘I don’t think so.’
So … She would need bandages, antiseptic, warm water at least. And food. But how could she leave him stuck here in the middle of a field in a Sicilian July? It was impossible. He would be roasted alive.
‘I go … ’ she began. ‘I get help.’
A flash of fear crossed his face. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Come back alone. Please. Bring me a hat, some food, bandages, if you can.’
Flavia got up.
‘Tell no one,’ he warned her. ‘They’ll kill me. I will die.’
Flavia understood. ‘Wait,’ she said. Yes, as if he could do otherwise …
She flew back in the white light of the afternoon, over the red earth, past the field of wheat that looked soft as a cat’s fur in the blurred haze of the heat, through the olive grove where the trees just smiled at her and shimmered, back to the old stone cottage that looked incredibly, just the same as when she’d left earlier. How could that be – when so much had changed?
She was sweating and breathless by the time she stepped through the net curtain which was motionless in the still air and came to the back room, where her father was asleep, snoring gently.
Flavia opened her mouth to speak. But what if she were mistaken? What if Papa told the authorities and they killed the Englishman? She would have his blood on her hands. She …
She crept out of the room. In the kitchen, she assembled what she needed. Precious bread, baked by Mama that day with some of her quince jam, oil from their own olives, goat’s cheese from Luciano, tomatoes from the vines outside, two wide bandages from Mama’s cupboard, a small bottle of iodine. What else? He had asked for a hat. Could she risk taking Papa’s? Tweezers perhaps? Some lint and gauze? She filled a canteen with hot water from the stove. Pray Madonna that no one saw her leaving with this lot, or she’d be done for. He’d be done for.
Stealthy as a burglar, she tiptoed around the cottage, out past the
limp-netted curtain, across the fields towards the olive grove and the field of yellow wheat. The light was so bright, she was running so fast – her burden clutched in front of her– her heart thudding with the effort and the heat, that she almost felt it wasn’t real. That this day wasn’t a real day, that she wasn’t there, that this wasn’t happening, that when she reached the place where the airman and the plane had been, there would be nothing. It would be just a mirage. The land throbbed and burned and seemed to mock her. From somewhere, a bird cried. A mirage.
But he was there.
He opened his eyes, looked fearfully around to check she was on her own, seemed pathetically pleased to see her. And why not? She was bringing what would sustain him. It was nothing to do with her, Flavia. She could be anyone, any girl from the village who had happened on him.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘This is bloody good of you. You’re wonderful.’
And yet … And yet he looked at her as if he meant what he said.
Shyly, she got out the bread, oil, cheese and tomatoes and watched him as he ate hungrily, chewing the bread; biting, sucking and swallowing the fruit.
‘Eat slowly,’ she told him, in her native tongue, and he seemed to understand her, for he nodded and ate with less desperation than before.
When he was done, Flavia took the warm water and iodine and bathed the wound in his leg. She could hardly breathe, she was so nervous. He winced at her touch, especially when she took the tweezers and withdrew a fine shard of shrapnel embedded there. Was
there more? She couldn’t tell. The gash was deep, bloody and swollen; already trying to heal into a crust just below the slashed cloth of his trouser, but there was danger of infection, she knew. Perhaps she had arrived just in time.
‘Where …? ’ she asked him.
He indicated grazes on his arms and shoulder.
Flavia had never touched a man’s body before. Carefully she eased back the torn fabric of his shirt. His skin was pale and slightly freckled; she could see the strength in his muscled arms. She bit her lip and concentrated hard. She would be a nurse. She wouldn’t think of him as a man, but as a patient.
When she had finished, he touched her hand.
She looked into those eyes. Wondered if she ought to pray – for herself and her deliverance perhaps?
‘You are an angel,’ he said to her. ‘My ministering angel.’
Despite the heat, a strange shiver ran through her. ‘I must go.’
Flavia rested for a while, exhausted by the writing. Food was part of the Sicilian soul, part of her soul. In her time there were few cookbooks. Recipes were handed down from mother to daughter; this was the old way, the best way. She would do the same. She frowned. She would start with
caponata
. This was a concept rather than a dish; every cook has her own recipe. It was best to make it a day or two in advance of eating, in order to give the flavours time to mellow and combine.
So. She began to write.
Cube the
melanzane
and fry in hot olive oil. Blanch the celery with the olives. Fry the onions. Add the red
wine vinegar and the sugar. Heat the tomato paste. Add the vegetables. Cool. Sprinkle on the mint or the basil.
Sweet and sour. What was Tess doing now? Who had she spoken to? Was she in the villa? Flavia did not want to know and yet she longed to. Contradictions, thought Flavia. Sweet and sour …
‘I am surprised you do not know the story,’ Giovanni said, when they were seated in a restaurant in a nearby village. ‘Do mothers not talk to daughters in your family?’
Idly, Tess pushed her heavy crystal wineglass across the crisp white damask of the tablecloth. The room held a woody fragrance, due, no doubt, to the ashes in the fireplace and the olive branches in the wood basket – it was the scent of what had been burned the night before. The food was good. They had begun with
bruschetta
and aubergine slices grilled with garlic, parsley and caramelised onion.
‘About some things, yes.’ Tess speared a mussel from her second course –
spaghetti con le cozze
– from inside one of the lacquered black shells. She remembered her mother saying that the relationship between a pasta and its sauce was precise and equal. Both tastes should work simultaneously on the palette. And this, she had to say, was good, but not quite as good as Muma’s. ‘But my mother has always been a bit cagey about Sicily.’ To say the least. And Tess had never cooked Sicilian. Perhaps it was a small act of rebellion – a way of showing her mother that if she wouldn’t tell Tess about Sicily, then Tess wouldn’t cook its food.
‘Cagey?’ He frowned.
‘Wary. Silent. Secretive.’
‘Ah.’ He touched his nose. ‘Secrets, I understand.’
Yes, Tess thought. I bet you do. She tried to look past his easy manner, the practised smile and found herself thinking of Robin. It had been a shock to learn that he depended on his wife’s family financially. She supposed it happened all the time – in some families. And perhaps it was the romantic idealist in her that thought money shouldn’t come into it; that relationships between men and women should be based on concepts like love and integrity rather than the amount of money you had in the bank. Still, romantic idealism may not have brought her a life partner to love and cherish, she thought, tasting a forkful of the intense tomato sauce, but at least she still had her dreams …
‘It was like this …’ he began.
According to Giovanni, Edward Westerman came to Sicily in 1935, a mere youth with an inheritance (
more money than was good for him, no?
) and a desire to live in the sun.
‘Sounds good to me,’ said Tess.
‘Villa Sirena was very grand when it was first designed and built,’ Giovanni said. ‘Using local stone and marble and a local workforce too. Now though … ’ He shrugged. ‘It is
moltu malandata
, no?’
‘
Moltu
…? ’ Tess spooned up more tomato sauce. It contained more than a hint of chilli and she was reminded once again of her mother. She was beginning to understand much more about the Sicilian relationship to food.
‘How do you say? Run down?’
‘Shabby chic?’
‘Ah, yes.’ Giovanni seemed to be watching her carefully – or was that her imagination? ‘It is a place with many dark corners,’ he said, in a seemingly casual tone, ‘places where things can hide.’
‘Things?’
He shook his head as if he had said too much, but Tess suspected he had been testing the waters; trying to find out how much she knew. Secrets, secrets. What was the matter with them all, she wondered.
Giovanni glanced suspiciously around the restaurant. ‘Someone is always listening,’ he said, ‘in Sicily.’
Right–o … And Tess had thought they were just a few ordinary couples and families out to lunch.
Her mind drifted to Ginny. She had called her before they left the villa, but it was obvious that Ginny couldn’t wait to get off the phone. ‘I’m fine, Mum. Honestly,’ she had said. ‘You’ve only been gone a day. Chill.’ But it was the first time that Tess and her daughter had ever been so far apart geographically. And it felt strange.
‘As for the Englishman, Edward Westerman,’ Giovanni was saying, ‘it was not only the sun that he craved.’