by Rosanna Ley
Tess could see why he liked the sea glass. Each one could tell a story. Each one had a colour and a shape unique to itself; each one had come a different way.
‘It has been on a long journey before the waves bring it to me,’ he continued. ‘It will never break. And it has a light – you see? – coming from within.’
He handed her a bubble of green glass, fresh as a cut lime, and yet pearlised, as if lit up by the moon. ‘Yes.’ She could see exactly what he meant. ‘And what else do you use in your mosaics?’ she asked.
He shrugged. ‘I use what I find. Some I buy, yes, if I have a commission, but most are already here in the stone, in the rocks around us, in the sea.’
Tess looked around at the rocks from which the baglio must have been hewn. The stone was sliced with minerals, she could see. And the cliffs beyond, were …
‘Marble and limestone,’ he said. ‘Coral too. Amber and agate. Many stones.’
Stone was important here. From the bedrock stone of the ancient baglio, to the honey-yellow sandstone of the buildings. Tess looked up at the pink villa – imposing on the cliff top. There was so much energy in its very core that at certain times of day and night it seemed positively to vibrate, almost humming with life.
‘But what made you do it?’ She was curious. ‘Why did you want to make mosaics from the glass and stone?’
‘As a process it is slow but rewarding,’ he told her. ‘It is a soothing activity. Therapeutic.’ He paused. ‘And the mosaics – they are part of Sicilian history.’ He got to his feet, dusted down his hands on his shorts and headed for the studio. ‘Sicily itself is a jigsaw.’
‘In what way?’ There was nothing left for her to do but follow. And besides, dragon or not, she was curious.
‘The most beautiful mosaics are in the duomo at Monreale,’ he said. ‘You should visit. They date from the Byzantine period. Byzantine tesserae are very special, very reflective. The gold and silver leaf is pressed in layers of glass. So.’ He made a movement with his fingers.
‘Really?’ Tess looked around the studio. It was small, but light filtered through the narrow windows at the side and flooded in from the front. There was a workbench cluttered with tools, adhesives, sponges, sheets of glass and metal; pots filled with different coloured stone and glass, some already shaped, some unpolished and uncut. In the corner was a small stove and out the back she could see another room with a bed and a settee.
‘The Greek mosaicists – they were famous.’ He filled a small percolator with water and fixed the filter. ‘And Palermo’s Norman kings, they encouraged the art.’
Tess watched as he took the top off a small canister and spooned out coffee. She caught a whiff of its fragrance, like burnt embers: nutty, woody – a scent of darkness. Mosaic-man didn’t seem too dangerous now. More like a history teacher really. He fixed the percolator together and put it on the stove.
‘But you don’t use cut tiles the way most mosaic makers do,’ she pointed out. His materials came from the natural world; there was no gold leaf here.
He lit the stove, his back to her. ‘Most mosaicists, they use the smalti,’ he explained. ‘It is a special intensely coloured glass, not a tile. It is cooked in a furnace then cut.’
Very different from his method, she thought. Sea glass and natural stone.
He turned to her. ‘Stones, they have long, slow lives,’ he said. ‘They do not die.’
Tess wasn’t sure how to reply to that. She knew what he meant though – it was uncannily like what she had just been thinking.
He opened a cupboard, took out a small tube of cream and brought it to her. ‘This may help.’ He took hold of her arm and massaged in some of the white cream. It was an intimate gesture and took Tess by surprise. But his touch was gentle, just a few strokes and it was done.
‘Grazie,’ she said.
‘It is nothing.’ He smiled, and in the dim light she could barely make out the old scar.
But it was something. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked him. She couldn’t go on thinking of him as Mosaic-man. Giovanni had told her his family name, but …
‘Tonino.’ He stretched out his hand. ‘Tonino Amato.’
‘Tess,’ she said. ‘Tess Angel.’ He had a strong grip and a dry palm.
‘Angel?’ He was also holding her hand for much longer than necessary and fixing her with a look that made her feel uncomfortable. As if – like Giovanni – he wanted something from her.
‘So where do you get your inspiration, Tonino?’ she asked. ‘For your work, I mean.’ She could hear the percolator beginning to bubble on the stove and the air was filling with the smoky and beguiling fragrance of good coffee.
He smiled. ‘Stories.’
‘What kind of stories?’
‘Sicilian fairy tales, myth, legend, call it what you want.’ He spread his hands. ‘We have a history of pillage and rape and poverty, you know this? It is part of the jigsaw I told you of.’
Tess nodded. It seemed impossible to have a light conversation with this man. Everything he said or did was imbued with intensity.
‘The stories – they are of courage and compassion,’ he said. ‘Of oppression, theft and betrayal.’
There it was again. Theft and betrayal. It seemed to be a recurring theme. Could Giovanni Sciarra possibly be right about this man? He had a temper – she’d seen it; but there was also an honesty about him that she liked.
‘And the subjects you choose …?’ She touched a fish mosaic. The fish was silver-grey and yellow, and emerging from a pearly white sea. The fish mosaic had been constructed above a mirror and above that sat a row of delicate yellow fins. Tess smiled. Ginny would love it. It would be perfect for their bathroom at home. But she didn’t want to ask the price, didn’t want him to think she was just another tourist, just another customer to flatter. ‘They are images from the stories?’
‘Exactly.’ He began to pour the coffee into tiny white cups. The coffee was thick and black, the crema hazelnut brown.
‘So the fish …?’
‘It is from the story of Ciccu,’ he said. ‘He rescues the fish from death and is rewarded when the fish returns a gold ring that he has been commanded to find by the King. Without it, he too will die.’ He put the coffee pot back on the stove. ‘Courage and compassion are rewarded, you see?’
Tess nodded. Was her family being rewarded – with Villa Sirena? ‘But they’re only stories,’ she said. ‘Aren’t they?’
‘Perhaps.’ He came to sit beside her and she was conscious of the warmth of his skin, very close, almost giving her goosebumps. ‘But the stories give a voice to those that are repressed. The poor, the peasants, those without power … ’
‘I see.’ Tess thought of what Giovanni had told her about the poverty in Sicily. Her mother’s family must have suffered too – at least until they were employed by Edward Westerman. And she remembered some of the bedtime stories her mother used to tell – about journeys and ogres and wicked princes. Were they too derived from Sicilian folklore? Had they been handed down, like recipes, from generation to generation?
‘Freud – he believed that old fables and myths were accurate descriptions of the working of the human mind,’ Tonino said.
Tess stared at him. He was a revelation. ‘Really?’ she said. ‘Tell me another story, will you?’ She let her gaze drift around the mosaics until she came to the green bird. Its head was bent as if it had just spied an insect, its beak bright yellow and parted. The wings were lifted, and the forked tail was upright and poised for flight. Its mosaic feathers glittered and gleamed, jade and emerald in the sunlight flooding through the window. ‘What about that one?’
‘The green bird is really a prince,’ he said.
Tess sipped her coffee and settled back to listen. Kings and queens and magic spells … It was like going back to childhood. She felt safe and sleepy. The coffee was delicious. It was richly roasted and true to its fragrance, it tasted of charred fires, chestnuts and night-time. It caught at the b
ack of her throat and yet there was a sweetness there too that lingered like tobacco.
While they drank their coffee, he continued to work and talk, and Tess listened and watched, half-mesmerised by the movement of his hands as he sorted the stones, as he washed and cut and polished and placed, laying out the pieces and assembling the pattern of his design. He began in one corner and then worked his way out, leaving gaps – for grouting she supposed – constantly changing his mind and replacing stone for stone, his fingers fast and sure.
‘And so the princess, she learns that too much humility will work against her,’ he said. ‘And that she must defend herself against abuse.’
‘And the green bird learns that true beauty comes from within,’ Tess added.
‘Exactly.’
‘Do you think that’s true?’
‘Do you?’
Silence. She realised that the jigsaw of the pieces he was working on had formed the tail of a serpent. Amber and green. A serpent … Good and evil, she thought. Another Sicilian contrast. Temptation.
He looked up at her and suddenly she felt self-conscious. It was as if he had hypnotised her and now the spell was broken. She could still taste the coffee like woodsmoke on her tongue. But now she had to find Giovanni and arrange a meeting with Santina. She got to her feet.
‘You must go. Things to do. People to see.’
‘Well, yes.’ She wanted to ask him about his family – about the three Sicilian families – but the right time to do so had slipped by.
He turned his attention once more to his design. ‘And your arm – it is better now, sì?’
She’d forgotten about it, it was so much better. ‘Yes. Thank you for putting that cream on it,’ she said. She paused, but didn’t say what she’d half intended to say. Instead, it seemed to hang in the air between them.
He nodded his head. ‘Though it was not the cream that made it better,’ he said with a quick grin, gone almost as soon as she saw it appear. ‘It was the coffee.’
She laughed. ‘I’d better be going.’
‘Back to the mermaid’s villa.’ He smiled.
‘Back to …?’
‘Villa Sirena.’
Suddenly she got it. Sirena was Italian for mermaid. And the motif above the front door – the sad-faced woman with the long curly hair whose body divided and encircled her, covered with stars … She was the mermaid in question.
He smiled. ‘There is a story about her too,’ he said. ‘Maybe one day I will tell you.’
CHAPTER 16
At twelve noon there was a knock at the front door. Ginny opened it in her dressing gown. It was Lisa.
‘Just checking you’re OK,’ she said.
‘Hi,’ said Ginny. ‘Look, I’m sorry if we made a racket last night. We didn’t keep you awake or anything did we?’
‘No.’ Lisa folded her arms. ‘But it was a hell of a night in with the girls. Who needs men, that’s all I can say.’
‘Yeah. Well.’ Ginny slouched against the doorframe. Why were your own parties always a let down? She groaned. ‘You won’t tell Mum, will you?’
‘Do I need to?’ Lisa was looking serious. But at least she wasn’t having a go.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ll clear up the house. Mum need never know.’ She hoped.
‘OK.’ Lisa paused. ‘Was there any damage?’
‘Damage?’ Ginny tried her innocent voice. The Ball shifted – a millimetre, just enough to show its face. What kind of damage was she talking about? Some torn raffia on Jack’s leg when two of the boys had pretended to have sex with him (so gross)? Stains on her mother’s cream carpet and sofa? Or her own bruised heart?
‘A bit,’ Ginny admitted. ‘A few er, spillages.’
‘But nothing terminal?’
‘Nothing terminal,’ Ginny confirmed. Though the party had got a bit wild; she had drunk way, way too much and Jack wasn’t the only one to be worse for wear and tear. But no one had died. As for Ben …
After Lisa left, Ginny took a closer look at the damage. She shifted the sofa and picked up bottles and glasses. The suspected scorch mark seemed to be mud. Which was what her name would be if Mum got to hear about this – ha ha. There were stains everywhere. But no, nothing terminal.
By 3 p.m. Ginny had wiped, polished and scrubbed most signs of the party away. She dragged Henry the Hoover out of semi-retirement under the stairs and switched him on. He acted a bit surprised, then rumbled into action and negotiated his way around without regurgitating once. Ginny wondered why people – especially her mother – complained about housework. It was simple. You waited until someone was coming round. Then you cleaned up. Why did people make such a fuss?
Ginny put Henry away and started stacking the dishwasher, since the kitchen was the room her mother would examine first. Becca turned up an hour later as Ginny had guessed she might.
‘Yo, Gins,’ she said. They invariably met up after a night out to discuss and analyse everyone’s movements and motives.
‘Yo,’ replied Ginny. Only this time she wasn’t sure she felt up to it.
Becca wasn’t feeling top dog either. ‘I have THE most massive hangover from hell,’ she complained.
‘Me too.’ Ginny tossed her a couple of paracetamol. ‘Take some drugs then.’
For about half an hour Becca talked non-stop about Harry who she’d been snogging all night at the party, barely emerging for air. Shivering salmon, Ginny was surprised she had a face left. Becca had been having URL (UnResolved Lust) for him for weeks, and at the first sign that he reciprocated, Becca had left Ginny to it. (So much for friendship and girl power.) Now, Ginny learnt that Becca and Harry’d been texting each other all morning. So every word had to be examined, every punctuation mark analysed, every kiss counted.
‘D’you think I should just let it all out?’ Becca asked, breasts heaving. ‘How I feel about him, I mean?’
Ginny was under the impression she’d done that last night. ‘Dunno.’ Though even Ginny knew that instant adoration was unlikely to lead to commitment.
Becca sat back in the chair. She had that puppy look on her face that she and Ginny always took the piss out of when anyone else had it. ‘He’s got a car and everything,’ she breathed.
‘Fabulous.’ Ginny yawned.
Becca gave her a look. ‘What ’bout you?’
Ginny sighed. Ben had arrived after midnight with three girls and two guys in tow – not a great start, especially since one of the girls was at least a 38E and most of it was on display. He was hammered and Ginny was so nervous that pretty soon she was too. The party got louder and louder and at some point Ben had to break up a fight. Ginny remembered wishing everyone would go home and she must have said this to Ben, because somehow he’d got rid of them all. Then there was just Ben.
‘Did he stay?’ Becca asked.
When there was just Ben, Ginny had started to get scared again. She wished her mum was there. She wished she’d never had this party and that her mum had never gone to Sicily. She wished she hadn’t drunk so much. And she wished the Ball was the kind of ball you could just bounce away from you or throw into the air for someone else to catch.
‘Can I stay?’ he’d asked her.
‘Course,’ she mumbled. She’d wanted him to, hadn’t she? Hadn’t she planned it? Only now all she could think of was when rather than whether she was going to be sick.
‘Yeah.’ Ginny affected a composure she didn’t feel. It had been weird having Ben in her room and in her bed. Because home was just her and Mum and as for the bed bit … Well, she supposed it didn’t feel right. Not yet. At the same time …
‘Don’t worry,’ Ben had said. ‘I won’t come on to you.’
Why not? Why the clattering crocodiles not? What was wrong with her? Boys came on to Becca all the time. Ginny had said Ben could stay. What further encouragement did he need?
In the event, after a bit of kissing (he was good – very good) and a bit of fooling around – though they didn’t even get to second bas
e, he fell asleep, and after she’d been sick – as quietly as possible in the downstairs loo – Ginny did too. In the morning, despite feeling totally wrecked, she made him a bacon sandwich and he was up and gone. Ginny decided that she didn’t understand boys. Not at all.
‘Nothing happened,’ she told Becca.
‘Yeah, right,’ said Becca, and started talking about Harry again. Commitment or not, a lot had happened with Harry – and Becca was happy to describe it in graphic detail …
‘So are you gonna see him again?’ she asked Ginny, as she was leaving.
‘’Spect so,’ said Ginny. She’d been checking her phone every ten minutes all day. And her optimism was plummeting with every hour that passed.
‘Stay cool,’ said Becca.
Ginny nodded. ‘You too.’
After she’d left, Ginny wasn’t sure what to do. The Ball kept knotting up and tipping towards her throat, so she decided to send a text – to her mother. It might stop her feeling so guilty.
Miss u, she wrote. Hope Sicily is fab. Gxx
A text came back almost immediately. Ginny smiled. Her mother was getting faster. Miss u 2, Ginny-pie, it said. Will call u lata. Much love Mxx
Ginny-pie … Her mum hadn’t called her that for ages. And suddenly, unaccountably, all Ginny wanted to do was cry.
CHAPTER 17
Tess found Giovanni on the other side of the baglio talking to a couple of swarthy-looking men. They sloped off when they saw her.
‘Ciao,’ she said.
From the look he shot her, he hadn’t quite forgiven her for speaking to the enemy. ‘Tess.’ He bowed his head.
‘I wondered. Could I come and talk to you and your Aunt Santina soon?’
‘Sì.’ He shrugged. ‘Come tonight, for dolce.’
‘Dolce?’
‘Sweetness. Dessert.’ He made a gesture of kissing his fingers. ‘A glass of wine too. Why not?’
‘I’d love to. Shall I come to the house?’ Though she wasn’t convinced she’d find it again. The village beyond the baglio was a maze leading up to the main road out of town and just when you saw one familiar set of stone steps leading up from the piazza on the other side of the stone arch, you spotted another.
