The Villa

by Rosanna Ley

  This morning, after she’d left Tonino, returned to the villa and got changed, Tess had wandered around, getting a feel for this place where her mother had spent the early part of her life. On the outskirts of the village there were fields and olive groves to the east and mountains to the west. In the heart of Cetaria itself, the jumble of village houses had been built in stone, now worn and weathered, with faded stucco facades and blue or green shutters, their roofs and guttering made of Mediterranean terracotta. The cobbled streets were narrow and steep, grouped around piazzas with stone benches and old fountains, the occasional tiny Rosario chapel and maybe a fig or olive tree. The scent of jasmine and hibiscus filled the air, and views of the bay could be found, almost unexpectedly, around every other corner. The entire village appeared to be bending towards the baglio and the sea.

  In the mornings, all the women did their washing, cleaning and shopping. Brightly coloured rugs, sheets and clothes hung out of windows and on lines above balconies, blowing in the wind. The women clustered around food stalls in the main piazza or polished their steps or their windows until they shone, stopping every few minutes for long conversations with other women, mostly old, mostly dressed in black and mostly bent – with a lifetime of drudgery, Tess supposed. And this was what her own mother would have been like if she had not left for England. So who could blame her?

  ‘I will meet you here,’ said Giovanni. ‘At seven.’ Decisive as ever.

  A few hours later Tess arrived for their meeting, dressed now in a sleeveless white linen dress and thonged sandals.

  Giovanni treated her to a long and appraising look. ‘Bella,’ he said. ‘You are looking very lovely tonight, Tess.’

  ‘Well, thanks.’ She was aware that her skin had already acquired a golden tan and her hair was bleached blonder by the sun. And she couldn’t stop smiling. Why shouldn’t she? She was in an amazing place. She had just had a lovely conversation with her daughter – for once, Ginny had seemed genuinely interested in what Tess was doing, what the villa was like and what Tess had discovered. Perhaps it was a case of absence making the heart grow fonder. Perhaps her mother had been right and she and Ginny had turned a corner. So Tess was feeling good – despite everything that had happened with Robin.

  He inclined his head.

  Tess was curious. ‘What do you do, Giovanni?’ she asked him. ‘For a living, I mean.’ He seemed to have a lot of free time for a man of thirty-something who clearly had money.

  He shrugged. ‘This and sometimes that,’ he said. And then, even more obscurely. ‘It is difficult, even now, to make a living here in Cetaria.’

  Some sort of entrepreneur, no doubt, Tess thought, as he strode ahead and she struggled once again to keep up with him. She could imagine that. Not exactly a crook, but then not exactly honest either. A bit of a chancer. Ruthless, if necessary. She imagined there were a lot of men like him in Sicily.

  There were masses of cars and people about, and she mentioned this.

  Giovanni barely broke his stride. ‘It is the hour of the passegiata,’ he said. ‘People come out to greet each other. It is tradition.’ And sure enough, she noticed that as they walked he lifted his hand in greeting to various individuals. A bit like the Queen, though Tess decided not to mention this. Sicilian men were very macho. And the cars, she realised, were not driving from A to B but rather in a big circle that encompassed main road and village. Then round and round again. So the purpose was not to reach a destination, but to be out and to be seen. Fair enough. It must be the Sicilian way.

  They arrived at Santina’s and the old woman greeted Tess as effusively as before, kissing her on both cheeks so that once again, Tess felt the bristles on the old woman’s dark, papery skin. Santina pulled her into the darkness inside the house, along the hall and into la cucina, clearly the pulse of the home.

  The kitchen table was laden with pastries. ‘Cannoli,’ Giovanni said. ‘The classic pastry of Sicily. Made by Roberta in the village.’ There was also a bottle of white wine and three delicate, thin-stemmed glasses.

  ‘Her best things,’ Giovanni said. ‘She almost never uses them. You are a special visitor.’

  ‘I’m honoured.’ And she was.

  Speaking in a torrent of Sicilian, Santina pointed to Tess’s eyes.

  ‘What does she say?’ Tess asked Giovanni.

  ‘Your eyes are so blue,’ he said. ‘Of course, this is unusual in Sicily. She says that your mother must have married a very handsome, blue-eyed man.’

  Tess thought of her father and laughed. ‘She did.’

  More talk.

  ‘She asks if you are married, and I told her no. ‘Why not?’ she says.’

  ‘Perhaps I never met the right man,’ Tess quipped. She accepted a plate and a small pastry from Santina. The outside crust was crisp as she bit into it, but inside it was rich and creamy.

  ‘Ricotta,’ Giovanni said, ‘With honey and candied fruit. The outside is the scorza, the pastry casing.’

  ‘Mmm.’ It was heady stuff. Tess didn’t want even to imagine the calories. She was used, of course, to the Sicilian pastries. Muma often made cassata, tartufino and cornetti – basically Italian versions of croissants. But somehow they tasted different here.

  She accepted the glass of wine that Giovanni handed to her. ‘Salute.’

  He grinned. ‘Bottoms up. Is that not what you English say?’

  She laughed. ‘Not very often these days.’

  Santina was still speaking. Giovanni nodded. ‘Love is for life,’ she says. ‘The right man cannot always be there at the right time.’

  Tess thought of Robin. She really couldn’t imagine marrying him. Aside from the indisputable fact that he was married already, she couldn’t see them like that – married, together, sharing their lives. And yet – wasn’t that what she’d always wanted? The special love of her life, the partner, the soulmate? Wasn’t that what everyone wanted, deep down?

  ‘Can you ask your Aunt Santina about my mother?’ she said to Giovanni. She turned to the old woman as if she could understand what she was saying. ‘Muma never talks about Sicily,’ she said. ‘About her childhood. I don’t understand why. There’s so much I want to know.’ She realised her knuckles were clenched hard.

  Santina had a sweet look of understanding on her dark, wrinkled face.

  Giovanni spoke to her again and she nodded, not taking her eyes off Tess.

  ‘Ask her if Flavia had a young man who she loved,’ Tess said, watching her.

  Santina blinked and spoke once more to Giovanni. She gestured towards the ceiling and Giovanni sighed heavily and got to his feet. God, Tess wished she could speak Sicilian – or even Italian.

  Giovanni left the room, still talking to them over his shoulder. ‘There is something she wants you to see,’ he said. ‘I will only be a moment.’

  As soon as he was gone, Santina practically darted across the room. She put her hand on Tess’s head, cupping it in her palm. ‘Your mother was made of fire,’ she whispered.

  Tess gaped at her. ‘You speak English—’

  ‘Shh.’ Santina glanced towards the open door. ‘Giovanni – he does not know.’

  Tess nodded. She wanted to know why, but now was not the time. The old woman’s urgency had created a tension in the air.

  ‘Flavia never did what they want,’ Santina murmured in her broken English. ‘Flavia did what Flavia want.’

  Tess grabbed her hand. ‘And what did she want, Santina? Can you tell me?’

  ‘Flavia never want the boys from the village. Pah!’ Another glance towards the door.

  ‘Who then?’ This was a breakthrough Tess hadn’t dreamed of.

  ‘Ah.’ For a moment Santina looked sad. ‘She want to be free, my child. Your mother want to be free.’ She sighed. ‘In Sicily,’ she said, ‘not possible to be free.’

  Tess squeezed her hand. ‘And you?’ she murmured. ‘Did you want to be free?’ She could only imagine the kind of life her mother and Santina had lived. There was
the poverty Giovanni had spoken of, the horrors of the war and fascism. There was the Mafia, for heaven’s sake.

  Violently, Santina shook her head. ‘For women, not possible,’ she said. ‘We have the home, we given to husband – or we not.’ She fixed Tess with her inscrutable dark gaze. ‘This is our life.’

  But not Flavia’s life, Tess thought. ‘What happened to her?’ she whispered. ‘What happened to Flavia?’ All she could think of was her mother – the little firebrand who wanted to be free. She could almost see her playing in the fields with Santina, helping with the chores in the cottage, being read to by Edward Westerman in Villa Sirena. Learning about England – where a woman could be free.

  Santina leaned so close that Tess could feel the dryness of her skin and smell her warm breath. ‘She find the Englishman,’ Santina whispered. ‘She find him, child. Sì.’ She nodded energetically.

  Tess heard Giovanni’s heavy tread on the stairs. ‘What Englishman?’ And what did she mean – she found him?

  Santina stroked her hair, touched her cheek and moved back to the other side of the room. She began to hum, softly.

  Giovanni entered the room. He handed his aunt a piece of embroidery, an old sampler.

  She smiled and brought it over to Tess, speaking once more in Sicilian.

  Giovanni translated, looking bored now. ‘She says that she made this with Flavia. It was a sort of, how do you say, friendship thing.’ He shrugged.

  Tess touched the fabric, a kind of thin natural linen. The stitches had faded with time, but she could make out the cross-stitch pattern, the interlocking diamonds. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said, looking straight at Santina.

  She inclined her head.

  Tess gave it back and took a sip of her wine which was sweet and thick. Dolce indeed. She didn’t know now what to ask – or how much to say.

  Santina began to speak once more. ‘Something happened,’ Giovanni said darkly. ‘During the war. My aunt was no longer welcome at your mother’s house. The Farro family had a secret. She did not know what it was. Flavia did not say. And she never found out.’

  Tess frowned. Another secret? She accepted another dolce. They were so good. But something told her that there might be more than one version of the past. Santina didn’t want Giovanni to know she understood English. Maybe she also didn’t want him to know the truth?

  Santina smiled and nodded.

  ‘She likes to see people eat,’ Giovanni remarked. ‘She used to make all the dolce herself, but they take for ever and these days she gets tired.’

  Santina listened as he translated and then replied. ‘She says that you need la pazienza – patience as well as energy,’ he told Tess. ‘You cannot hurry dolce.’

  Tess nodded solemnly. Was she just talking about dolce? Tonino too had mentioned patience, but she only had a week to find out what she needed to know, to decide what to do with her inheritance. Did she have the time to be patient? ‘And then my mother left for England?’ she asked.

  Giovanni passed this on. ‘Not then,’ he said, after Santina had replied. ‘Flavia left a few years later. By then the Farro and the Sciarra families were once more simpatico and close.’ He gestured with his hands as he had done once before. ‘Flavia was sad, my aunt says. She never told her why, but she thinks it was a matter of love.’

  Isn’t it always, Tess thought.

  But half an hour later, as she left to follow Giovanni out of the house, Santina gripped her upper arm. ‘I cannot say more,’ she muttered under her breath, before kissing her on both cheeks. ‘Ciao, ciao.’

  Cannot say more … An interesting way of putting it, Tess thought. Cannot because she didn’t know the full story – or cannot because Giovanni Sciarra was in the room? She wasn’t entirely sure. One thing she did know though – she had to get Santina on her own somehow; only then might she get the uncensored version of her mother’s story …

  It was just after nine. The passegiata had long finished and the streets were almost empty. Tess wanted to dawdle across the baglio, take in the fragrances and shadows of night-time alone. But Giovanni was striding ahead again, clearly determined to escort her right to the front door. But no further, she decided.

  ‘Have you thought about it?’ he asked, as they passed the huge eucalyptus tree. ‘What you will do with the villa?’

  ‘Yes, but I haven’t made a decision.’ She could smell the faint blue menthol of the leaves as they brushed against her shoulders, mingling with the salt air and the dampness of the stone. ‘I might even rent it out – to holidaymakers perhaps.’

  ‘Ah.’ He turned. ‘You do not want to sell?’ In the darkness she couldn’t see his expression.

  ‘No. At least not yet.’

  He shook his head. ‘We should discuss this matter.’

  ‘Should we?’ As they passed Tonino’s place, she saw that the door was firmly shut. And in the window, almost complete, was the serpent mosaic. The bright greens seemed to glitter in the lights surrounding the display like the sun on the sea; the black markings of slate like tiny arrows. Yellow glass eyes shone from the flatness of the head. It was both beautiful – and evil. She shivered. Couldn’t imagine anyone buying it actually.

  ‘But, yes.’ He held out the crook of his arm as they reached the bottom of the steps and, after a moment’s hesitation, she took it. ‘I will take you for dinner tomorrow. Somewhere special, yes?’

  ‘You really don’t have to—’ Tess demurred. He was very kind, but she couldn’t help worrying that there might be a price to pay.

  He cut her off, one finger on his lips. ‘I insist.’ His voice was stern. ‘In Cetaria we take our responsibilities seriously. And I must tell you more about the Villa Serena.’

  ‘Tell me what?’ Tess was intrigued. More secrets? And why should he feel responsible for her? At the top of the steps she unlocked the gate and they walked round to the front of the villa.

  ‘And perhaps you will tell me something in return.’ He was close now, almost whispering in her ear.

  ‘If I can.’ Tess moved fractionally away. What now?

  ‘Your mother – she gave you some message perhaps?’ By now they were under the lamp by the big old front door, and she saw the irritation spark in his dark eyes. ‘Something in the house?’ he went on. ‘Something to look for? Some special object whose whereabouts she knows of, yes?’

  Tess frowned. She had no idea what he was talking about, but he also clearly had no idea of how silent her mother could be on the subject of Sicily.

  ‘That is why you have come all this way, no?’ he asked. ‘To locate it?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘She told me nothing.’

  ‘Nothing?’ Marginally, his shoulders slumped.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Va bene.’ He shrugged in that Sicilian way and held out his hand, presumably for her key.

  ‘I’m tired, Giovanni,’ she said. ‘I must say goodnight.’ You obviously had to be firm with these men. Give them an inch and …

  ‘As you wish.’ He gave a curt nod. ‘Goodnight then.’

  ‘Till tomorrow?’ She reached forwards to kiss his cheek.

  ‘Sì. Dumani.’ He turned and went out the front way, opening the gates and signalling to her to close and lock them after him. In seconds, he was swallowed by the night.

  Tess opened the front door and walked straight out through the hall and the kitchen to the back terrace, only pausing to throw her bag on the kitchen chair. She stood for a moment, looking down at the bay. The darkening sky was still blushed with pink.

  She had hoped to find some answers tonight, but now there were more questions than ever. During the war the Farro family had kept a secret – what was it? She sensed that Santina knew. Her mother – the little firebrand; she chuckled; this so summed her up. Muma was still a little firebrand – none of her family dared cross her. And her mother had found an Englishman? This could be, she realised, Santina’s broken English. Maybe Muma had met an Englishman …? Then there was the debt, the the
ft and the betrayal … And now it seemed that there was a mysterious something hidden in the villa. Tess shook her head in confusion. And why on earth shouldn’t Giovanni know that his Aunt Santina had learnt to speak English?

  There was a man standing at the water’s edge looking out to the rippling ebony sea. It had to be Tonino. He looked restless. Sad too.

  What was his secret, she wondered. After all, it seemed that in Sicily, everyone must have one.

  CHAPTER 18

  They brought him under cover of darkness.

  So he was not dead, Madonna be praised. Not dead, but barely breathing, his chest rattling with the effort of staying alive.

  Her father and Alberto – they had done this alone, God knows how – wore grave faces and spoke sotto voce, adaciu, as if someone who might betray them was hidden in the very stone core of the cottage itself. Mama fetched towels, warm water and bandages, moving swiftly and silently through the house. Maria just shook her head in despair. Anyone would think that she was one of them – an adult – instead of just a girl, only a few years older than Flavia herself.

  ‘Pray for him, daughter,’ said Mama, as if Flavia – who was no longer sure that God could be trusted to answer her prayers – wasn’t doing just that, every hour of every day. Pray to Madonna. Pray for forgiveness. Pray that he lives.

  ‘And tell no one,’ added Papa. ‘Not even Santina.’

  She knew then that he had not told Enzo. This would have been Alberto’s decision, she guessed. It was common knowledge that there was bad blood between the two families, a seam of distrust that stretched back through generations of Amatos and Sciarras – a dispute over some land, she had heard, a squabble that had grown more bitter over the years – fed by gossip and mistrust, by underhand dealings and dangerous alliances. Her father had always been stuck in the middle of the two.

  She stole into the room they had prepared for the airman, the tiny bedroom where Mama’s sister slept when she came to stay. He lay in the bed, still as a statue. His forehead was white and pearled with sweat.