Ontreto

by Peter Crawley

  The Carabinieri are still checking the papers of people queuing for the Aliscafo and he thinks he spots Valeria among them. To avoid the policemen, Ric slips into the Corso Vittorio through a narrow alley to his right and strides up the cobbled street.

  Halfway up the Corso a diminutive individual is sitting at a café.

  There is nothing out of the ordinary in a man sitting alone; many of those loitering in the cafés sit by themselves and watch the world pass by. However, this man stands out from the many others. He is watching, though not in a casual or cursory fashion; his eyes are sharp and they move fast from one person to the next. He is judging those who pass him by, weighing them in his mind and committing their images to memory.

  And, this man is not wearing the relaxed apparel of any local; for him there is no short-sleeved shirt fashioned from a material that resembles the kitchen curtains, no trousers that look as though long ago they lost touch with their corresponding suit jacket and no shoes that are slipped easily from one’s feet at the door. This man is wearing a sombre grey suit, white shirt and funereal tie; his shoes are laced and polished. A grey Homburg sits on the table before him.

  Yet what truly sets the man apart from the locals is that all the tables around him are vacant except for one, at which table sit two smartly turned out policemen. One of them is very tall and solidly built and neither of them are smoking or drinking. They wait, both attentive and apprehensive, like courtiers to a doge.

  The man sees Ric come striding up the Corso and immediately picks him out to be a cat amongst pigeons.

  Ric knows it is unwise to make eye contact with such an individual; his training has taught him to recognise such people and assume the pretence of ignorance.

  However, his gaze is drawn to the man as if by some curious magnet and, once the connection has been established, Ric feels the only course left open to him is to acknowledge him. So he nods, politely.

  The man inclines his head subtly. He doesn’t nod outright. Evidently, he doesn’t want those around him to know he has made Ric an exception to his rule.

  29

  Down in the Corta the day is drawing to a close. The square has tripped into shadow and the tourists have retired to prepare for evening.

  Sandro is lurking in his usual café. Giuliana is hovering nearby. “Hey, Ric,” he calls, “how is your boat?”

  Ric swings by and pulls up a chair at the same table. “What are you, Sandro? Working for the CEKA?”

  Giuliana appears as if by magic and Ric taps Sandro’s beer bottle.

  “No, my friend,” the escurzionista replies frowning, “I’m not working for the secret police of the Duce. This is a small island and today I go to Porticello on my scooter. I pass by Canneto and see you and Maggiore in the café. So, naturally I think you have gone to find out about your boat. It is so, yes?”

  Ric grins. “Just kidding, Sandro,” he chuckles.

  A Birra Messina appears. Giuliana lingers as she reaches over him and places it on the table; her perfume is all roses and she touches his shoulder as she stands back.

  Sandro flinches.

  “Yes, I know,” Ric mutters.

  “So, how is your boat?”

  “Could be better. She needs a bit more than a passing dose of TLC.”

  “TLC? What is this? I don’t know this.” Sandro screws up his face, and, what with his doughy features and curly hair, he presents a curiously charming picture of dismay.

  “Tender loving care. It’s what all women need every now and then.” Ric nods towards the waitress.

  But Sandro has gone all po-faced, “This is not funny, my friend. If you put your fingers in this pizza, you must be sure to count them when you have finished eating.” He shakes his hand as though to flick water off it.

  “Sorry,” Ric chuckles, “didn’t mean to tread on your toes.”

  “No, my friend, I am serious. I like my toes as much as my fingers and I intend for them to be connected to my feet and my hands for a long time.” Now it is his turn to nod and he does so towards the stony, pinch-faced owner, who is deep in conversation with a group of his acolytes at the back of the café.

  “The wrong word can travel very fast in this place. You know, Gallese, a woman is like a Lamborghini: from being still one minute, she can accelerate to incredible speed and then be stopped very suddenly by an accident. This happens most often when the Lamborghini is in the hands of one who is not qualified to drive it.” Sandro touches the corner of his right eye. “I would not want you to have an accident when you were a passenger in this car, eh?”

  Ric laughs, which upsets his companion even further. “Sorry, Sandro, you are right on so many counts. I’m grateful for your advice and no little touched that you should go to the trouble of gifting it.”

  The escurzionista is embarrassed at such an explicit pronouncement of affection and colours instantly.

  “Il Velaccino tells me I may be here for a couple of weeks,” Ric says, “he tells me the Mara needs a fair bit of work.”

  “He would know this.”

  “I suppose he would,” Ric replies. “He seems a pretty regular guy.”

  When Sandro doesn’t follow this assessment of Marcello’s character with a ringing endorsement, Ric is inclined to press further. “My Italian isn’t up to much, I wonder if you might help me with a word I read today? I think I know what it means, but I’m not sure and wouldn’t want to use it in case I offended someone.”

  “Sure! What is the word?”

  “Integerrimo, if I’ve got the pronunciation correct.”

  Sandro thinks for a few seconds. “Integerrimo; it means… honest. When used to describe a man this way, you would say this man is a person of integrity.”

  Ric is pleased to learn his forebear, if indeed Antonio Sciacchitano is his forebear, was considered a man of integrity; an honest citizen. But the query serves his purpose.

  “So would you describe Marcello Maggiore as a man of integrity?”

  Sandro fixes him with a stern, questioning expression. “Integrity,” he states, “is a commodity that can be measured in many different ways.” He ponders his aphorism for a few seconds, fidgeting uncomfortably. “But for repairing a boat, I think you can rely on his integrity; that is all I can say.”

  Ric purses his lips and weighs up the escurzionista’s judgement.

  But something is rather obviously troubling Sandro; he looks about nervously.

  Thinking that, perhaps, Sandro is nervous of talking about Marcello Maggiore in public, Ric suggests, “I’ve got a bottle of Caravaglio in the fridge, why don’t we go and find a home for it?”

  Sandro glances at him and sighs. “Yes, of course. Why not? This would be better.”

  Back at his monolocale, Ric throws together a plate of antipasti and uncorks the bottle. Though not short of a spare pound of flesh, Sandro tucks in to the prosciutto and tomatoes as though he hasn’t eaten for a week.

  “This is good wine, eh?” he mumbles between slurps.

  “I see there’s plenty of Carabinieri about,” Ric says, casually.

  “Yes, the Maddalena is still closed. They have the medico legale there. I think you call them forensic people, is that correct?”

  “It is. They seem to be checking the identities of people taking the Aliscafo too.”

  “It is normal.”

  “I guess it’s only natural what with Candela being such a bigshot.”

  Sandro looks up from his food and, as he chews, studies Ric. He swallows noisily and says, “I forget, you don’t like the police. But yes, Candela’s murder would upset many people.”

  “People to do with the new energy supply you said he was going to talk about; promising the people free electricity, that sort of thing?”

  “Yes, that sort of thing. But also because it looks bad for the islands when a man of importance is murdered here,” Sandro replies. “But it was not only the energy he promised everyone. In his speech he said that as well as the free electricity, he has
put a group together to build a very large hotel at Porticello; a very large hotel: one thousand rooms, perhaps more. It would double the capacity for the island.”

  “That would be a good thing, wouldn’t it?” Ric asks.

  Sandro nods and then shakes his head: “Probably, but also possibly not.”

  “How come?” Ric remembers Valeria mentioning some plans to build a hotel and being fairly ambivalent about its benefits; something about the island losing its World Heritage Status.

  “Candela said that this hotel would bring much work for the people. He said it would bring much money into the community; better schools, more transport, and so on.” He scoffs as though Candela’s idea was ridiculous.

  “So, what’s the downside?”

  “The downside, as you put it, is that the island cannot support this. The tourist season is very short: three maybe four months. So, for the rest of the year it would be empty. There are not enough people here to staff a hotel of one thousand rooms; they would have to bring in many eastern Europeans to do the housework, the laundry, the waiting at tables, the kitchen; all this type of work. These eastern Europeans can be anyone: Romanians, Lithuanians, Croatians, all thieves and murderers. They would do more damage to the island than Barbarossa.”

  “I guess when you put it that way it doesn’t sound so appealing.”

  “Also, they would upset the status quo. Not the pop group,” he grins, “the ecology; this sort of thing. The Aeolian Islands may look like heaven with our clear blue waters, quiet beaches and quaint houses, but there is a balance to our society. It has become this way over many centuries, not overnight.”

  Ric recalls a similar conversation he had with Camille in Corsica. “But surely the island must have some kind of council which represents the people; some kind of planning committee?”

  Sandro nods, “Yes, there is a planning committee. This idea of a big hotel has been tried before. It has always been turned down. But this new plan is so big the people who plan it cannot build it without first listening to certain people. It’s not completely democratic, of course,” he grins sheepishly. “You are on an island in the Sicilian Sea, if you know what I mean?”

  “I think I do. You mean the Mafia?” Ric asks.

  “Of a kind. But maybe it is more about where you think you exist in the food chain, eh? I told you, there is a balance to the society that certain people will not give up without a fight. Not all interests are the same, you know. It’s not always about the money.”

  “Sure, Sandro, I get that. But if it’s not about the money, who has so much to lose that they would do away with Candela? Isn’t there anyone on the planning committee who carries enough clout to get a project of that size rejected?”

  He nods as he slips the last tomato into his mouth. When he has swallowed it, he says, “Possibly, but also probably not. You know how the food chain works? The small dog is at the mercy of the big dog and the big dog is at the mercy of the bigger dog. Only,” he pauses, working a morsel of food out from between his teeth with his tongue…

  But Ric is inclined to think the escurzionista is avoiding speaking rather than paying attention to his dental hygiene: “Only what, Sandro?”

  “Only…” he hesitates again, “mercy is like integrity; it comes with a price.”

  “So, what you’re saying is that the dogs on the planning committee are not big enough to take on the big dogs in Palermo?”

  Sandro bobbles his head from side to side again, “In a manner of speaking.” He glances over at Ric as though he is beginning to dislike the route his questioning is taking. “You know, Ric, even small dogs can be vicious when left with no way out other than to fight.”

  “Yes, I know what you mean, Sandro. Believe me; I’ve seen enough of them. But what kind of people make up this planning committee: lawyers, judges, professionals?”

  Sandro has cleared the plate of antipasti and the wine is finished. He wipes his hands on his grubby handkerchief and hauls himself to his feet, readying himself to leave. He looks strangely unsettled, as though he is late for an appointment. “All kinds of people,” he says frowning, his fingers on the handle of the door. “People like Marcello Maggiore and his brother, Claudio.”

  30

  At passeggio Ric decides to take a stroll out to see Valeria. There is more he needs to know about the man she calls the sailmaker and he feels he has exhausted his credit with Sandro.

  The Maddalena is still closed, so he takes the steps up towards San Nicola. There is a late Mass taking place in the Santa Anna and apart from the echoes of the priest’s solemnities and the tidal swell of murmured chorus from the congregation, the town is peaceful.

  He passes by the house of Marcello in Capistello, there appears to be no one at home bar a dog sleeping on the veranda, and the sun is setting as he turns down the lane that leads to the Casa dei Sconosciuti.

  Valeria is not in and he realises that perhaps it was her he had seen waiting for the Aliscafo.

  As he walks back, he watches the sea cast off its soft imperial purple only to lay bare its stark obsidian veneer. There is little or no breeze and the clouds have long departed to the higher reaches of the mountains of Sicily, where they can rest more easily in the cooler atmosphere.

  Mass is still in progress at the church and Ric is at a loose end. So he follows the Via Sant’Anna and turns down the Vico Cupido. Surprised that it is open so late, he stops off at the Pasticceria d’Ambra for cannolicchio.

  He is, for some reason he cannot fathom, under the impression that he is being followed; the hairs on his forearms and the back of his neck bristle every now and again. But, standing outside the parlour eating his finger of ricotta filled pastry, he can see no proof that his concern is anything other than a self-conscious reaction to knowing the Beretta is now in the wrong hands.

  Old Nino is sitting beneath San Bartolo, leaning on his stick. He is listening to an argument between two younger men, who now and then turn to Old Nino as if to seek his affirmation.

  Ric sets himself carefully beside the old man, who tilts his head towards Ric to let him know he has recognised a newcomer on the low wall.

  “Buonasera, Nino.”

  His face creases into a happy beam. “Ah, buonasera, Ric. Cumu va?”

  “As it goes, Nino. You know how it is.”

  The old boy chuckles, “Yes, I do. It goes the way it always goes: some days our skies are blue; some days they are not. But forgive me a moment; I must settle a dispute between two young friends.”

  The two men arguing before Nino are both younger, but, Ric decides, that probably puts them in their late seventies. They wear pork-pie hats, striped, short-sleeved shirts, and their grey trousers are supported by thin braces. However, their clothing is not what is remarkable.

  Nino holds up his slender palm as a signal he wants to speak, “Per favore,” he asks, gently, “un’altra volta, per favore.”

  They turn to the old man. They are flabbergasted that he should interrupt their squabble. But when they see their referee has a visitor, they touch the rims of their hats and slope off like scolded dogs.

  “Twins, eh? They come to me because they believe that as I cannot see them, their similarity will not confuse my judgement and therefore I will be able to understand the subtle differences upon which they argue.”

  The gentle hubbub of the Corta is broken only by the arrival of a smart pulmino from a luxury hotel. The occupants alight; their clothing far too this season, their tans too yellow for them to be anything other than tourists.

  “You have found out something of this ancestor of yours?” Nino asks.

  “Possibly. I found a gravestone up by the chapel wall. The inscription reads ANTONIO SCIACCHITANO and gives his date of passing as LUGLIO 1930. It says he was an INTEGERRIMO CITTADINO.”

  Nino sighs and repeats, “Integerrimo…” thinking for a moment, staring into the darkness before his eyes, remembering, calculating. He smiles, exposing his yellowed teeth, “This word, it mean
s an honest man. Yes, it means honest. But, it also means something more. I remember the Americans have a saying, an expression, some slang for this word. They would say this of a man one could depend on. They would say this man was a solid citizen. That is the word: solid. It speaks well of your ancestor.”

  “Well, that’s reassuring, Nino. Thank you.”

  “But the date you say: July 1930. This date,” he stares once more into the distance, “this date, it is important…” The old man is silent for a while; his face impassive as he tries to recall the significance of it.

  The lanterns in the Corta cast a gentle, muted glow over Old Nino as he wrestles with his memory.

  Eventually, the corners of his mouth turn down and his expression changes to one of resignation. He shakes his head very slowly. “No, I am sorry. Tonight my recollections are dim. But there is a puzzle to this date and I must try to find the right pieces and put them together in the right order. I apologise, my friend, I will apply myself to the task. Come and see me another time. Or, when I recall, I will send for you.”

  Ric waits until he understands that Old Nino has closed his mind to the task of remembering. “Thanks for trying, Nino, I appreciate it. Don’t lose too much sleep over it though; I’m sure I’ll get to the bottom of it in good time.”

  “Sleep?” Old Nino repeats. “Sleep and memories: God may be the master of my sleep, but my memories he cannot rule.”

  They sit a while longer and watch the children play. Mothers and fathers gossip, debate and gesticulate at one another as though at any moment their disagreement will erupt into violence.

  “How is Valeria? You have seen her?” the old man asks.

  “Not today. I thought I caught a glimpse of her down by the pier, waiting for the Aliscafo. She is not at home. Perhaps she has gone to Milazzo.”

  Old Nino nods, thoughtfully. “Of course, I forget. Today is the day she goes to the hospital for her treatments.”

  “Treatments?”

  But the old man is suddenly embarrassed: “Forgive me, I speak out of turn. On occasion my tongue lets me down. Forget I said this thing to you.”