Marcello considers, “Yes, perhaps; a man of great integrity. Jesus told Bartolo he would see the heavens open before him, and he would see the angels of God ascending with the Son of Man; this is what you see painted on the ceiling of the cathedral. Unfortunately for him, Bartolo went to the Caucasus to spread the word of the Bible and the people there were not ready for what he was trying to teach them. They flayed him until he had no flesh left on his body. This is why he is the patron saint of conciatori; tanners, I think you call them. It was a cruel business. But then, the Caucasus is a barbaric place even now.”
Ric thinks of the Armenian he met in Corsica.
As they stroll between the fluted, bare-stone columns lining the courtyard, Ric is taken with the feeling that the Liparotan is about to deliver him a lecture on the virtues of the saints.
“But…” Marcello continues, clearly pondering on what he has just said, “while I think of this, I think it is important to remember that Sant’Agata of Sicily had her breasts cut off because she preferred God to sex. So maybe we should not think the Caucasians so barbaric, in case we risk condemning ourselves.”
“Sounds fair to me, Marcello.”
“What I am getting at, Ric, is that a man lives and dies by what he believes. Some people believe what they believe so deeply it costs them their lives. I am sure you must have met people like this. You believe one thing, they believe the opposite, and it finishes with you having no alternative other than to take their life before they take yours.”
Ric winces, as much for Marcello’s benefit as his. “Fair, but you make it sound rather formulaic.”
Marcello halts and steps in front of him, “But it is, Ric. It is a kind of formula. San Bartolo surrendered his life for what he believed. He refused to renounce his beliefs and paid the ultimate price. He invented the formula for integrity.”
“I think he might have got the formula from his Lord and Master, don’t you?”
Marcello shrugs, “Possibly, I suppose so. But San Bartolo taught us all a great lesson in how important it is to be this way.”
“Okay, so Saint Bartholomew and my great grandfather, Antonio Sciacchitano, were men of integrity. I’m grateful to you for pointing that out.”
“No,” Marcello replies, turning back and walking on, “this is not what I am saying; although it is, of course, true.” He quiets for a couple of strides as he loads himself up for whatever it is that he has come to ask Ric.
“Today you came to the ferramenta in Canneto and ask to speak with my brother, why was this?”
Ric is quick to reply, “I told you, Marcello, like I told you this morning: I was sitting in the café and remembered I wanted to fix the tap. Valeria said your brother had a hardware store in Canneto, so I thought I’d drop by and pick up the kit to mend it, which, by the way, I haven’t been able to because the head nut’s rusted on.” He holds up his skinned knuckles in evidence.
“But you ask personally for my brother.”
“Sure, why wouldn’t I? Doesn’t everyone tell you it’s important to say who sent you? Even the escurzionista tells me that every time I go near a café or a restaurant I should say who recommended me to them. I’m not sure what you’re getting at here, Marcello. Is there a problem with my meeting your brother?”
He turns again and studies Ric for a few seconds. He is trying to make up his mind as to whether Ric is holding back on him. Eventually he decides, “No, there is no problem. My brother went to Palermo last week. He goes often; I think he has a lady friend there. He is not due back until next week.”
“Well, when he does come back, perhaps he can send someone over to fix that tap. I’m damned if I can.”
“Sure, I will see to it.”
They reach the end of the cloister and turn back.
“Ric,” Marcello begins again, “I must ask you if you have been talking with this Commissario of police who is making himself very busy?”
There is little point in lying. If Marcello has had him followed to the cathedral, he will know Talaia has been to the monolocale: “Late this morning. I found him sitting at the kitchen table when I got back from Canneto. No please, no thank you; he simply used the key I’d left under the flowerpot outside.”
Marcello shrugs, “It is what everyone does. What did the little cockerel ask you about?”
“Everything and nothing,” Ric replies and then stares at a carving of birds feeding from a vessel. “Or better make that everyone and no one; much of the same stuff he asked about the first time he questioned me. He said you’d vouched for my whereabouts the evening of Candela’s murder. He asked me how I’d come to meet you and Valeria, and asked about the passports. He asked me very directly if they were mine. Eventually he got round to asking me if – no, make that he implied – the pistol they fished out of the shallows at Portinente is mine too. Just before he left…” And Ric is about to tell Marcello that he is to report to the police station in the morning, but he holds back.
But the barrel-chested Liparotan is intrigued and again is watching him carefully. “Yes? Before he left he said… what?”
“He asked me if I thought I could trust you.” Now the tables are turned and he has Marcello on the back foot. Now it is Ric’s turn to watch for any sign that he might be lying.
“How did you answer, Ric? What did you say?”
“I told him you’ve been very helpful with repairing the Mara and very generous in allowing me to stay in your monolocale. I told him I saw no reason why I should not trust you. He also suggested your business interests were very extensive for the average velaccino.”
“And you replied how?”
“I told him you liked making sails.”
Marcello shrugs and shakes his head, “The world is a strange and sad place, eh? Why is it that people cannot appreciate the art in something as beautiful as a sail?”
Ric squares up in front of Marcello and looks him straight in the eye, “But can I trust you?”
At first he looks vaguely offended, but after a moment he softens, “Yes, of course, Ric. It is as I have said; San Bartolo has taught us that if you do not possess integrity, you possess nothing.
“You know, you have a hospital in London named after our Saint; St Bartholomew’s, or Bart’s I think is the name you would recognise. A buffone to the court of King Henry…”
“A court jester?”
“Si, a buffone called Rahere; he went to Rome on a pilgrimage. Unfortunately, he became unwell and rested here on Lipari. While he was here, San Bartolo came to him in a vision and instructed him to build a hospital in London. When he was recovered, he returned to London and built not only a hospital, but also a monastery. I believe he is buried there. It’s a nice story, eh?”
Ric steps back, unconvinced. “Are you saying it’s time for me to leave?”
“Perhaps.”
“Commissario Talaia thought it would be a bad idea if I did.”
Marcello is surprised, “He said this?”
“He did.”
“This is interesting.”
They arrive back at the heavy wooden door which leads into the cathedral.
Marcello is thinking. He pushes back the door, but then closes it again. “There is something here I do not understand, Ric. Once they check this pistol they have found, and if it proves to be the pistol that was used to shoot Candela, they will know who murdered him.” He glances at Ric. “But I think this little cockerel already knows who has done this, so why has he not acted? That is the more important question.” He pauses by the door. “I think our little Commissario is after something more. What, I don’t know; but I will give it much thought.
“Now I must go,” he says, holding out his hand for Ric to shake. “But before you leave the cathedral, be sure to have a look at the silver statue of San Bartolo. It would not be right to have walked all the way up here and leave without seeing it.” He opens the door, “Ciao, Ric, and be careful. They will be watching you, eh?”
Ric grins back, �
��You and them both, Marcello!”
50
“Salve, Nino!”
The old man sits, leaning on his stick, and cocks his head a little to the left. To most, he looks as though he is politely acknowledging the greeting of one who knows him. But he is not; rather Old Nino is turning his head so that he can hear better the direction from which the greeting has come. He frowns momentarily, his face gaunt, his mottled skin stretched lean over his cheeks and jaw. Gradually, his expression changes to one of appreciation, “Buonasera, Ric. Come. Sit beside an old man and tell him of the adventures of your day.”
The evening air in the Marina Corta is cooler than of late and clouds, like the wisps of grey hair on Old Nino’s head, dull the sky. San Bartolo stands high on his pedestal, waiting to address an audience deaf to his teaching.
Ric takes a perch on the low wall.
“Can’t say I’ve had much of a day, Nino. I’ve just been hanging around waiting for Il Velaccino to fix the Mara.”
In truth, he thinks, his day has proved less than exciting. After his talk with Marcello, Ric sat for a while before the silver effigy of San Bartolo in the cathedral. He found the statue curiously pagan in style; a silver-gilt, bearded figure wearing a gold crown, a palm leaf in one hand and dagger in the other; the bunched muscles of a flayed torso in stark relief to the opulence of the jewelled sash draped around his shoulders.
San Bartolo’s expression stayed with Ric as he walked the broad steps of the Concordato back down to the town; an old town made new by the vagaries of the internet, but an old town still dressed in the clothes of yesteryear.
What both Talaia and Marcello have said bothers him. The Commissario is obviously convinced that the Beretta will turn out to wear his prints. And Marcello is right; the policeman is after something more significant than merely bringing Candela’s murderer to book. If not, then there is no reason why he would have left Ric free to walk the vicolos of the città bassa. He could simply lock Ric up and wait for the results rather than risk the possibility that he will find a way off the island. And then there is Marcello’s less than subtle reference to the court jester, Rahere, leaving the island and returning to London; an encouragement which Talaia seemed to know was coming.
Ric scratches his head. “I feel like one of those deportees you told me about, Nino: a hostage to Devil’s Island. I guess they must have felt the same, cooped up on a lump of lava with no chance of reprieve. No wonder some of them died trying to escape.”
Nino sits impassive behind his dark glasses. Slowly, he turns down the corners of his mouth and tips his head forward, as though what the younger man says is true, but there is nothing to be done about it now.
“No, this was a time of great perversity. A man could be imprisoned simply for speaking to the same people he had been speaking to all his life.”
They sit in easy silence; Ric watching, Nino listening. Boys who are nearly men skitter to and fro on their bicycles, showing off to girls who studiously ignore them; plump women slap their thighs and explode into fits of giggles at some reported indiscretion; and the thin metallic chimes from the campanile of the San Giuseppe strike eight times.
“I have been committing much thought to our talk of yesterday,” Nino croaks, then clears his throat. “There is some more detail I have remembered.”
“I’m all ears, Nino, if you’ll pardon the expression.”
Nino sniggers. “You will have to be young man. But this is more about eyes than ears; a subject, as you can imagine, which is close to my heart. Do you know the story of Santa Lucia of Syracuse?”
“No, I don’t. Marcello told me about Sant’Agata having her breasts cut off: it all sounded pretty heathen.”
“It was,” Nino replies. “And it is true, eh? Jesus Christ has a good deal to answer for. But a few years after Sant’Agata was tortured to death, there comes a girl, Lucia. She was born to a wealthy family in Syracuse, though, sadly, her father passed on when she was young. Her mother became unwell, so the mother and daughter made the pilgrimage to the tomb of Sant’Agata in Catania in the hope that the mother would be cured. While they were there, the daughter was visited by Sant’Agata, who told her that her mother would be cured if Lucia gave her soul to God. Lucia, of course, agreed. The mother was cured of her illness and Lucia was so grateful to the Saint that she gave all her wealth to the poor. This enraged her mother, who in the meantime had found a husband for her.” Nino silences, his throat too dry for him to carry on.
Young Ariana is watching them from down the way. She strolls over to them and hands the old man a bottle of water. “Grazie, Ariana. Grazie.” He sips.
“Now this is where the story has many different endings. One story tells how with no money, the fiancé refused to marry her and reported her vision to the Romans, who then put out her eyes because she would not turn them from God.
“But, another story tells how Lucia’s fiancé was so handsome she refused to look at him in case he turned her eyes from God. In order to preserve her faith, Lucia put out her own eyes and cast them into the sea. This is where the legend of the eye of Santa Lucia comes from, although many people have their own opinions as to what actually happened to Santa Lucia of Syracuse.”
“Forgive me, Nino, but what has Santa Lucia got to do with Antonio Sciacchitano?”
Nino taps Ric gently on the knee. “In good time,” he chides. “Do you know the sea shell they call L’Oeil de Sainte Lucie?”
“I’ve seen it in Corsica,” Ric replies, trying to remember the significance of it. “They call it the Eye of the Virgin or Venus. It’s a small curved shell with a spiral in it, mostly white, but sometimes red. They believe it brings good luck. Although, rather like the different versions of Santa Lucia’s story, there are those who believe it is the evil eye.”
“Yes, you are right. The eye of envy,” Nino states, pleased with his pupil. “They say that people who have this blood mark are occupied by a bad spirit who brings only confusion to their lives. The bird of prey has this eye too; the bird that is the evil spirit returned.”
Ric feels the hair on the back of his neck rise and a sharp chill creeps up his spine.
Even though he knows the old man is blind, Old Nino turns his head as if to look directly at him. “My young friend, what I have remembered is that on his forehead, above his right eye, Antonio Sciacchitano wore the blood mark of Santa Lucia.”
51
To Ric, it is as though a cold breeze is rippling through the Marina Corta, freezing the frame of activity; boys dismount their bicycles and look up, girls stop fussing over their charges and the old women cease their gabbling and stare to watch the sky.
Old Nino sniffs the air, “Mm, the clouds are driving the humidity before them. It will be warm this night, but there will be a storm at dawn. In the deserts of the south, the relatives of the Arab women in the Garibaldi are restless. The Scirocco is stirring.”
Of course, Ric knows that birthmarks are not hereditary and that they are nothing more than a simple irregularity, like a mole. Yet the significance of the strawberry mark above his right eye is profound. Manou had convinced him of as much in Corsica and she had tried and failed to rid him of it with her magic.
“Nino,” Ric says, but then his voice leaves him and he is unsure how best to proceed. The old man will doubtless think him nuts, if he mentions it, but the coincidence of his sharing such a mark with Antonio Sciacchitano is too extraordinary not to.
“Yes, my young friend? You are troubled by something, what is it?”
“Nino, I have a similar mark above my right eye.”
What remains of Nino’s eyebrows arch in surprise, “This is the truth you speak? If you are making fun of me, remember it is wicked to play such tricks on a man without sight.”
“It’s not a joke; my sense of humour doesn’t run that far. I have a strawberry mark just above my right eye. I’ve had it as long as I can remember.” Ric hesitates, “But these things are not handed down from one generation to the
next; neither my father, nor my grandfather had such birthmarks.” Ric pulls the photograph of his great-grandfather out of his pocket and examines it, just as he has done a hundred times before. But the light lent him by the street lantern is soft and insects dance around it, reducing its glow still further. The photograph is faded and grainy and creased, and he cannot make out the facial features of the man wearing the uniform of the Foreign Legion because he too stands in shadow.
Nino grows agitated; he grips his walking stick so tight his knuckles take on the pallor of San Bartolo’s pedestal. “But Ric, to deny the possibility of this is to deny the legend of Santa Lucia in the same way that the unbelievers denied her belief and for that reason put her to death. You cannot do this,” he says loudly. Others sitting around them stop their talking and look round at the man who has upset Old Nino. The twins in their pork-pie hats and striped shirts are standing close by, they stare menacingly at Ric.
He musters a diluted smile for them and they resume their chatter.
“Sorry, Nino, I didn’t appreciate the offense my scepticism would cause.”
His knuckles relax and a half-smile assumes his lips. “That is okay, Ric. We sometimes forget the world has moved on while we have been sitting still. But be careful to whom you say such things; there are many who would put your eyes out for not believing in our blessed saint.”
“Thanks, Nino. Once more, I have to apologise for being so casual with my observations.”
He taps Ric on the knee again. “That is okay, okay,” he insists. “In many ways I am honoured to meet the relative of Antonio Sciacchitano, un uomo integerrimo. It is important to remember that like the eye of Santa Lucia, integrity runs in the blood.”
At the mention of integrity, Ric sits up a fraction straighter. It is the second time today he has heard the word integrity and the recurrence of it spooks him.
“Now,” Nino says, “if you will excuse me, I must sit in judgement of the twins. No doubt there is some matter they have been squabbling over which requires my resolution.”
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