Arcadia Awakens (8 page)

She skirted the swimming pool, fished a struggling moth out of the water, and entered the bay of the terrace, which had a whirlpool set into it. From here you could see the entire slope, the treetops and the lights along the drive up to the house, about a mile and a quarter long from where it left Route 117 and wound through the pinewoods and olive groves up to the palazzo. But the view went on and on, out to the yellow-brown hilly landscape to the west and north. Far away on the horizon, the lights of a small town flickered.

Rosa leaned on the balustrade, listening to the evening wind playing in the trees, and thinking. Only after a while did she realize that she still had
Aesop’s Fables
in her hand. She ran her thumb quickly through the pages, lost in thought and humming the tune to “My Death.”

Finally she went back to her room and put the book in the top drawer of her bedside table. Maybe she’d read some of it before going to sleep.

She and Alessandro had exchanged numbers in the graveyard, and his was the first that she stored in the tacky gold cell phone. Her old SIM card didn’t fit it, so her address book was as empty as the menu in her iPod. Alessandro and the mysterious song had replaced the normal details of her old life, and curiously enough it didn’t feel wrong.

When she was closing the window, she noticed movement outside among the trees to the east of the house. Someone was hurrying out of the shadows of the chestnut trees and approaching the palazzo.

A moment later she saw it was Zoe. Her sister wasn’t wearing the black suit she’d worn that afternoon, but had changed into jeans and a T-shirt. She had tied her blond hair back in a ponytail. From above, she looked almost like the old Zoe, much more natural than the sister who had met Rosa and had been at the funeral.

Maybe she’d just been out for a walk. Or she had something to hide. A boyfriend, thought Rosa, amused. Someone Florinda would disapprove of. From an enemy clan.

Zoe quickly crossed the strip of dried-up grass. She was holding some kind of flat package or bundle close to her as she disappeared from Rosa’s view behind the greenhouse. There was a greenish glow inside the building.

Slowly, Rosa withdrew into her room. Somewhere in the darkness a door opened and closed again. Then there was nothing to hear but the chirping of the cicadas.

She briefly wondered whether to wait for Zoe outside her room. But it was none of her business who her sister might be going out with—or why Zoe was doing whatever else she had to do out there. Rosa wanted to be left alone herself, so it was only fair to allow her sister her own privacy.

For a couple of minutes she weighed the cell phone in her hand, running her fingertip thoughtfully over the tiny rhinestones set in the keys.

She opened the menu and called the only number in her address book.

R
OSA STOPPED AT THE TOP
of the slope and looked down toward the road. The morning sun was still low behind the hills at her back, but it had already turned the sky blue and was pouring a soft, silvery brightness over the landscape. Even the gnarled olive trees seemed to shine, with dew glittering on every leaf.

The car she was waiting for wasn’t one of the showy limousines in which the clans had driven to the baron’s funeral. A small Mercedes A-Class pulled up, metallic blue, three doors.

Fundling got out and stood in the open doorway, leaning on the car roof with his arms crossed and his chin propped on them. Looking across the car, he saw her coming and raised his head.

A black dog was standing on the backseat, pressing his wet nose to the glass and wagging his tail hesitantly, but he didn’t bark.

Rosa looked around for the guards once more, but again saw no one among the trees. She ran down the slope. She was wearing a black T-shirt, jeans, and the metal-studded boots. There was a letter opener from Florinda’s desk in her shoulder bag. Just to be on the safe side.

Fundling came quickly around the car and opened the passenger door for her. There wasn’t another vehicle to be seen for miles around. Nothing but two lizards crossing to the other side of the road.

“Good morning,” she said.

He avoided her eyes, murmured a greeting, and closed the door behind her. He put the bag with her swimsuit in the trunk.

The black dog was wagging his tail harder, but he didn’t come any closer until she turned and held out her hand to pat his head. He enthusiastically licked her fingers and let her tickle his throat.

“What’s his name?” she asked Fundling, who was getting behind the wheel.

“Sarcasmo.”

“Did you think that up?”

“It’s just what he’s called.”

Fundling cast her a quick glance, and she noticed again how fast his eyes moved. They were brown with a golden luster to them. He had a broad, strong nose and high cheekbones. His black hair was shoulder length, and his skin darker than that of most Sicilians. Maybe he had Arab or North African ancestors.

The dog nuzzled the side of her head from behind and panted into her blond mane of hair. She turned around, took his head in both hands, and ruffled up his coat behind his ears. “So you’re Sarcasmo. You seem a lot more pleased to see me than your master.”

Fundling started the engine and pulled out. “Going to fasten your seat belt?”

She patted Sarcasmo’s head one last time, then turned forward and adjusted the seat belt. Fundling switched on the CD player. She thought the music coming softly over the speakers was jazz. The dog let out a resigned snort, stayed in the middle of the backseat, and leaned into the bend in the road with practiced ease. Fundling drove at a steady pace, observing the rules of the road, and she wondered if that was for her, for the dog, or simply out of a sense of duty.

“What breed is Sarcasmo?” She couldn’t believe she was actually engaging in small talk. But Fundling’s calm manner was a challenge.

“He’s a mongrel,” he said. “Nobody knows what his parents were like.”

The road wound its way through mountains covered with trees. After a quarter of an hour they passed the place where the road branched off to Piazza Armerina, a picturesque little town standing on a hill. The cupola of a domed church rose above the higgledy-piggledy rooftops, golden yellow against the sky.

“Had any breakfast?” he asked.

“Doesn’t matter.” Her eating habits were catastrophic, as the doctors had told her more than once. She simply didn’t enjoy food; she’d always been like that. Her mother rarely cooked, eating school meals could do actual bodily harm, and she hated fast food.

“I have some with me,” said Fundling. “You’ll find it behind my seat.”

She groped around there, while Sarcasmo took his chance to lick her cheek with his rough tongue. She found the handle of a basket, brought it to the front of the car, and looked inside.
Tramezzini
, triangular sandwiches made of white bread with the crusts cut off, filled with dark slices of ham, mozzarella cheese, or mortadella, and two tiny beakers of coffee.

“All fresh from the bar in your village,” he said. “Don’t worry.”

She scrutinized him. “I wasn’t worrying. Why would I?”

“Can’t hurt to worry a bit sometimes.”

She found she really was hungry, and bit into one of the cheese
tramezzini
. It was delicious. It was as fresh as he had claimed, and after she had eaten it, she ate another right away. Even the coffee was still hot, and very strong.

“Sorry,” she said, munching. “You too?”

“Had some already, thanks.”

“When did you start out?”

“I got up at four, same as every morning.”

“That’s pretty early.”

“Sarcasmo doesn’t think so.”

“Hey, Sarcasmo.” She took a piece of ham out of one of the sandwiches and offered it to the dog behind her. Sarcasmo snapped it up without chewing and begged for more.

She put the basket down on the floor of the car in front of her feet, and leaned back, feeling well fed and content. She had left a note for Zoe:
Back home by tomorrow evening, don’t worry
. She didn’t bother to wonder how Florinda would take the news. She hadn’t come here to answer to anyone, and she certainly wasn’t going to get into the habit of feeling guilty just for doing what she wanted to do.

After half an hour the green of the fertile hills around Piazza Armerina grew sparser, turning to islands of shrubs, cacti, and small plantations. At Valguarnera it became the ochre yellow of the bleak landscape of steppes dominating the interior of Sicily. At Enna, they turned onto the expressway and drove northwest toward the coast.

“You’re not frightened,” commented Fundling after they had been driving in silence for a long time.

“Should I be?”

“Everyone here is frightened of something. Most don’t show it, but you can sense it. You could see it in their eyes at the baron’s funeral.”

“You were there, too?”

He nodded.

“I didn’t see you.”

“I wasn’t at the family vault. I’m only the driver.”

“What are they afraid of?”

“The Hungry Man.”

“Who’s he?”

“You’ll soon find out.”

She shrugged and didn’t reply.

He waited a moment, then glanced sideways at her. “You’re not curious.”

“No.”

They drove on again without another word. Only after a while did Rosa ask, “Are you always like this? Acting like you’re not interested in other people, then suddenly trying to feel them out by simply making a statement?
You’re not frightened. You’re not curious.
”

She could see that she had taken him by surprise. He looked almost angry.

“We don’t either of us like to talk about ourselves,” he said matter-of-factly. “You don’t like to either.”

“What do you want to know?”

“If it’s true. That you’re not frightened.”

She thought of her lost stapler. And what had happened back before that. “Not at the moment,” she finally replied.

“I am,” he said. “I’m often frightened.”

“Of this… Hungry Man?”

He shook his head. “Have you ever wondered who’s in the gaps in the crowd?”

She glanced at him in surprise. Maybe she’d been wrong, and he was more than just a little odd.

“Gaps in the crowd?” she repeated.

“If there are a lot of people all in one place, a hundred or a thousand or more, there’ll still be some empty spaces. Gaps right at the front. Or in the middle. Or on the outside. You just have to look carefully to see them.” He shifted gears as two heavy trucks appeared side by side ahead of them. “Those are the gaps in the crowd. And if you look very closely, you notice that they’re moving about. Just like the people around them.”

Rosa pressed her lips together and said, “Hmm,” as if she understood what he was talking about.

“They’re weird,” he said.

“The gaps?”

“Because they’re not really empty.”

“No?”

“No, they aren’t. They’re always there, and in other places, too. Around us, but invisible. It’s only in a crowd you can see them. No one can move into the places where the gaps are.” On the backseat, Sarcasmo sneezed. “No dog either.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re making fun of me, aren’t you? What is this—some kind of initiation ceremony? Let’s see how stupid the little blonde is.”

He made a sudden movement as if she had nudged him hard in the ribs. Her old belligerence was back, replacing the contentment that had made her way too friendly and forthcoming.

She waited for an answer. Waited a long time.

“Sorry,” he said at last.

Then he didn’t say another word for the rest of the drive.

T
HE YACHT PLOWED THROUGH
the sparkling, inky blue water. The Tyrrhenian Sea, the part of the Mediterranean off the north coast of Sicily, was a gently rippling expanse under a cloudless early autumn sky. The vapor trail left by a solitary aircraft up there was dispersing like a reflection of the
Gaia
’s wake in the air.