The Villa (44 page)

‘Or there will be no money,’ he said. ‘No money, no deal.’ He collected the papers into a pile and shuffled them into order. He looked very different now that he wasn’t smiling. Hard and … well, ruthless.

Tess thought of the cheque, snug in her purse now. Thank you, David.

‘Fine,’ she snapped. ‘No builder, no money, no deal.’ She got up, scraping back her chair.

Giovanni looked really angry now. But also confused – as if someone had out-guessed him at poker. ‘You cannot do anything without the money, Tess,’ he said.

She leaned in close to him. ‘Watch me,’ she said.

He laughed. ‘No one else will lend it to you. I can guarantee that.’

Tess opened her purse and put a few coins on the table to pay for her coffee and
cannoli
. ‘I don’t need the money,’ she said.

He grabbed her wrist. ‘What do you mean, Tess? Why don’t you need the money?’

She winced. ‘You’re hurting me, Giovanni.’

But he didn’t let go.

She saw the waitress hovering – one look from Giovanni and she disappeared behind the counter and out back. The only other customers got to their feet and left, without seeming to notice anything out of the ordinary. Great. Tess might as well be invisible.

‘You think you know the story, Tess.’ Giovanni’s voice was a soft purr. ‘But ask your precious boyfriend where all his family’s money came from. How a poor fisherman’s son finds the money to buy business premises in the
baglio
at Cetaria.’ He got to his feet, still holding her wrist, and clamped his other hand on her shoulder.

‘What are you saying?’ She tried not to sound scared. She looked out of the window, but suddenly there was no one around.

‘How convenient for that family to come into such a large
sum of money at the same time as the disappearance of
il Tesoro
,’ said Giovanni.

Tess decided she’d had enough. ‘None of this has anything to do with me,’ she said. ‘He has nothing to do with me.’ But even as she spoke, she felt a dart of betrayal. Tonino.

‘Let me tell you something else, Tess.’ Giovanni’s face was close to hers now. Too close. ‘It isn’t only the money. My grandfather Ettore Sciarra disappeared just after the war too. Just disappeared. At the same time as
Il Tesoro
. What do you make of that, eh? Eh?’ His voice was rising.

Jesus. The plot thickened. Was Giovanni suggesting someone had murdered his grandfather? Certainly, he looked almost fanatical now; close enough for her to smell his sweat, to see the red veins in the whites of his eyes. ‘I have no idea,’ she said firmly. If she could only keep calm, she wouldn’t enrage him further. And he would let go of her wrist and shoulder. She would give him another minute, she thought, and if he still wouldn’t let her go, she’d kick him in the goolies. Hard.

‘But I will tell you who knows,’ he snarled. ‘I will tell you who knows what happened to him.’

Somehow, Tess wasn’t surprised at this juncture, to see Tonino come strolling into the
baglio
, looking as if he didn’t have a care in the world. She saw him glance towards the bar, glance away, glance back again.

In three strides he was in the doorway. In three more, he was by her side. ‘What in God’s name are you doing?’ He wrenched Giovanni’s hands away.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked Tess.

She was. Nevertheless, she wanted him to wrap his arms around her and she wanted to cry. Which was a bit pathetic, so she just nodded.

He grabbed Giovanni by his very slightly lipstick-stained collar. ‘Keep away from her,’ he growled.

For a moment their eyes locked, and for the first time, Tess tangibly felt the force of that old family rivalry; she saw and felt the hatred. It was as black as the land they came from, as dark as the shadows of Sicily. Giovanni clenched his fists and Tonino tensed, both men ready to fight. But instead, as Tonino let go of him, Giovanni staggered slightly and made for the door. When he reached it, he turned.

‘Do not imagine you have heard the last of this,’ he said, addressing Tess, and then he spoke very fast in Sicilian to Tonino.

Tonino swore softly in reply.

‘
Sì, sì, sì. Scopilo
…’ With a final curse, and a gesture that looked worryingly like somebody’s throat being cut, Giovanni slammed the door and strode away and out of the
baglio
.

Tess turned to Tonino. ‘Thank you,’ she croaked.

He nodded stiffly. ‘Stay away from him,’ he said.

‘Tonino … ’

But already he had crossed the bar to the door and was gone.

* * *

She followed him out of the building and across the
baglio
. The sky had turned leaden while she was in the cafe, the swell of the sea was like rolled steel and the line of the horizon was a heavy purple. Even the air seemed to be pressing on her shoulders, her head. It was an effort to move, to drag one foot after the other.

‘Tonino,’ she said, to his retreating back.

The rain began to fall then, slow thick drops, and in that instant there was a tangible release of pressure as a jagged crop of lightning streaked the sky. Almost immediately, the thunder rolled like a drum.

A storm. The grey sky was illuminated by another dazzling fork of light; it reflected, glaring and gold on the surface of the sea. It was as if something that had been simmering below the surface was now coming to the boil.

The bar and cafe owners were rushing around retrieving chairs, tables, parasols – dragging them under cover. People were huddling in doorways, pulling up hoods, donning scarves, holding their hands ineffectually over their heads. Running for shelter, for home.

At last he turned to face her. ‘Go back, Tess.’ He looked tired. ‘Go back home to England.’

She stood her ground, though the rain was still falling and inside, she was weeping too. Not that she’d let him see. ‘Why?’ she countered. ‘Don’t I have a right to be here? Don’t I have the same right as anybody else to be here?’

She had raised her voice, but still her words were halfdrowned
by a gust of wind and the roar of the waves crashing on to the rocks in the bay. She could hear the undercurrent too dragging them back as the tide receded.

Tonino shook his head. ‘Bad things happen here,’ he shouted. ‘And it is not yet finished. If you stay … ’ He let this hang. ‘I cannot always protect you.’

Tess was stung. Had she asked for his protection – had she? She could have dealt with Giovanni alone if she’d had to. He wouldn’t dare hurt her – would he? And besides, all these things had happened so long ago. They had nothing to do with her, with the present. What was wrong with them all?

The rainstorm was so complete, it seemed to drown everything. Already the cobblestones of the
baglio
were awash and the buildings had taken on a sad and derelict air.

Tess was soaked to the skin. But still she stood there, while Tonino sighed, shrugged and started taking all his things inside. He was working on a much larger design now, she could see, made up of turquoise and sea-green glass. The pieces of glass and stone were shiny and jewelled from the rain, glittering like treasure.

‘I am keeping the house,’ she yelled. ‘And no one can stop me.’ Who was she telling? Herself? Tonino? The whole of Cetaria? ‘I’m not frightened of Giovanni Sciarra.’

‘You should be,’ Tonino muttered as he went past, flinging open the door of his studio.

Well. She was angry with him. He’d given up, hadn’t he? ‘And where did the money come from?’ she yelled. ‘Tell me
that.’ She just wanted to get his attention, that was all. But she knew immediately that she’d gone too far.

He froze. ‘What?’

She should have kept quiet. And yet he infuriated her with his withdrawal, his refusal to face up to the past, face up to her and whatever it was between them. ‘Your grandfather’s money. Your money. The money for your business.’ She couldn’t look at him. ‘You told me the Sciarras had taken all your family land.’

He swore softly. Came towards her. And as another streak of lightning seemed to strike the ground behind him, he lifted her chin and shook his head sadly. ‘Not you too, Tess,’ he said. ‘Not you too?’

She met his gaze. ‘How am I supposed to know,’ she said. ‘What’s true, what to believe? You and Giovanni … You’re so damned dark and mysterious all the time!’

Once again, he sighed. His hair was damp now and clung to his forehead, he blinked the rain out of his dark eyes. ‘I told you it was an inheritance,’ he said. ‘An uncle from another village who worked hard and died childless. That is all. Because it happened at the same time as … ’ He hesitated. ‘The rest of it, everyone assumed there was a connection.’ He looked at her. ‘There was no connection.’

She nodded. She believed him. She would probably always believe him, always trust him, infuriating though he was. But, ‘A man disappeared too,’ she whispered.

‘Yes. A man disappeared too. Ettore Sciarra. A man with so many fingers in so many affairs, who could guess how
many had reason to murder him … ’ He was very close to her now. As he bent towards her, as she knew for certain that his lips would touch hers, as she felt the sweet anticipation … She also felt a shiver in the earth beneath her, like a vibration passing through the very cobblestones of the
baglio
.

As one, they took a step apart. She heard some glass tinkling in Tonino’s studio as if a giant hand was shaking the shelves. And while she watched in disbelief, a crack split a pathway up the stone wall beside them.

Tonino was motionless. He seemed to be listening, waiting for something to happen. The sea in the distance was still wild and rolling, but the wind was abating now; the storm had shifted and was moving away down the coast. Once again, the earth shivered as if it were stretching after a long sleep, and then all was quiet, all was still. From somewhere in the village, a church bell tolled.

Tonino visibly relaxed. He took her arm. ‘Do not worry,’ he said. ‘Go back to Villa Sirena now.’

Tess could hardly conceal her bitter disappointment. ‘What was it?’ she said. ‘Was it the storm?’

He shook his head. ‘An earth tremor,’ he said. ‘They are not uncommon. But it is finished, I think. Go.’

The steps up to the villa had never seemed so steep.

At the top, Tess turned and stared out at the rocks,
il faraglione
, at the lonely fishing boats there in the harbour, at the faded and disused tunnery. Could you love a place and a man and be scared of them at the same time?
Could you be drawn to them – half against your will? If you could, if it were possible, then that was how it was for her.

About six months after that visit, Peter sent her a letter. Flavia examined the neat handwriting on the blue envelope and somehow knew it was his. It reminded her of all those other letters that she hadn’t received. What had her father done with them? Thrown them in the brazier probably. He must have read them first though, otherwise how would he have known that Peter was coming to Sicily to get her? And since Papa spoke no English, he must have shown them to someone else, someone who translated for him Peter’s words, Peter’s love letters to Flavia
.

Even now, this fact made her burn with anger and shame. Who else had read them? Enzo? She thought of Enzo’s dark, cruel face and she shivered. Should she have warned Tess about the Sciarras?

This wasn’t a love letter and Flavia was glad. It began, ‘My dear Flavia,’ and ended, ‘Yours, Peter.’ Though of course, he wasn’t. In between, he asked after her health and the cafe, told her where he was living (alone), that he had found a job selling insurance and that he saw his boy once a week on Sundays.

Once a week on Sundays … It wasn’t much, for a man who had been so proud. She remembered
. I have a son, Flavia. His name is Daniel.

He hoped, Peter wrote, that she might find time to write to him one day – as a friend. And if she ever needed anything … He had let the words hang.

As a friend … Flavia had never imagined when she came over to England that Peter would be her friend. Her lover, yes. But friend …?

Still, she was touched that he cared enough to make the gesture of friendship. So she replaced the letter in the blue envelope and put it in her bedroom, in her stockings drawer.

A few weeks later when Lenny was due to visit his mother one Sunday, she made her excuses and stayed home. In the afternoon, she replied to Peter’s letter. She told him how the Azzurro was doing and how good her English was getting. She told him about Pridehaven and told him that Lenny was a nice man, one of the best. ‘I too,’ she wrote, ‘will be your friend.’

It was an erratic correspondence, but Flavia received perhaps four or five letters every year. When he had a problem, when his ex-wife found someone else and Peter was worried about the effect this might have on Daniel, or when something went wrong at work and he wasn’t selling as much as he should, he wrote to her and told her. Sometimes he mentioned another woman. There was a Katherine, whom he took out for some months, and an Audrey whom he was seeing for quite a while. But he didn’t remarry and he continued to live alone.

Was he waiting for Flavia? Waiting – for all these years? He never said, and she tried not to think about it. Still, she made it a habit to look out for the postman – just in case.

Her life was good, though she and Lenny had to work hard. Flavia made all her own dough for fresh pasta and pizza and they had bought some nursery land so that they could grow tomatoes too, big beef tomatoes and small tasty cherry tomatoes under glass.

They were a team. But what of love? Lenny was not a romantic – he never had been, and now with the Azzurro, there was little time for romance in their lives. But he was a good man, a kind man, and for this, Flavia was grateful. Romance though … That was for the girl she had once been; she had left that girl behind
.

She knew that Lenny wanted children, but it didn’t happen for them, and in a way Flavia was glad. There was so much work to do, and she had never felt herself the maternal type. She was too ambitious; she had never wanted the Sicilian way of womanhood – house and children.