The Villa (8 page)

‘The
baglio
,’ he announced, as they went through the deep archway that sheltered a huge panelled timber door with iron bolts and a high fan window overgrown with vines. Two cacti sentries stood erect either side.

Even in the almost-dark, Tess could sense the beauty of the place, the history embedded in the large cobbles flattened by the tread of centuries, and the weathered, porticoed buildings. The
baglio
was an ancient walled square, part inside, part outside; a sort of courtyard, now lined by little shops, galleries and a restaurant. An Arabic legacy, she assumed. She had read in her guide book that Sicily – especially in the west – had many Arab influences.

They crossed the
baglio
, past a tall, elegant eucalyptus tree with dappled bark and past an old stone drinking fountain.
Tess wanted to ask more questions, but she also wanted to get to their destination. She was itching to see the villa.

On the far side of the square, they passed some sort of craft studio. Tess stared in fascination: the window was full of glass, gemstones and mosaics, lit up by tiny firefly lights that skirted the perimeter of the display. ‘What’s this place?’

Giovanni barely glanced round, though his bearing seemed to stiffen. ‘Tourist stuff,’ he said dismissively. ‘How do you say? Crap. Do not bother your head with it.’

‘Really?’ It didn’t look like crap to Tess. It looked magical, like another world. And was it a case of miscommunication due to the language barrier, or was Giovanni Sciarra already telling her what to think? But she had no time to dwell on this; she had to practically run to keep up with him.

Beside the workshop some steps descended towards a rocky beach and the sea. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she murmured. The sky had darkened to indigo, the sea polished with the sheen of a full moon. Several rocks stood outlined against the sky.

Even Giovanni paused. ‘The finest view in Europe,’ he said, as if he were in some way responsible for it. ‘And it is yours.’

For a moment she didn’t understand what he meant. Then she looked up to where he was pointing. More steps – a spiral of them – led up to a building crouched on the cliff top. A villa. 1930s style, as far as she could make out in the semi-darkness. ‘Oh my God,’ she said. ‘This isn’t …? ’

‘Villa Sirena.’ He nodded. ‘Come.’

Tess almost stopped breathing. Could this really belong to her?

She followed him to the top of the steps where a black wrought-iron gate was set into the high stone wall. It was marked
Privato
, and Tess watched as Giovanni unlocked it with the small key. The gate opened with a creak of rusty hinges and she followed him through, under a swathe of foliage that had grown around it. They were at the side of the house, she realised, as they walked round to a wide expanse of pebbled terrace which led to the front door. Above the door was a fanlight, to the right an old unlit lamp, and above the fanlight and the stucco, she could see a motif built into the external rendering. But she couldn’t make out what it was.

Giovanni brushed off a bit of flaky paint, inserted the big key and opened the door with a flourish. ‘Villa Sirena,’ he said again.

But he blocked the doorway and she detected a slight twist to his mouth.

Envy perhaps? For the first time she wondered what sort of a welcome she might have in this place. She was after all, a stranger and a foreigner. They might consider she had no right to be here. And then there was her mother’s story – whatever that might be … She straightened her back and stood tall.

‘Did you lock your car?’ he asked.

‘Well, yes.’

He held out his palm in much the same way as he had to his
aunt. And like Santina, Tess groped in her pocket for the key and placed it there. She didn’t remember the name of the street where she’d parked it and he didn’t ask. He just nodded, brought his heels together as if in a salute and was gone.

Tess took a deep breath. And stepped inside.

Tess slept so soundly that when she awoke, she didn’t know for a moment where she was. Her mind flitted – to Robin, to Ginny, to her mother. And then she heard the silence and she knew. She was in Villa Serena; her suitcase opened and abandoned at the foot of the broad chestnut bedframe.

She climbed out, padded over to the big, wide window where a large square of dimpled muslin fluttered in a faint breeze. The room was warm, the air muffled. She pushed the muslin aside and flung window and shutters open wide.

Wow
… Giovanni had been right about the view. To her left, rocky crops, olive groves and tamarisk decorated the mountainside. Small, wispy cloud curled in tendrils around the peaks, delicate and delicious against the pale-blue morning sky. A winding road led from mountains to village; the cluster of houses creating a jigsaw of bright faces, the ancient stone walls and archway of – what had he called it? – the
baglio
they’d walked through last night, and the steps leading down to the bay. And what a bay. In daylight it was even more beautiful.

Nestling in the bay, below the
baglio
, were some derelict buildings and maybe a boathouse with three big arches – because it led to the jetty. Rusty anchors were lined up like
soldiers in front of painted and peeling walls the colour of pale sand, and there were grilles at the windows above stone troughs of white oleander. In front of the building stood a lone fig tree, its branches spread as in welcome.

The finger of the stone jetty stretched into the turquoise water. Tess shielded her eyes from the glare of the sun. Further out to sea a sequence of rock formations jutted; beige and white, streaked with rusty tears. Not a soul was on the tiny beach; all she could hear was the lonely cry of a distant gull. This was her view, Tess reminded herself. Her view. For a moment, she thought of Robin. She felt a twinge of regret. And then. Bugger it. He’d made his choice. She was here, that was what mattered. Alone, but here.

Tess had explored the villa briefly last night after texting Ginny to say she’d arrived safely, but she had been so tired, and the lights so dim, that she’d decided to wait till morning for a proper tour. Now, she realised that the house – her house – was on two floors, and built in a semi-circle. The master bedroom, where she had slept, sat on the centre of the arc – hence the great views. Tess went from room to room, making straight for the window every time. From the front three bedrooms she could see the ocean; from the back, the fields and the mountains. There was only one bathroom, but it was a surprisingly modern one. Tess was ravenous, so she soon made her way down the winding staircase with iron balustrade.

The kitchen was large and untidy, with a flagstone floor
and a long, oak farmhouse table in the centre. Last night she’d noticed a general air of chaos: cupboards left open, their contents scattered around. Not ransacked exactly, more as if someone had been looking for something. Also on the table was a basket of bread and some wine, which she’d assumed to be a welcoming gift for her. But no. According to Giovanni they’d been left by Santina for the spirits of the house. Right …

Giovanni had brought her car round to the front of the house and through the big wrought-iron gates.

‘You have electricity,’ he informed her. ‘And there is an electric water heater.’ He showed her this and the fuse box before bidding her goodnight.

But this morning she also found coffee, fresh rolls, fruit and jam. Someone (Giovanni? Santina?) was looking after her – not just the spirits of her house.

She ate her breakfast at a weather-beaten wrought-iron table on the terrace overlooking the bay. From here she could see a few people wandering through the
baglio
, and the intriguing sight of the mosaicist’s shop door flung open to the world.

So much to explore … Tess got to her feet and started to wander through the overgrown terraced garden. In the centre was a small pond and fountain while swathes of wild geranium, hot-pink bougainvillea and lilac jasmine overflowed from big earthenware pots and trailed randomly over walls and steps. She looked back at the gorgeous pink villa. How could her mother ever have left?

Though … Tess moved towards the end of the garden, where, beyond, she could see fields of yellow and burnt-red shimmering in the distance, and what was left of a stone cottage on the other side of the wall. Was this the cottage her mother had grown up in? It was so small … But everyone had been poor back then, she supposed, everyone apart from the Edward Westermans of this world.

She found a broken gate and went through. The cottage was little more than a ruin. Still, she stood there for a moment, thinking of her mother, the grandparents she’d never met, her Aunt Maria who had visited many years ago, but who had kept her distance from her niece, as if Tess were some alien creature from another planet. Which was how she must have seemed.

She spun on her heels, retraced her steps and returned to the villa. The living room was untidy; its stone fireplace still held a basket of logs, some strewn on the terracotta tiles of the hearth. There was a big battered leather sofa and two armchairs, and a bookcase half full of books, more dusty volumes piled on the desk beside it. The dining room looked as if it hadn’t been eaten in for decades.

But all in all, things weren’t too bad. The electrics looked a bit dodgy – there were wires poking out of sockets and light fittings – the tap in the kitchen sink was dripping, some broken shutters were flapping in the breeze and she’d spotted plenty of cracks and patches of damp on ceilings and walls. But the grand villa wasn’t as run down as she’d feared. It
needed a face lift rather than drastic structural surgery – she hoped. And it certainly was grand – especially in location and style … Squatting on the cliff top crag above the
baglio
and the bay as it was, was as superior a creature as she could have dreamed of. And it belonged to her. If she pinched herself, would she wake up? She didn’t dare.

But the sea was calling, so Tess put on a bikini, T-shirt and sarong and left by the front door. The hire car was parked in the courtyard on another mosaic of pebbles surrounding a small statue – sculpted by one of Edward Westerman’s artistic friends perhaps, Tess thought with a smile. And in front of the stone wall boundary, a crescent of oleander bushes provided a vibrant border of pink and white.

Outside the front door, Tess looked up at the deep and dusky pink rendering. The motif she had seen last night was of a woman. At least it was a woman’s face, a sad face, framed by long hair curling past her shoulders. Her arms were raised at her sides, palms facing in a position of … what? Supplication? From the waist her body divided in two and flowed back and round to encircle her. She was covered in stars.

Tess stared at her for a few moments, intrigued. Who was she and what did the symbol mean? Then she retraced her steps from last night, unlocked the gate and walked down the spiral stone steps to the bay.

The mosaicist was outside his studio, sorting through trays of jewelled glass and stones. He was about her age, Tess
reckoned, dark and kind of brooding. And not friendly. As she came down the steps towards him, his head shot up, his gaze intense and yes, definitely hostile.

‘
Buon giorno
,’ she said, with her best accent. She ought to make an effort with the locals.

He grunted what could have been a greeting, or not.

Hmm. What was eating him? How did you say –
have you got out of the wrong side of bed this morning or are you always this grumpy
? – in Italian? ‘Your mosaics are lovely,’ she said instead, pointing towards the window display in the studio behind him. A lot of them were from the natural world: there was a prancing horse of amber and a green bird, a lizard and a dragon, a dolphin in a churning sea.

He shrugged. ‘
Grazie
.’ As if it had been dragged out of him. Well at least he seemed to understand English.

‘What materials do you use to make them?’ she persevered.

He muttered something unintelligible. If this was an example of the native Cetarian, she wasn’t sure she wanted to spend time here, no matter how stunning the landscape. She could even begin to understand why her mother had left.

‘Just glass?’ Why was she bothering? Tess had no idea. ‘Or stone?’

‘Everything.’ And just for a moment, his gaze met hers, black as jet. ‘And anything. If it is right. If it fits.’

Goodness. Perhaps, Tess thought, he just didn’t do small talk. ‘Did you find all this on the beach?’ She picked up a
piece of glass, bright amber speckled as if by salt, its edges rounded and blurred – by the buffeting of the waves perhaps. When she looked closely, she thought she could see the imprints of sand, stone, rock, on its pitted surface.

‘
Sì
.’ His gaze dropped again. ‘The sea, she is a rich and generous mistress.’ He let the cloudy teardrops of glass – green, turquoise, brown and yellow, drift through his long fingers for a moment.

‘Tess!’

She swung round. Only a couple of people here knew her name, and sure enough it was Giovanni Sciarra who was striding across the
baglio
towards her, smartly dressed, tapping his watch as if she were late for an appointment somewhere. Was she?

‘Hi.’ She raised a hand and took a few steps towards him. It was quite pleasant to see a friendly face. It almost made her feel as if she might belong.

‘You have settled in, I think,’ he observed.

‘Yes.’ She thought of the provisions in the kitchen. He was a bit macho, but his family had been kind. ‘Thanks for the bread and fruit and stuff.’

He shrugged. ‘
Di niente
. It is nothing. And now … ’ He made another gesture. ‘I have come to take you to lunch,’ he said.

She smiled, though there was something proprietorial in his tone that irritated her. ‘Is it lunchtime already?’ she hedged. She must have got up late, but she’d been looking forward to exploring a bit more. Not to mention going for a swim.

‘There is much to discuss.
Andiamo
. Let us go.’

‘I’ll have to get changed.’ To be honest, she’d rather skip lunch. But … She wanted to find out about her mother’s family, didn’t she? Well, Giovanni would probably know it all. Plus he didn’t look like he’d take no for an answer.